Dinner At My Uncle's

Me (with odd pompadour courtesy of new barber), Cau Manh, Mo Hien, Cau Dung, Cau Manh's granddaughter, Cau Manh's daughter.

I had dinner at my Uncle Manh's house, in memory of his wife who had passed away. The dinner was fantastic - fried shrimp, sweet rice with dried chicken and fried onions, a shrimp and vegetable stir fry, boiled chicken, beef and onions and cilantro, and a fried spring roll with cheese(!) or some kind of cream inside. It was fantastic, and my strategy to not eat any lunch in order to adequately gorge myself at his house paid off. You see, Vietnamese elders, when you eat with them at their house, always insist, incessantly, that you 'try this', or 'have this', or 'eat more', or 'are you full'? It's S&M hospitality, I don't know how else to describe it. It's always done with the sincerest of motivations, but my appetite is not massive, yet I often feel I have to eat like a madman every time I'm in their presence. If I stop, take a breather, and put my chopsticks on my plates, you can be sure I'll instantly hear a "why are you eating so little?", even though I've been stuffing my face apparently without them noticing for the past twenty minutes.


Well, of course of course, of all days, when I planned for it, it didn't happen. It was a very chilled night, I was starving, the food was great, yet I didn't get any "eat this!", "eat this!". You know looking back, this hasn't really happened much in Vietnam, but definitely tonight, I was spared. It wouldn't have mattered, really, that's the funny thing, because I ate everything in sight, and the food was stellar. My Uncle Phu made dinner for his children, grandchildren, and I last week and it was just as good, yet I foolishly ate some popsicles before that dinner and couldn't eat as much. Uncle Dung is a funny guy and was constantly teasing me during dinner, always good-naturedly. He calls me Cu (Penis), something my Father doesn't even call me (it's a traditional Vietnamese nickname for the young boy in the house) and called me a 'fake Westerner' today after his sister commented on my strong American accent and if people can tell I'm Vietnamese-American over the telephone. He was also plying me with beer the whole night, but it wasn't much of an effort for him. Beer and Vietnamese pair amazingly well together (except for pho). It was a lovely dinner and I felt very happy to be there to share the night with them.


After dinner, we watched the Monte Carlo finals, which featured Ferrer vs. Nadal. Of course Nadal was there; Monte Carlo is played on clay. And if Nadal isn't in a wheelchair, he's going to take it on clay, any day of the year. I really miss playing tennis and probably want to start up again, yet the only problem is that you must join a club in order use courts here, as there are no public ones. Watching any tennis match on clay is how tennis is meant to be watched, with rallies, hustling, and visible strategy. And it made for great viewing with my aunts and uncles, who turn out to be avid tennis fans and whose analysis of the game indicated they've been fans for a while. 


"Watching tennis like this is so much fun," my Aunt Hien (Uncle Dung's wife) was saying. "It's not like when Sampras was playing, and his game was all about the serve." Amen to that. I can't blame Sampras for taking the serve to a whole new level, and at least he had a great one-handed backhand along with a superior net game. Surely the only reason my aunt didn't mention Andy Roddick as the poster boy of ugly tennis (and who literally only has his serve as any notable part of his game) is because he doesn't win any tournaments.


Anyhow, we also bonded by rooting for the underdog, as I am cursed to do for my entire life. Although they appreciated Nadal's incredible intensity, they just couldn't bring themselves to root for the kid at this point in his career. We got to talking about the recent history of tennis as well. 
"I hate the Williams sisters," my Uncle Phu chipped in as we were running down great players of the past. "I don't like how they play."
"You only root for the gorgeous women players," my Aunt Hien informed him.
"What do you mean? I just don't like the Williams sisters' game."
"Which women players do you like, then?" she asked.
"Sharapova." 
We all got a laugh out of that.


Watching tennis with them was like watching the Rockets back during our championship years with my family. Every Ferrer unforced error, or missed opportunity, was followed by couch smacking or a loud "Phi!" ("what a waste!"). They mentioned that Ferrer had beaten Nadal recently, and if he took a few chances, would have a prayer of winning the match. My Uncle Phu wasn't so convinced.
"Nadal is too strong, far too strong."


I agree. I really like Nadal's self criticism and confidence on the court, contrasting with his quiet and humble self off it. I actually have no problem rooting for Rafa, whether or not he's the favorite (he's not going to be an underdog for a very long time). We watched Rafa hold serve at 4-3 to make it 5-3 and figured the first set was over, so we said our goodbyes, and Uncle Phu took me home on his scooter, a Sunday night ride through the main arteries of Hanoi that looked a living, moving, cheap postcard with "Hanoi at Night" written on the bottom. That postcard would only capture the feel of the city if it had speakers to hear the honking and the conversations taking place as you ride home. Or if the postcard were scratch and sniff, the streets divided by pockets of aroma usually amazing, sometimes frightening, always pungent. Because no such postcard exists, I don't see myself sending one home any time soon.


I guess I had a little buzz on the way home. There's still a slight breeze here in Hanoi and the scooter ride added even more of it. In the streets, I can hear families on scooters talking about a movie they just saw (yes, father riding scooter, mother in back holding baby, and toddler in front of the father holding onto the handlebars. Families on scooters), or where they want to eat ice cream, or to "thank your father for taking you to the park today". It makes a ride in the streets here so much more communal. 

America's roads serve only as a means to an end, a mere conduit for our own private, floating little houses (automobiles). The streets here in Hanoi are like an open wound, where it's surely more raw and pound for pound maybe more dangerous, but at least you can feel something during your commute. If Marshall McCluhan says that the car is the aggressive carapace of modern man, a sentiment I whole-heartedly agree with, I wonder where the scooter fits into that analogy. There are obviously cars in Hanoi, and even more so than in America, their owners treat it as if it were their own private tank. There is utter denial that you're in a 3 ton behemoth that can kill anything in its path, the way they drive. And cars here cost 3x as much as they do in the States, so extrapolate the magnitude of douche that guy in the Ferrari is in Vietnam when compared to the already high douche levels back in the States. 


Scooters aren't perfect, in fact, they're even more polluting than cars, but at least I can reach my hand over to you to shake your hand at a traffic light, or give you a piece of gum, or articulately bitch you out if you should do something stupid in your scooter (instead of a horn). I think the Vietnamese, in the midst of their intense drive and focus to develop their nation and grow out of its postwar quagmire, are still holding onto the final remnants of community by traveling on scooter. Or you can say, "No, idiot, you just said cars cost triple what they do in the U.S. Added to the fact that the per capita is one twentieth of the average American, and I don't think it has anything to do with the preferred aesthetics of scooter transportation." Fine. It's still not a car centric city, and it feels better for it.