don't knock it till you try it: Vietnamese beer

Well, it's been almost two months since I returned from Vietnam, and I've been incredibly lazy about documenting the trip. But what's possibly even more disturbing than this lack of motivation is the fact that it's been almost two months since I returned from Vietnam, and I have still not recovered from the Vietnamese beer.

You see, the beer in Vietnam is plentiful, and it is cheap. In general, a beer costs about 50 cents. An "expensive" beer (an extra large bottle in a tourist trap) might cost as much as $1.25. Beer is basically as cheap as water. But it's not water--it's alcoholic, and it's vacation, and that means it's time to have fun! In other words, we pretty much drank Vietnamese beer all day long.

If you go to Vietnam, you will encounter many brands of beer--333, Saigon, Festival, Huda, Tiger, Hue Beer and Biere Larue are a few that come to mind. And if you are like me, you will sample them all.

I went to Vietnam thinking that it was going to be such a "healthy" trip, with all that vegetable-laden, dairy-free food and all that time spent frolicking on the beach and riding bikes around in the terrifying Vietnamese traffic.

But I was wrong. I came home and was immediately faced with the fact that I had "outgrown" virtually all of my pants. I guess that girl at Phuoc An tailor was right--only empire waists for me.

don't knock it till you try it: custom-made clothing in Hoi An

I recently returned from a trip to Vietnam. And while there were plenty of more "intense" things that I tried before knocking while I was there, I've decided to write my first entry about something relatively innocuous--the touristy activity of getting custom-made clothing in the town of Hoi An.

Before leaving on my trip, one of my friends expressed feelings of envy--she'd been dreaming of traveling to Vietnam for years, and she really wanted to get made-to-measure clothing in Hoi An.

Of course I had no idea what she was talking about, since true to form, I had barely researched the trip, preferring instead to learn about my destination from the guidebook in the hours before landing in a new place. For me, a trip never seems real until I'm in the air/on the road/whatever. Why bother researching a place and getting all excited just to have my hopes dashed when I never actually get there? This attitude seems to stem from years of travel-frustration and is obviously self-defeating, but I still have trouble reading the necessary travel books.

Eventually I wised up and started researching the trip, even setting up a meeting with my friend Kelly who traveled extensively in Vietnam a few years ago. Kelly drew me a map, told me about some of the better destinations and explained the correct pronunciation of "thank you" in Vietnamese (nothing like what I'd been "learning" from the Pimmsleur language CDs).

We talked about many things Vietnamese, including the custom-made clothing in Hoi An. I asked her if it was worthy of all the hype. Kelly gave me a "this is between you and me" kind of look. "It's crap," she said. But she admitted that the process of getting something made "just for you" is kind of fun--just that I shouldn't be expecting, like, couture on the cheap.

When we arrived in Hoi An, I was a little on the fence about the clothing. I figured I would eventually cave in to the very persistent tailor shop workers and get a dress made "for fun," but I wasn't obsessed with the idea.

Hoi An is a pretty little town, but the adorableness is somewhat tempered by the overwhelming, everywhere-ness of the tailoring scene. "Cloth shops" are crammed in next to each other all over the place, with the occasional restaurant or historic building breaking up the steady flow. Meanwhile, shop employees go to great lengths to lure you into their storefronts.

For example, on our second day in Hoi An Nick and I were accosted by a young woman on a bicycle moments after we left our hotel. Naturally, she wanted us to come with her to her shop to get some clothing made. Like a dutiful tourist, I had read my guidebook which warned the reader about various scams involving young ladies on bicycles luring you into shops, but I kept my mouth shut. Nick hates it when I demonstrate my cautious, sensible, even-keeled midwestern qualities--like when I refused to exchange my money with the old lady in the airport who promised us a better exchange rate if we'd simply "go over there" to a discreet corner with her.

So there we were in the "Lucky Number Cloth Shop", both of us getting measured for clothing we didn't really want. I gave up and asked for a simple cotton halter dress; Nick got a shirt. The girl who lured us in thanked us profusely for coming with her, and assured me that all her seams are double-stitched, everything is really good quality, etc. etc. Her shop is much better and cheaper than the shops affiliated with hotels--they get commissions! And so on.

After that, we submitted to the force of the tailoring pressure and decided to "test the waters" with two more shops. Next we went to Phuoc An--the shop associated with our hotel, getting all those sneaky commissions! But we had to go, because I really wanted to go back home and say that I got my dress at Phuoc An Tailor (F#$% Ann Taylor).

I paged through several books of photos, searching for a dress. Although it seems like it should be fun to look through a bunch of fashion magazines and then point to something and demand, "Make this for me!", for someone as indecisive as me, it was stressful. Eventually I settled on something relatively simple (sleeveless, v-neck, fitted waist), picked out a fabric and got out of there.

By the time we got to our final destination, Dong Phuong, I was getting fatigued. I took the boring, easy way out, finding a picture of a dress that looked suspiciously like one I already own and asking for it in red. And that was it for day one of custom-made clothing.

The next day we had to head back to all three shops, making the rounds to check out our new clothes. We started at Lucky Number. I tried on my dress--it fit, I guess, but it didn't look very good. Actually, it might have looked a little stupid. I checked the seams--they were not double-stitched, as the proprietress had promised--sure to fall apart after wearing for more than a couple hours.

Now, one of the "benefits" of this whole process is that the customer has the right to send a garment back for alterations. I could have pointed out the shoddy craftsmanship and the stupid cut of the dress and demanded to have it fixed. But I didn't want to deal with it, so I just accepted it as it was. Nick's shirt was pretty bad, too, but like me, he didn't have the energy to make an issue of it.

Then is was on to Dong Phuong. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the dress they made was good! It was a little too big, but the girls in the shop immediately set about to pinning it up to alter it. A couple hours later the dress returned, fitting perfectly. It was so great that I ordered another one! And Nick spontaneously ordered a suit (and he hates suits), which they somehow assembled in six hours. It turned out great, too.

Finally we went to Phuoc An to pick up the last of the stuff. The fabric of the dress was what I'd chosen, but everything else was different. The dress the salesgirl presented was a billowing thing with a scooped neck and an empire waist--way different from the sleek, simple thing in the picture. I tried to explain this to my sales girl. She smiled and shook her head, indicating that I did not want the dress that I had asked for. I tried to explain that I did. Then she patted me on the stomach, saying, "No, no! You not show this..." and then I realized that she had given me the tent dress for my own good--so that no one would have to be subjected to my giant, American gut.

Verdict: The shopping thing can be stressful if you aren't type A and you don't know what you want. It can also cause western traveler guilt when you walk down side streets and alleys at night and see all the little sweatshops cranking out designer knock-offs for plus-sized white tourists. And very thin Vietnamese women might mock your American heftiness, which could damage your self-esteem. But if you visit this town and want to take part, I would recommend Dong Phuong! But not the other two places.

Don't knock it till you try it: Lesley Gore live

Monday was my first day back from Vietnam, and in my jet-lagged state I saw in the Star Tribune that Lesley Gore, one of my favorite "girl group" singers, was performing that night at the Dakota in downtown Minneapolis.

I was exhausted and didn't really want to do anything except go home, drink wine and eat nachos, but the rational part of my brain told me I'd be disappointed in myself if I didn't drive straight to the venue after work to secure a $40 ticket to this show of the decade. Lesley Gore songs were an important part of my early music education. When I was about eight years old, my parents bought me a Fisher Price turntable which they installed in our cold, damp basement in south Minneapolis.

Without an older sibling to guide my musical choices, I relied on my dad. Every now and then he'd take me to Great American Music in Bloomington to purchase 45s. Some of the songs that I remember from this era (my "only child in the basement" era) are "Wishin' and Hopin'", "Runaround Sue" and of course, "It's My Party" and "Judy's Turn to Cry."

This early indoctrination instilled a deep appreciation of all that 60s girl group stuff. In my advanced age I now find "It's My Party" to be kind of annoying, but I truly love "Maybe I Know" ("Maybe I know that he's been a-cheatin'/Maybe I know that he's been untrue/But what can I do???") Indeed--I mean really, what can you do? 

Anyway, so I like Lesley Gore, and I rushed down to the Dakota promptly at 5:30 when the box office opened. I'd never been there before (has anyone?), so I didn't know that's it's basically a restaurant and if you buy a single ticket they're going to match you up with another single person with whom you will have to make stilted conversation for what seems like hours. No one stands around like they do at normal rock shows, so there's no escape.

I approached my seat at the two-person cocktail party feeling like a clumsy call girl. My "date" was a gentleman who seemed to be about my dad's age, or older (mid-60s). I was by far the youngest person in the place, and "Ed" pointed this out. "You're too young to remember Lesley Gore," he said. I explained the thing with my dad and the 45s. "Oh," he said. We were off to a great start.

As a personal challenge (I'm socially retarded), I attempted to make conversation about music. He was polite, but not super talkative, and I noticed that he didn't waste much time making reference to his "girlfriend." This made me paranoid. "Does he think I'm hitting on him?" I wondered. Everyone knows that girls only reference "the boyfriend" when they're trying to rebuff the advances of some pushy dude.

Maybe I was reading into it too much. Luckily, Lesley came on soon, and I was relieved of my small talk duties.

Lesley kicked off the night with a song I'd never heard--probably one of her more recent songs that could only be described as "adult contemporary." I started to feel grateful that I hadn't pressured any of my friends to come with me. (This feeling was confirmed later when she performed a "jazzy" version of that Bryan Adams song "Everything I Do...I Do it For You.")

But this is starting to sound catty. Lesley was actually really good! But there is something a little off-putting about seeing someone who looks like your mom's stylish-but-practical best friend belting out teenager pop hits from the 60s. "Maybe I should have stayed home and watched this stuff on youtube..." I started to think. But then again, what was I expecting? 

The audience loved it, however. White women in the sixties "shimmied" self-consciously in their chairs. Older men in button downs and sweaters folder their arms across their chests, occasionally tapping a foot. All in all, it was much like the scene at an indie rock show, but older.

One funny thing happened--during "It's My Party" Lesley went out in the audience to accost a particularly jubilant table of 50-something women. When the chorus came around, she shoved the microphone into the face of one of the women. (I hate it when performers do this; it's so embarrassing! But I guess it only happens when you're at a Monkees reunion show or something.) Anyway, the woman couldn't sing at all. "Well, you look good, but you sure can't sing!" said Lesley. 

After the show, I saw the bad singer in the bathroom. "Oh, you're the singer," said one of the other women in line. There was an uncomfortable pause. "Yeah," said the bad singer. "Lesley said I had a bad voice. But she apologized later and said she didn't mean it." 

don't knock it till you try it: biking when it's cold outside

To celebrate my recent birthday, Nick planned a weekend trip to Red Wing to bike the Cannon Valley Trail. We drove down to Cannon Falls on a Saturday afternoon in late October, loaded our stuff onto our bikes and started the 20-mile ride to Red Wing.

It was probably about 40 degrees when we started, and to be honest, I feared that the experience was going to suck. I am definitely a fair-weather biker--I'll happily bike 60 miles in one day, possibly uphill, but only if the weather is nice and warm. I have no interest in purchasing face masks and special tires so I can commute to my job all winter in the snow like many of the more resilient people I know.

But it wasn't that cold, so I decided to hope for the best.

Once we got going, it wasn't bad at all! In fact, I ended up getting overheated from the many hysterical layers of clothing I'd piled on.

We arrived in Red Wing and checked into the St. James Hotel. Later we had dinner at Norton's, a restaurant owned by the former bass player for Husker Du. The food was super good! Overall, biking in the cold was just fine.

don't knock it till you try it: working in the suburbs

Despite my greatest efforts to find a job in Minneapolis--the city in which I live--I seem destined to always end up working in the suburbs. I've had a few brief assignments in the city, and they were great. I could ride my bike to work in 10 minutes and walk a block to meet my friend Katie for lunch. Unfortunately, the honeymoon can't go on forever--my $11/hour temp job would end when the regular admin came back from maternity leave, for example, and then it was back to reading 5th graders' essays in Eden Prairie.

My first real job after college was as an "associate project manager" at an educational testing company in Maple Grove. The first time I went out there it felt like I'd driven far enough to end up in St. Cloud. "This is how far I have to drive--every day?" I asked myself with disbelief. But I slogged on.

After that, I worked for about two years in Plymouth, and then I left that job for another one in White Bear Lake. Then I worked for about a year in Minneapolis, until I got laid off. And now I'm back in Plymouth, within driving distance of a Jimmy John's, a Solo's Pizza and a Subway.

At first when I started working in the suburbs, I felt oppressed. It didn't make sense to me that I--someone who lives in a city--should be forced to rise at 6 a.m. to cobble together a "business casual" outfit and then drive half an hour to 45 minutes to some office park many miles away, just so I could pay rent on a barely heated apartment and replace the bottle of vodka.

But after several years in the suburbs, I began to accept my fate, and decided I would attempt to embrace my lot in life. During long lunches I would fill the void with shopping trips to TJ Maxx or Target Ridgedale. I would go for long walks around the residential neighborhoods with matching houses that all have garages poking out in front. I would meet my other friends with suburban jobs at Chili's.

And then when I started working in White Bear Lake, I realized that I had developed opinions about various suburbs. Whereas in the past I basically thought all suburbs sucked, I realized after experience that this was not the case. For example, when I started working in White Bear Lake, I realized that I missed the "scene" in Plymouth. The chain restaurants and retail stores in Plymouth were clearly so much better!

Of course, White Bear Lake had a few special things to offer (but they cannot be found at the Thai restaurant downtown). The bars, for instance. White Bear Lake has a great assortment of dive bars! The restaurant scene was pretty sad, but my co-editor and I solved that problem by frequently making the half-hour drive in downtown St. Paul for lunch.

Verdict:

Best overall suburb in which to work: Plymouth

Best suburban bars: White Bear Lake

Best prefabricated "downtown": Maple Grove

don't knock it till you try it: dinner at ecopolitan

I recently visited the Ecopolitan restaurant on Lyndale for the first time. I went there with my very healthy friend, "Ellen," who I hadn't seen in weeks.

The Ecopolitan is an all raw, all vegan establishment. And although I've been interesting in checking it out for awhile, I was a bit dismayed, because the night we had chosen was cold and damp. Raw, vegan food generally sounds more appealing to me in the excessive heat of summer. But I didn't dare suggest that we relocate our date to Jakeeno's Pizza.

So we arrived, and were seated at a cute little table in the corner of the dining room. I asked Ellen what she liked (she's a bit of regular), and she gave me a couple suggestions. I decided on the flaxseed tostadas, and Ellen got the taco salad.

The tostadas arrived, and I was pleasantly surprised. They were substantial! And served with generous portions of salsa and guacamole. I guess I assumed that anything vegan would by tiny.

And they were much tastier than I'd suspected. I had been skeptical about the raw factor--how could anything quasi-Mexican even be edible without cooked beans or proper tortillas? But I was wrong. I mean, okay--they did taste "healthy", but in a good way!

And since we didn't swill a bunch of organic wine (just some beet juice), the bill seemed really cheap, too.

Verdict: Hey, it was good! I would definitely go back. I don't think they're going to convert me to their all-raw lifestyle--it clashes with my Chinese medicine diet of "lightly cooked vegatables." I've already chosen my particular food cult. However, I will definitely go back to sit in the infrared sauna.

don't knock it till you try it: library literary readings

Tonight I went to see Said Sayrafiezadeh speak at the downtown Minneapolis library. Said (I'm going to act familiar and use his first name, because I'm lazy) is the author of When Skateboards Will Be Free, a memoir about growing up in the Socialist Workers Party. 

I haven't read the book, but I saw a little blurb about the reading in the City Pages and it sounded like it might be good. Also, since I am "a writer" I thought it might be high time for me to go out and start, you know, "supporting other writers" or whatever. 

But truth be told, I generally dread readings. It is the rare author who can actually read well in front of an audience. Because of this--or maybe just because I have no attention span--I generally find that I don't retain anything from the presentation. I have no idea what the book was about, no idea how he answered the question about the title or what it was like when his dad read the book.

Tonight, however, I was pleasantly surprised. Said was funny and engaging--not a boring, droning literary type, but not a pompous cocksucker either. Virtually unprecedented! He said some interesting stuff about why it was a big deal for him to be in Minneapolis (his parents met here, the Socialist Workers Party was really big here, etc.). He read an excerpt from the book, and he was so good at reading I was actually able to follow the story! Then he talked some more, and then he answered some questions. 

My favorite part was when some woman tried to tell him that the Socialist Workers Party actually got a lot of political work done (Vietnam protests, women's "liberation," etc.), even though she heard him say on NPR that the party wasn't politically effective at all. He was all, Whatever! Well, I guess he was more like, "I respect your opinion, but I completely disagree with you." I swear, it seemed more badass at the time--guess you had to be there!! 

So I was pleasantly surprised by the reading. Said was fun to listen to, and he made me want to read his book (usually a reading has the opposite effect on me). My only criticism is that the whole operation was so safe. I guess that's to be expected--it was at the library, after all. But the evening included not one but two introductions by white guys in suits. Tons of information about the library was shared, and donations were solicited. After the reading, audience members had the opportunity to get their books signed while drinking water and munching on cookies in the atrium. 

Furthermore, I was surprised by the advanced age of most people in the audience. Hey, I think it's great that tons of seniors came out to support a brand-new author. However, where were all the young people? The author is only about 40 years old--I thought he'd draw a somewhat younger crowd. There might have been one or two other thirty-something nerds in there, but virtually everyone appeared to be over 65. Is this what it will be like if I ever go on a book tour?