Spectacle

I'm glad I'm not invisible in Southeast Asia, increases the odds of not getting run over by a motorbike or minivan, but at times I feel like a spectacle.   The day we chose to ride bikes in Angkor Wat was extremely hot, and unfortunately, after pedaling 25 km to the second temple on our mapped course I discovered my ticket had fallen out of my pocket.  The rules were strictly reinforced, no pass, no admission to any of the Wats.  I encouraged the guys to explore without me and began on the shortest route, still 17 km away, to the ticket booth.  Sweaty and tired I was relieved to have a new ticket in hand, but cautious about overheating, I decided to take a respite on the curb.  The ticket collectors called me over to their table and brought me a plastic chair.  We were engaged in small talk when one guy kept pointing to  my mouth.  I assumed I had something stuck between my teeth, before I comprehended what he was saying, "original?"  Yes, my teeth were original.   He alerted his friends.  They stood closer examining my smile, questioning why a tooth in the back was whiter.  I tried to explain root canal and crown, but I'm certain I just created doubt in their minds that the white straight teeth were mine. 

I had a blast wandering the congested streets of Cholon in Saigon this morning.  Chinese pagodas tucked away between stores selling hardware, paper lanterns and pho.  The markets were insanely crowded and the traffic caused me to talk to myself in befuddled amusement.   Initially, the combination of odors, heaps of trash and heat made it impossible for me to think about eating.  But after several hours my churning stomach agreed to sliced papaya from a street vendor.  Child-size plastic stools lined the sidewalks and I happily sat in one while enjoying my breakfast.  I made a stir on the street corner when I purchased a fresh baguette from a street vendor walking by.  Instead of having it filled with various meats, I chose the jar of peanut butter as my filling.  A big spoonful of the creamy substance was spread on the bread, the perfect accompaniment to my fruit.  I heard laughter from a man several storefronts away.  He walked up to me, shook my hand, and pointed to my sandwich.  I'm not sure if he was laughing with me or at me, but soon several of his friends joined in on the hilarity. 

Waiting for the Reunification Palace to open I struck up a conversation with a motorcycle tour guide named Vong.  He showed me business cards from previous clients, pointing out all the other Americans who had hired him for his service.  He was a local, lived in Saigon his whole life, and although young when the city fell in 1975, he remembered it well.  Two of his female friends joined us on the steps as we talked politics, and our mutual support of Obama. "He's not for war," were Vong's exact words.  I felt a tug at the back of my head and wondered what had nestled in my hair.  I turned to see Vong's friend  playing with my curls, pulling them and watching them boing back into place.   Among the  ubiquitous black lacquered hair in Asia, my tresses were a novelty.  "Beautiful", the woman said.  My smooth Southern California hair is impossible to achieve in this humid climate.  I miss it, prefer it, but graciously accepted the compliment.