Pre-Engagement

Before my boyfriend and I move into our newly-purchased house, our parents have banned together to propose a pre-engagement dinner, traditionally hosted by the girl's side of the family. They've tolerated almost nine years of us dawdling in this relationship without the prospect of marriage, and they've just about had enough. Apparently, moving in to live with a guy before I've legally tied the knot devalues my worth, and only through the "title" that is promised during the pre-engagement ceremony can I prevent this from happening.

The modern, independent, and Western-bred side of me rolls her eyes at such formality. I've lived with my family all my life, gone to college close to home, and have never moved out, so I feel I've long overstayed my welcome under my parents' watchful eyes. At this age, a certain twinge of embarrassment surfaces when I am forced to tell friends and colleagues. "I still live with my parents." But the traditional respectful, Eastern-born side of me cautions that if I do not heed and uphold the ways of my culture, I will be uprooted and drifting without clear ideals to pass along to my future children, who will be born on this American soil and may never fully understand, acknowledge--even see--Viet Nam. This side of me quells the knee-jerk reaction of my other half that wants to dismiss my mom's initial proposal for the pre-engagement dinner, and because my parents have been mostly tolerant of my headstrong ways, I thought this would be a small indulgence to make them happy.

I have learned to become self-assured in most aspects of life thus far; in my academic and professional endeavors, I've succeeded enough to feel confident in my knowledge and abilities, but suddenly, the concept of marriage and the traditional ceremonies leading up to it freezes me like a deer in headlights. As my mom described the proper ways to do things, I felt the need to hyperventilate into a paper bag. As if the thought of a traditional engagement party with countless close and distant relatives ogling at me wasn't enough to send me screaming for the hills, now I have an approaching menace to deal with: pre-engagement.

How am I supposed to know that the guy's side of the family needs to bring over tea and a pair of wine bottles as gifts upon attending the dinner, or that the girl's side of the family gives back a gift of traditional sticky-rice cakes that must be pre-ordered for nuptial ceremonies? Or that the guy's party must attend the dinner in an even number because an odd number is considered bad luck for the future pairing? Casual and simple in my taste for clothes, I never took great joy in shopping or playing dress-up, and now I have to think about what to wear to the event. Does white symbolize death and bad luck instead of purity? Does red scream "whore" instead of merely being flamboyant? Is pink somewhere in the middle? It would be proper for me to take a day off work and help out with the preparations on the day of the dinner. I could already picture my time-off request--Hours: 8; Reason: some sort of traditional pre-engagement ceremony that I didn't even know existed until fairly recently.

To me, a "traditional" proposal would be my man popping a perfect diamond ring in a romantic setting, and that I'd say yes on my own terms instead of under the manipulation of family. It's a goal I am still striving for as Tung and I continue to save up our assets after depleting the account for the house purchase. But for now, I will go through with this small indulgence of the pre-engagement dinner, a first step to exploring a new world of old traditions.

Knitting

It took over 16,000 stitches to knit the 9 squares that I had mailed off to Knit-a-Square Foundation. After a long flight to South Africa, the 8x8-inch squares will be sorted by material and then pieced together to make blankets for orphaned children, each blanket containing a patchwork of colors and yarns from around the world. Trying out different knitting stitches while finding a good way to use up my yarn scraps from past projects, I liked the idea of contributing a small part of something that will become a cohesive, whole unit, helping to warm children through the winter months.

I took up knitting on a dare because a friend of mine, who started before me, mentioned that learning how to knit from an instructions book was impossible. Being a technical writer by trade, I set out to prove her wrong. It was something I had meant to pick up, anyway, and I figured if I really got stuck, I could ask Tung's grandma for help. Though she's a avid knitter and was eager to teach me the tools of the trade, the only way I could have learned how to knit was on my own. I'm left-handed, and so is she, but ironically, she learned how to knit right-handed because the woman who taught her in Viet Nam had initially refused to do so unless Tung's grandma agreed to pick up right-handed knitting. When the patterns became reversed, coupled with how hard it was to translate Vietnamese terminology into the English instructions I had become acquainted with (knit, purl, knit in back of stitch), it became clear that I was going nowhere fast as her pupil.

So I kept at it with my little left-handers' guide to knitting. Like my other self-taught endeavors--learning how to look at Magic Eye books, rollerskating, and reading Vietnamese--knitting came with a whole new set of frustrations that I trained myself to work through in order to master. Hands tangled in yarn, knitting needles jabbing me every which way, fingers tender from the tension of the needles rubbing up against them, I slowly pieced together my first scarf. Something about falling into the rhythm of a pattern and keeping the hands busy while the mind was free to drift instilled within me a sense of zen. And something about those journeys in life that you start thinking you could get help, but that you end up having to make on your own, gives them a sense of deeper meaning and value. I made many knitting mistakes throughout the years, and though I attempted to fix them, some of them I couldn't quite amend or cover up. So I left them in my work like scars, a testimony of being human, making mistakes, and ultimately learning from them.

At the post office when my package to Knit-a-Square was being weighed, I was asked to declare a value for the parcel, one of the requirements for sending it. "I don't know the value," I had told the postal worker behind the counter, "It's for charity." When she pressed on, I threw out a number to be done with: "Ten dollars." But the value of feeling good about myself for accomplishing a meaningful task at the year end, of using a self-taught hobby to do good, of contributing to an effort to warm orphaned children in South Africa--now, that's priceless.

Come n Get It

After using up all my drink tickets from the company holiday party and downing over two full glasses of water in an attempt to sober up, I found myself in the parking lot of the dojo half an hour before class started for the evening. It was like Mecca, like home, like the North to my compass needle--the place where, in my slightly inebriated state, I half-consciously defaulted to. On auto-pilot, I suited up in the Ladies' room, donning my gi and hakama. It was a good thing putting those on and tying the various strings had become second-nature.

Training under the influence turned out to be a better experience than I had thought. Muscles warmed and brain fuzzy, I had the added benefit of being completely limber and relaxed, as well as being able to shut off that often-overanalytical part of me that tried too hard, or automatically censored all that I did. I was past the fear of pain during take-downs and loosened up during all the instances where I was pinned. Walking by to observe, Sensei questioned my training partner whether he was "giving me enough juice." Probably he was giving me plenty, but I was more relaxed than normal.

Something about sweating or aerobic workouts got me to sober up really quickly--more so than times in the past when I had that much to drink. By the time I made it home, I felt completely fine. But a few hours later, I found a reason why attempting to train while drunk was a bad idea: I couldn't find my Ziploc bag that I stored my jewelry in. Two rings, a pair of hoop earrings, and a watch, nowhere to be found in either my gym bag or purse. It finally occured to me that I must have left it on the ledge of the sink in the Ladies' room after changing. Most of the contents in that Ziploc bag weren't expensive, but all of it had been gifts, and so they bore sentimental value. Except for the watch, my boyfriend had given me all those pieces of jewelry. We had walked along the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk when he bought me the heart-shaped ring, and for Valentine's he had bought me the other ring with two linking hearts. And those hoop earrings, my favorite because they didn't have studs and I could snap them on and off easily before and after class--they had been from him, too.

Remorseful and panic-stricken, I made a round of calls, asking Sensei to look for the bag on the ledge of the sink before the early-morning training session began the next day. The dojo shared the grounds with a high school, and I didn't know who else besides dojo members accessed those restrooms. I fought through a nerve-wrecking night, and in the morning when I called him, Sensei said, "Yes, I have your stuff. If you come to training tonight, you can get it back." Seriously, I could hug the man.

Coming to actually train was of course not a requirement, but as evening rolled around, I found myself donning the familiar garbs again. I might as well since I'd be driving to the dojo, I reasoned, and besides, I felt like I should do pennance for my carelessness. Sensei was dangling that jewelry bag at Due North, at Mecca, at home. "If you want it," I could practically hear him saying, "come n get it."

Yes, Sensei, I thought. I am coming. I'll be right there.

House-hunting and Home-making

There was the house with the swallows' nest above the front door, bird poop shed in a caked heap to welcome guests to an interior even more bizarre--the hardwood floors made handicap-friendly, down to the deck in the backyard with ramps easing gently to the pavement perimeter of the garden. There was an odd spigot sticking out rather grotesquely where the bathtub's faucet should have been, and a fire alarm bell, and illuminated EXIT signs leading to the front door.

There was the house with the wasps' nests, dingy, hardened mud set in hexagonal designs, revealed by the gouges in the drywall, complimenting the ripped-out ceiling showing the water stains of a leaking roof.

There was the short-sale where vents sat half on the wall, half on the crown molding, as if tacked on in a last-ditch effort, Lego pieces that refused to fit.

There was the house with the bad roof and non-existing dining room and a kitchen so small you could barely turn around in it, let alone cook. A weird Alice-in-Wonderland door was built into the fence, leading to the neighbor's backyard . . . and then there were the rodent droppings that came up in the inspection papers.

There was the "probate sale," which is just a fancy way of saying someone had recently died in the house before it was put on the market. A gorgeous house otherwise, but already sold at a price beyond our reach, even if "potentially haunted" wasn't an issue.

There were the neighborhoods too close for comfort to middle- or high-schools where you risked hoodlums coming by to tag your mailbox, slash your tires, or egg your driveway, neighborhoods where kids chased balls carelessly into the streets, where young girls for some reason danced on their rooftops, grinning at cars driving by.

There was the house that looked gorgeous and perfect on Internet pictures, but turned out to be next to a cemetery.

There were flood zones, fault zones, Leaking Underground Storage Tanks (LUST), radon hazards, lead-paint warnings, freeway and train noise nuisances. There were good real estate agents and bad real estate agents, agents that didn't show up for their own Open Houses, and those who wrote emails in all caps, insisting that you were wasting their time.

There was " the one that got away"--new crown moldings, fresh paint, a gas-operated fireplace, a huge converted living room, professionally-landscaped yards, hardwood floors, and recessed lighting, all in a quiet neighborhood. There was the heartbreak of being outbid on one that finally mattered, and finding the strength to let go and the will to move on after "taking a break" and "being on rebound."

And then there was "the one"--not without its imperfections: a falling back fence, light fixture covers coming apart, a roof reaching the end of its life. And not without its oddities: strangely intense aquamarine bathroom walls, a mechanical pencil sharpener welded into the pantry, painted over in white, a side fence set strangely far back into the backyard's alleyway instead of moved further to the front of the house.



But in a way, it was perfect: already set up to be hospitable, but requiring just enough fixing up so that we could spend time personalizing and making it ours. There were the quaint touches--the new wood-burning fireplace in the living room, the dining table set that was the only piece of furniture in an otherwise vacant house, the Master bedroom looking out to a backyard with an abundance of fruit trees. On a brisk autumn evening when the warmth of summer had started to recede, leaving the nights longer and colder, we set foot in this house for the first time, looked it over, and signed for the bid, the first set of paperwork in an attempt to make it ours. There was a long road ahead, a huge learning curve filled with paperwork, price negotiations, more paperwork, conducting inspections, more paperwork, getting the house appraised, more paperwork, researching homeowners' insurance, more paperwork, getting the loan, and then signing all that paperwork over again at the escrow office.

"Feels like home," our agent had said when we signed for the bid. Without heat and furniture, the interior of the house felt cold and barren, but it had all the potential to be warm and cozy. I could see where the Christmas tree, adorned in lights, would peek out from the front window behind sheer white curtains, and smell baking cinnamon rolls, the sweet scent wafting warmly through the house. The aroma of butter cupcakes baking on a cool spring day, and the clinking of ice cubes against a frosty glass pitcher on a hot summer afternoon. In the weeks ahead, we planned "what-if's"--what color and material for the curtains, whether to go with white or stainless-steel appliances, how to renovate the backyard and re-landscape the front. We pictured where the inherited dining table would look best. . . and when you're debating on where the dining table should go, you're well on your way to committing to make it feel like home.

Why I Know I Have Aikido Issues

1. I plan my schedule around keiko instead of the other way around.
2. Martial arts books have replaced fine literature on my shelf.
3. When house-hunting, I first check the vertical clearance of the ceiling to see if it'll accommodate my jo katas.
4. I'm not heartbroken over not yet being able to afford furniture because, hey, more room for suburi practice.
5. I assess square footage of individual rooms by how many tatami mats will fit.
6. Mop handles and hiking sticks make me think of jo's.
7. I pass the lumber section of Home Depot and wonder which wood would make a good bokken.
8. Going gi shopping fuels me with endorphins that most other women get when stepping into Macy's.
9. I do laundry based on when I run out of fresh gi's.
10. I consider purchasing future car models based on whether the trunk will sufficiently accommodate my weapons bag.
11. I'm actually up at 8:00AM on a Saturday morning so that I can commute to weapons class.
12. I've avoided certain fast food chains for years, and suddenly I'm burning enough calories so that those McDonald's golden fries are looking very tempting.
13. I suck at sewing but would spend an entire morning hemming/altering/patching up my gi.
14. I've never folded any article of clothing with such meticulous care as I do my hakama, and I do this almost on a daily basis.
15. People look at me funny because I carry a litany of bruises on my forearms.
16. I've sprained and twisted muscles and still have the desire to claw my way back on the mat.
17. I've considered using a tenchi-nage-like blend to squeeze through automatic doors before they close.
18. Trying highfalls make me paranoid that I'll break my neck and become a paraplegic, but I still want to practice and master them.
19. My grip strength and wrists have gotten noticeably stronger.
    
20. I subconsciously get into hanmi stance, like when standing or mopping the floor.

Martial Arts Daughter

It is especially unladylike, my mother believed, for girls to learn martial arts and "wave their hands and feet about." I've always had an interest in martial arts, and I guess growing up watching Hong Kong kung-fu sagas with bad-ass, sword-wielding heroines had a little something to do with fueling my passion. When I expressed my desire to my traditional mother--who still manages to put a three-course meal on the table every night for family dinners--she didn't allow me to get into martial arts. In my early teens, I'd watch my two older male cousins go off to their paid karate lessons and pine away at their freedom.

When I got to college, I wormed my way into two rather unconventional things: 1.) Being an English major, and 2.) Being an aikidoka. My parents had high hopes that I'd select a more lucrative profession . . . they had given me choices of the more acceptable study paths: to become an engineer, doctor, lawyer, or, if I managed to fail at all of the above--at least a real-estate agent. And if I were so incompetent as to give up all that, I had the choice of marrying either an engineer, doctor, lawyer, or--if I must--a real-estate agent. After all, my older female cousins all became or married men in those fields. A husband like that would protect me financially, keep me comfortable. My parents had no idea what I'd do with an English degree besides teach, and I ended up not even getting that right.

Getting into aikido was an equally amusing experience. I showed my mother my Schedule of Classes booklet, pointing out the necessary electives for graduation credit. "Mom, I need these P.E. units to graduate, and this aikido class is the only thing that'll fit into my tight schedule--you do want me to get a college degree, don't you?" I thought I'd try out different martial arts one by one until I found what I liked and wanted to stick with, but when I was handed my gi and went through the first few aikido classes, I was in love.

When my youngest brother developed an interest in taking up martial arts and I showed him a few techniques I learned, my mother shook her head at my dad and said, "That's it, we have three boys instead of two sons and a daughter." She gave me the stink-eye when I accidentally broke things: an automatic umbrella, a French Press's glass carafe, a few of her porcelain rice bowls that I swear had chips leading to a weak fissure in the first place; she'd half-jokingly blame my "martial arts hands."

I took the offered aikido classes on repeat for two-and-a-half years, long after I had fulfilled all my necessary P.E. credits. I put my training on hold for a while as life took me on its often unpredictable path. And I've just picked it up again this year, restarting the journey.

My mother still doesn't get why I stay out in the evenings past family dinnertime to wrestle with sweaty people and wave around wooden sticks and swords, but she's more tolerant now. She's tolerant, but she doesn't completely understand. Just the other week, glancing at me taking off my blue belt after class, she asked, "So when are you going to be done with aikido?" I looked at her like she was speaking Latin. She didn't ask as if she was hinting that I should stop--she was genuinely curious as to how much longer it can go on (like a exercise class that ends every semester, or a college degree that you'd get after x amount of years). I don't know how to explain to her these things I feel inside, about this other culture that I grew up in, and which she still feels alienated from. That while I do eventually want to get married, I also covet the ability to protect myself, both physically and financially. That if I have a daughter, I'd want to raise her to be strong, too, in mind and spirit, as well as body. That the idea of stopping my training again is like giving up the ability to dream, the desire to fly. And that even at Black Belt, when down the road I am ready to test for my Shodan, my "first step"--it does not end but would have just barely begun.

Dancing

Arms up and out in an effort to maintain the extension in my uke's body, my eyes followed Sensei's foot as he planted it firmly in a spot off to my left and in front of me. "Now, put your right foot where mine is," he said, showing me the footwork of shihonage. It seemed a long way to step, but I discovered that it was necessary to continue extending my partner and effectively drop him. "In aikido, we look for openings," Sensei said, showing me the opening I was supposed to create for myself under uke's arms before stepping through. Even though I still struggle with the techniques, these important details have become easier for me to spot; I am becoming more aware of footwork, openings, and connections, of extensions and of torquing for tightness, when to hang on and when to let go.

I was struggling with the footwork of how to "chase" my opponent in kickboxing. It seemed counter-intuitive after my aikido training to slide back and off to the side with my back foot, maintaining the tight-circle connection, when I've been training myself to step with the forward side. In the only dance that he'd do with me, my boyfriend (who's also my training coach) came up behind me, glued his limbs and body to mine, and guided me into the correct steps. Slide-turn-jab; slide-turn-jab--we went in circles around the living room, and I tried to commit the movements of this still-unfamiliar art into my muscle memory.

There are those popular shows on television now: "Dancing With the Stars" and "So You Think You Can Dance" to name a couple. Tons of movies: Take the Lead and Save the Last Dance, stemming from an older generation of Footloose and Dirty Dancing. All good entertainment, and yes, something I wish I could do. But I dance, too--in a different way. Putting one foot in front of the other, memorizing where each goes for various techniques, I study the movements of my body to a different beat, in tune with the music of my heart.

Hiring

During line-up to conclude class, Sensei brought up something I asked him a while back. Referring to one of his favorite phrases, he looked at me with a smile and inquired, "Are you practicing the aikido that cannot be seen?"

Caught in a deer-in-headlights moment, I answered with a timid, "Umm--maybe...?"

"Still not sure, huh?" he asked, laughing.

"Still figuring it out, Sensei," I replied.

He never directly told me what he meant by "the aikido that cannot be seen," and while I spent at least a good half hour and two blog entries musing about its meaning, I couldn't give him a straight answer, guarded by the voice in the back of my head that nags, "What if I'm wrong?"

One thing I'm pretty sure it alludes to is how applicable aikido is in my everyday life. For the past three months, I've been trying to hire an additional person for my meager department of two. It's been quite a experience of seemingly endless resume-browsing, phone-screening, and on-site interviewing (x2); trying to achieve committee consensus on one candidate from a stock pile of nearly 200 resumes has been no easy feat. This is especially a challenge as I'm new to the hiring/managerial responsibilities, hoping to grow in my role.

It's true aikido teaches you combat skills, but it also teaches you the ways to conflict resolution. Today, after a second interview with a candidate I'm hoping to hire, I faced my boss as he presented me with his opinions of the candidate's strengths and weaknesses. I am tired of trying to hire, ready to start training a new team member. I assessed the openings in my boss's arguments, decided to blend with him, riding that common wave created by our merging energies, and to go for the approach that took the least amount of effort to yield the desired results. I tried not to let my insecurities show despite being new at this, having less hiring experience than he did. I made my point and stood firm; I didn't let my will power waver. And in the end, he yielded, perhaps detecting in my iron resolve my ability to handle the situation and embrace my responsibilities. Even if it turns out I may be wrong about certain things, I'd have the passion and desire to correct my mistakes in the long run. We all start somewhere, and by seeking perfection to begin with, we may lose the chance at a good candidate who projects enthusiasm and is eager to learn. I am ready to face him, ready to say, "Onegai-shimasu," let the training begin.

"Are you practicing the aikido that cannot be seen?" The next time Sensei asks, I will have a concrete example to look back upon. Then I can answer, "Hai, Sensei. At least I try to, every single day."

San Shou

The way of the "free hand" is full-contact and consists of kicks, punches, grappling, and throws. Fast, furious, and direct, this form of kickboxing aims to take down an opponent in the least amount of time. Compared to aikido, these arts seem like polar opposites. Flow and harmony are replaced with quick-paced, in-your-face action; soft rolls and sit falls are replaced with the jarring impact of a direct take-down; the respectful ma-ai (distance) between training partners gets closed up, the space between two bodies nonexistent during instances of kneeing and ground-grappling. The terminology of basic martial concepts change--instead of "training partner," the person facing you is your "opponent"; where one art stresses the absence of competition, the other is directly competitive.

I kick-box not to nullify my aikido training, but to enhance it. I get to know the feeling of five long, long minutes of pushing forward with punches, kicks, and blocks; not backing down, closing up the distance, not forgetting to shield my face with my 12-ounce gloves that become heavier and heavier as the minutes drag on to 10, 15, 20. Aikido techniques open up like a blooming flower, embracing the attack, redirecting its force to work to your advantage. Kickboxing tightens up like a turtle in its shell, staying focused, hard, protected. My defensive and centered hanmi stance becomes a squared offensive stance, staying alive on the balls of my feet, inching up to strike the kicking pads.

Jab-jab, cross, hook, knee-knee, roundhouse. The pattern becomes a rhythm in my head, orchestrating the movements of my body as I push forward, exhaling in quick puffs with each strike. The impact on my gloved hands and bare shins jolts my body to the the core, seems to send my brain smashing against its protective skull. Endurance. Focus. Precision. If I let my guard down, allow gravity to lull my aching arms a fraction below where they should be near my face, I get a hook with the kicking pads to the side of my head. "Don't be lazy; no cheating." Sweat pours down my back, running into my eyes, and with my hands gloved, I can't wipe it off. I blink away the sting and keep going, me against the clock for the ultimate test of my will power.

Afterwards, I slip out of my gloves and catch my breath. My thumbs are shaking, and I couldn't even grip the cap of the water bottle well enough to twist it open. My shins are bruised, my knees are red, and my triceps come alive, protesting this rude awakening from their comfortable dormancy. Is it so different, this wonderful feeling of accomplishment after a hard training session? Is it so foreign, that trickle of ki burning from my center, fueling my aching body with a divine will to push on? I am both defensive and offensive, soft and hard, tranquil and turbulent, water and steel.

Ki

Ki. Chi. Life force. And elusive concept, it is sometimes given the analogy, "what makes up the red parts in your palm." In martial arts practice, we learn to harness this energy in our movements, direct it outwards to back our attacks and throws with vitality. It is the essence of us, the iron core of our spirits, the well from which we draw strength when our endurance runs low, feeding us with the will to continue when we feel we've got nothing left to give. It makes up our "ki-ai's,"--the battle cries that regulate our breathing and are the extensions of our strikes. Martial arts make us aware of our ki and how we can use it; we learn to hone it like an essential tool, shaping it as, over the years, we also whet our spirit and character.

The first time I saw weapons being demonstrated at my dojo, I was blown away. The class was sitting in line-up, and Sensei had out his bokken (wooden sword). One minute he stood in front of the class with a senior student, lecturing on how the paired practice should be performed. "Like this," he said, and then he launched into quick, precise moves with loud ki-ai's to enhance his thrusts. Clack-clack! The impact of wood on wood rang through the air, harmonizing with Sensei's battle cries like percussion to a thunder song, and in three moves, the student helping to demo was against the wall, forced backwards by the onslaught, barely timing it correctly to parry the blows. My jaw dropped open; riveted to my seat, I forgot to breathe. I had never worked with a weapon before. My Sensei is slight in frame, not much taller than me, and almost appears wizened with age. But the way he handled that wooden sword, with dexterity and utmost precision in his attacks, made me crave that skill and long to learn.

This morning, almost seven months later, I face my training partner with my jo, a wooden stick slightly shorter and narrower than a bo staff. Concentrated, aware of his slightest movements of attack before I initiate my own defense, I seek to find harmony in our paired practice. I am more aware of lines--the center line connecting us, how we step off to the left to parry, meet down at the center again to strike, and step off to the right to set up another attack. I learn how foot and hip movements are used to exert maximum force with minimum effort. And our wooden weapons continue to sing their song through the sun-lit dojo.

Going home this morning, I begin to feel it--the callouses starting to form on my soft hands where I was gripping the weapon tight to put power behind each thrust. I bring my palms in front of my face and see the redness pool in a concentrated spot underneath the white of my flesh. Warmed from practice, strengthened by executing and taking wrist grabs, there is now more red than white swirling on the surface of my hands. I take the satisfaction of this feeling home with me, seeking still to find my ki, but knowing that I am that much closer.

"The Aikido that Cannot be Seen"

One of my Senseis has a favorite saying that he sometimes uses to conclude class: "Practice the aikido that cannot be seen." After the first few times I heard him say it, I pondered over the meaning, wondering what philosophical lesson I was supposed to get from it. There is a spiritual aspect to aikido, deeply rooted in religious lessons and aphorisms from where the founder, Morehei Ueshiba, gleaned inspiration for the martial art.

One night, I approached my Sensei and asked what he meant by "the aikido that cannot be seen." Instead of giving me a straight answer, he thought for a moment, and then he launched into a story about being in a restaurant when the waitress set down a cup of cream that started hydroplaning across the table's surface, only to be caught by my Sensei before it skidded off the edge. The waitress, perplexed at the speed of which everything happened, asked my Sensei how he caught it so fast, to which he responded, "I was waiting for it."

Sensei saw my still-quizzical expression, so he told another story of when he took the longer path to where he needed to go by walking around some band members practicing instead of cutting directly through them, "to avoid conflict," he added. I was sitting there, thinking about how I had accidentally punched a bee smack across the body that afternoon at lunch because it had caught me by surprise, suddenly buzzing loudly near my ear before I had a chance to react otherwise. I wondered if that counted as "the aikido that cannot be seen."

Driving home after practice, I thought more about Sensei's saying. Perhaps I had trouble understanding it, as he had trouble articulating it, because it has more than one meaning and was intended to teach multiple lessons. Aikido is not waiting for things to happen, but anticipating what is to come and blending with it, flowing with it. Aikido is conflict-resolution before a conflict even takes place. Aikido takes understanding, produces harmony, makes you one with your surroundings. Aikido is a privilege to practice. It is a traditional art that embraces the ancient ways, a code of ethics, a warrior's creed; it nestles in between the physical contact between training partners and everyone's individual interpretations of its spiritual lessons. At once constant and ethereal, it cannot be seen, but makes you a believer based on how it can make you feel.

4th Kyu

It used to be fun, because it used to be short. A few techniques demonstrated in both front and rear styles, some ukemi skills to show I can take a fall or go into a roll, some memorized vocabulary to make sure I knew the names of certain attacks. But on my 4th-kyu test, after which I would lose the white from my belt, I felt for the first time a sense of apprehension. It's not the usual anxiety, the normal butterflies-in-stomach release of adrenaline before a test; it's the fear of miscalculation, the paranoia that I'd forget how to perform a certain technique, the doubt in my own endurance.

After the first few techniques had been called out for me to demonstrate, I moved on to the third. Kihon waza: step in to stop the technique before the partner's strike is completed. Ki no nagare: "flowing technique" where the partner's striking momentum is purposefully drawn out, to be used to your advantage as you turn it into your own attack. Ki no nagare has always come more natural to me, and my body defaults to it instinctively. So when Sensei called kihon waza, I took a second to recall the hand and foot movements. When I stepped right into what I was supposed to do, I was so thrilled over getting it right that I forgot what I needed to do for the meat of the technique: shihonage. I froze, my mind coated with panic. I was hyperventilating, not breathing enough, not supplying my desperate body with much-needed oxygen. And then my brain just shut itself off, and my body took over to do the rest. There were a few rough spots during the rest of my test, but nothing quite as dramatic as that. And when it was over and the other students had their chance at their own tests, I found a new blue belt waiting for me, along with my Senseis' feedback for how I could improve my form for the future.

I felt like I had gotten rid of all the white on my belt, but not in my mind. My aikido is far from flawless. I still need to work on taking balance. Not compromising my own posture for an opponent who is taller or bigger or stronger than me. Step in evenly toe-to-toe, and not move so far back. Use my hips to move with power and not rely on my arm strength. Ki'ai and breathe. Relax and loosen up. Kept it steady, keep it strong.

Now I am approaching the more arduous part of the path, the rougher terrain in the road. There's more to learn, more to memorize. There will be more rigid criticism on the mistakes in my techniques, more attention to detail. There are the doubts, and anxiety, and nervousness, and fear. And then there is learning how to conquer these things, like everything else in life worth reaching for.

Gi, Revisited

Few women may remember the outfit they were wearing when they first met their spouse or significant other. I can clearly recall mine. Almost 10 years ago, I was in all white--wearing my martial arts gi with my white belt when Tung grabbed my wrist for the first time and sealed our fate as a couple with a potent kotegaeshi.

Tonight, changing out of that very same gi after my current aikido class, I noticed the beginnings of a threadbare rip across the knee area of one of the pant legs. Seems like it's time to retire this one and see about the purchase of a new gi; after all, few outfits can boast an almost 10-year residency in anyone's closet. But throwing out this gi does not come with some regrets. Though Japanese martial arts stress a kempt uniform to foster a "clean" training spirit, I've also heard stories about how students go to great lengths to patch up worn out, torn, or threadbare spots on their training uniforms. Even high-ranking practitioners and instructors sometimes wear these apparel battle scars as a symbol of pride for the hard work and training that they've been through. A black belt frayed at the edges or turning back to white from years and years of use is representative of the painstaking, yet exhilarating and worthy journey one has taken to achieve a level of martial aptitude. Like any important path in life, it speaks of the symbolic arc of who were were before we transform into who we become--through discipline, dedication, sweat, and sometimes tears and blood.

Yes, it's time to throw out my very first gi that has shaped one of the biggest and best parts of me: my aikido training, which has helped me both find and understand love, which has cultured my spirit, refined my body, and brought an indescribable sense of peace to my soul. Over the years and through my two dojos, it has molded itself to my training style: frayed at high-impact areas, crinkled from grappling and kneeling, creased at fold seams. It reflects new lessons and recent changes: my name now sits on the left sleeve in black iron-on letters; the sleeves are folded back to accommodate wrist grabs; and the pant legs have recently been rolled up to be hidden under my new hakama.

In our consumer society, materialism is so much a part of our culture that we often lose track of the meaning behind things like a simple article of clothing. This gi helped me find myself in an art that I've come to love. It waited patiently for years in the dark closet when I lost myself to a new world of career choices and corporate rules. And now it's time to let it go...but not before it helped me rediscover an essential part of myself through aikido again.

Locks of Love

Every time I cut my hair short, my boyfriend has a coronary. Never mind that when it's long, the strands sometimes accidentally thwack him across the face or whip him in the eye. Never mind that it takes shampoo and conditioner bought in max packs and giganormous sizes to maintain it everyday, or that the fine ends knot themselves up, or create enough drag when I'm swimming in the pool to count for resistance exercise. He likes it long, likes to run his hands through the liquid silk, likes to lightly pull on my ponytail for fun.

I've only cut it (in what he considers) dramatically short one other time since the 10 years that I've known him: to do my first Locks of Love donation and help financially-disadvantaged children who suffer from hair loss due to various illnesses such as alopecia areata or cancer. Especially for young girls, facing their peers and society without hair can be difficult and demoralizing. The organization collects real hair (since artificial wigs can sometimes cause allergic reactions to sensitive scalps) and produces hairpieces for the children, helping them regain their self-esteem.




It takes 10 hair donations (with a minimum length of 10 inches) to make one hair prosthetic. This week, I will send in my second donation. Of all the charities I have been involved in, this one feels the most to me like a labor of love. It's more than donating a few weekend hours to sort canned food for the hungry, collecting school supplies for underprivileged children going back to school, or writing a check to financially provide for some organization. It has taken me about a year-and-a-half to grow my hair out for the foot-long donation, and this severed ponytail will become part of something tangible that a child can use.




I enlisted the help of Tung's aunt, who is a hair stylist, to cut off the ponytail for the donation. As the family gathered around to watch the progress of my new style, someone asked, "Are you regretting it? Will you miss it?"

When I brought the ziploc bag home containing my donation, I spent some time alone with it before I will mail it off. I ran my hands through the silky strands, through the cool softness, and sympathized with why Tung has such a problem letting it go. There was a Ranma 1/2 anime episode I watched once, entitled "A Girl's Hair is Her Life." It was about a playful sword duel where one of the main characters, Akane, gets her long hair accidentally hacked off in the fray. She ends up with a cute little bob, but her new appearance initially shocks her peers and causes her to cry over the loss. Throughout history and in literature, a new haircut or style can be symbolic of so many things: the shedding of innocence and childhood, the readiness to head a family, the alteration of one's personality, the desire for change, the need to make an emphatic point.

I like to wear my hair long, and yes, I always regret cutting it off after it has taken me years to grow. Yes, I will miss it. But to me, sacrifice is part of a worthy charitable cause. And I choose to do it because I want to give one of the best parts of me, hoping that it will make a big difference in someone's life.

Ura Waza

Most aikido techniques are performed either to the front of the training partner--"omote"--or to the rear--"ura." Both aim to break balance for the take-down and pin. Ura has always felt more powerful to me as a technique, more concentrated on the circular and spiral movements characteristic of aikido. When it's being done to me, there is a brief feeling of being off-balance, followed quickly by an out-of-control spinning where my training partner is the center axis and I am the spoke of the wheel.

Like what William Butler Yeats calls the "widening gyre" in his poem "The Second Coming," the centripetal speed begins at a concentrated point of power and spirals outward, gaining momentum as it becomes a bigger and bigger circle. There is a moment when my mind is gripped by the fear of the body losing control, and I have to make a conscious effort to breathe and allow myself to go with the flow. Arms akimbo, body flailing, and legs losing traction, I fly like I've just lost grip on the merry-go-around on the playground during it's maximum speed, and the room flashes by in a blur, and then I am on the ground, often bruised on my way down as my flesh impacts the mat after gathering velocity.

Ura waza is much like life when it spirals out of control; you can feel it coming, can even brace for it, but in the end, you will be swept along with the tide, watching things spinning from their logical, stationary position until they pass by in a blur, until they no longer make sense. This is what happens when "the centre cannot hold," when "things fall apart."

Yonkyo

When that dull, throbbing pain took hold like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my arm, I forgot to breathe. The sensation shot up to my brain like electricity and shut it down; I couldn't think, didn't even register that my eyes were squeezed shut and my jaws were clenched closed until I heard, "Relax. It'll hurt less if you don't stiffen up." Then my training partner let go of his grip, and everything came rushing back to my senses: the sound of my own blood pumping in my ears, the whoosh of air flooding into my lungs, the smell of the dojo, the sight of dust streaks on the training mat on which I lay.

Sensei said, "There is a nerve in the arm, about a palm's width up from the wrist and near the outer bone." This is yonkyo, and finding the nerve can be tricky because its placement on individuals can vary depending on the size of their palm. Once it's found, though, applying pressure to it in the right way can make for a potent submission take-down. When it's yonkyo day at the dojo, I cringe; and I'm fairly certain that I'm not entirely alone in that reaction. I hadn't realized that a simple nerve in the arm can paralyze the entire body. Like a strike to a pressure point, it could cut off the breath and cloud the vision. It leaves bruises 3 inches across on the length of the forearm. It gives people the paranoia that they've gotten permanent nerve damage. It instills power to give, is painful to receive--and one day I'll get it right and execute a perfect yonkyo on every try.

Obi

On the week after my aikido belt changed from yellow-stripe to blue stripe, I tried on my new one before class started. Freshly freed from the flimsy paper bands that tied it, the belt uncoiled, stiff as cardboard, still bearing the crease marks of its packaging.

My two Sensei came over to comment. "Now you can recycle the old belt," one said to the other.

A look of protest crossed my face before my other Sensei responded, "They usually want to keep them, though. Daisy, you want to keep your old belt?"

"Yes, Sensei," I responded enthusiastically. "Please."

My first Sensei smiled good-naturedly as she walked away. "I don't know why you'd want them to pile up for."

I wanted to say, "But, Sensei--it means something to me." Where I used to practice aikido at SJSU, we didn't rank. I took those fitness classes over and over, long after my Human Performance units had been fulfilled, impossibly drawn to the art. My belt stayed white for the two-and-a-half years I first trained in aikido.

There are mixed feelings about rank in the aikido community. Some feel it goes against the non-competitive nature of this martial art; others think it's a good way to measure self progress, or for instructors and senior students to gauge skill level when working with a new student. I came in neutral to these arguments, simply accepting that different dojos do things in different ways, and as long as I still had fun and fueled my passion to train, it really didn't matter.

As the other students filtered in, putting on their gi and adjusting their garments in preparation for training, I wrapped the stiff new blue-striped belt around my abdomen, looping it neatly around itself and tying the double knot from years of muscle memory. I looked back on the white days. I looked forward to the days of solid blue and brown and black. I thought about how my basic movements had refined over time, wondered about the techniques and kata I have yet to learn. Lining up in seiza, the obi tight around my center to push my posture straight, I thought about my newly-earned color, and how I'd train going forward to deserve it.

Back to Basics

Once upon a time, I used to be able to do the basic-blend technique of tai-no-henko, a normal warm-up exercise often performed in pairs at the beginning of class to get students into the mindset of aikido's movements. Palm face-up and held near the abdomen; hand pivots on an invisible vertical line; forward foot slides in deep; body blends, and both arms end palm-up. Now, I couldn't control the shape of my hands, or slide deep enough, or take my opponent's balance, or end up quite right.

Re-entering aikido is like going through physical rehab after a major accident has robbed you of the ability to walk. You remember how it's done, and yet it is with the greatest of efforts that, with support and guidance, you begin the painstaking journey of learning how to put one foot in front of the other again. It's painful to see fluidity all around you but not yet attain it. Hard to relax when you're so preoccupied with finding the flow. But I do hope to find my aikido again, dormant within me, rusty from years of neglect. Because when I watch the smoothly-flowing aikido of two senior-rank students during practice, it is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my life--it is an execution of art, like perfect penmanship across lined white paper, or the foam at the peak of the ocean waves before they break and rush in to meet the sand. It fills me with a sense of inner tranquility even as I seek to unravel the secret behind such perfection, and a feeling wells up from deep within me, akin to love.

This journey strewn with obstacles comes with its little, occasional rewards: hearing the click-clack sound of wooden jo's clanging against each other during weapons practice, executing a perfect pin, and getting that odd sensation of the 20 hot bodies in the room just disappearing so that all that remains is your training partner, you, and the moment. Once in a while, a training partner attuned to my body's movements, or an instructor who was standing by observing, would say to me, "You've done aikido before, haven't you?"

"Yes," I answer them. "Once upon a time."

Gi

For five years, it sat in a dark corner of my closet. When I pulled it out of the bag, it still looked the same--crisp and white, stiff at the seams, crinkled in areas bent over and over from years of use. When I tried it on, it still felt the same--cottony cool and loose for easy mobility, with a belt tied tight around the abdomen to remind me of correct posture, good etiquette, and decorum.

In reality, my body and its limitations become my inhibitions, but in my dreams, I remember how to fly. I am weightless as air, malleable as water, flowing easily over wrist locks and joint holds, taking tumbles and executing standing rolls with barely a skip in my heartbeat. My breathing is rhythmic and not labored as I train--moving in perfect circles, landing soft, lost in the rhythms of my own body, and the techniques come to me as second-nature as the speakings of my own soul.

Now I start at a different school and don a new gi. My belt is white, my mind an empty cup as it seeks to learn again, from the start. Everything in these initial stages feels awkward, awkward; my body struggles to remember how to move, limbs akimbo as they seek the right positions to start off, to end up.

I know the kanji is different, but I can't help interpreting the first character of "aikido" to mean "love." Five years put on hold as I worked toward my graduate degree and gauged the terrain of the corporate world. Now I go back to one of my first loves. Draping the new uniform over my shoulders, tying the vest in place left-over-right, cinching the belt so the knot sits right above my "hara" center energy, I start to remember why this martial art is built upon the foundation of love. The first time I wore my uniform again, it was as intimate as if I was taking off the layers, not putting them on; I got butterflies in my stomach for all the potential that is to be, and that is love. Meeting a stranger and working that closely with his or her body, taking care to learn in the process an not inflict hurt--that is love. Studying how the body moves and achieving confluence and harmony so that my mind feels linked with all the essence of the universe, that is love. Even the trail of bruises along my forearms and knees from take-downs and blocking shomen uchi strikes, which remind me about enjoying life as a mortal, and that everything worth having comes with a least a little pain . . . that is love.


In real life, I struggle against gravity and resistant forces, but in my dreams, I float on air. My passion fueled once again, I will work to re-learn buoyancy, weightlessness, and flow. This is my "ai," and I will "hajime"--begin again.

Vestiges

When night's shadows slink in and I am lulled to that place between sleep and dreams, I feel I can reach out and touch the memories. They are close by, like strangers on motorbikes sidled up against the side of my vehicle. Suddenly, I am back in a place illuminated by light, the late-afternoon sun embracing me in a cocoon of warmth, shining on my bare arms as I sit at the corner of a tiny metal table on a little plastic chair. The lilting song of the Vietnamese language swims through my ears as all around me, the customers having lunch at Tung's aunt's noodle shop carry on a casual conversation of their simple plans for the day: visiting family, shopping for dinner ingredients, cooking a special meal out of the blue.

An old lady with a poofy white perm and diamonds in her ears leans in to talk to a young lady with a jade bracelet encircling her slender wrist, both of them wearing a simple, light, satiny outfit to keep cool in the humid heat. The ever-present smoky tinge in the air is mixed with the deep scent of broth from two huge vats simmering rich yellow liquid; onions browning in a pan of oil tease my taste buds and make my stomach rumble. A scent of sweet fruits warmed by the sun rides a soft breeze and wafts past my nostrils; I can taste the goods from the nearby market, a memory ingrained at the back of my throat. Distant motorbikes honk, coupled with the jingly tune of a delivery truck put in reverse. I reach my arms up to the blue sky in a stretch, my cotton spaghetti-strap tanktop moving easily with my body.

I blink, and I am alone, once again waiting at an intersection for the light to turn green. The neat, wide lanes are slicked with rain, the road reflecting the soft glow of the traffic lights above. I am wearing slacks and a long-sleeve, button-up shirt, the collar sitting stiff against my neck. I am once again a tech writer leaving work for the day, a young woman set on ambitions of furthering my career, climbing the corporate ladder, testing out new software, saving up to buy a house and start a family. The sense of responsibility once again weighs heavily on my mind, and the carefree euphoria of a simple life in a village or the freedom of riding waves in a salty sea dissipate like fog.

The light changes color, and I take my foot from the brake and ease on to the accelerator, blinking away vivid visions of warm days and warmer company. The heart remembers what it loves, retaining vestiges of memories long after they fade from the fickle mind. I steer the car down the last few blocks, going back to my house while thinking about my once-upon-a-time journey "home."

A Re-Cap of Things I Learned In and About Viet Nam

1. The fanny pack is a lifesaver. I wore it everywhere. We were fortunate enough not to encounter any incidents of theft, but it's like they say: "Out of sight, out of mind."
2. Not toting your camera around makes you appear more like a native and, therefore, allows you to command more bargaining leverage.
3. Swimming a few times in the ocean gives you a good tan that makes you appear more like a native and, therefore, allows you to command more bargaining leverage.
4. $30,000 dong for a pack of postcards is a rip-off.
5. The taxi drivers sign to each other as they pass on opposite ends of the road. They have a system of alerting each other to the presence of cops, which tells them to buckle up or slow down.
6. "Mang cau xiem" are not edible without sugar. "Chuoi xiem" are the best bananas in the world. I could live off them for breakfast.
7. Phan Rang has good chicken rice meals.
8. Phan Thiet is known for producing dragon fruit and salt.
9. Can Giuoc is a great place to eat the "vu sua" fruit.
10. Nha Trang has awesome, fresh seafood, such as crab.
11. Da Lat has awesome weather and a great "historical village" called "Su Quan" that specializes in the making and sale of silk-screen embroidery.
12. Viet Nam has large "fire ants" that pack a mean bite. Their mosquitos aren't too shabby, either.
13. Viet Nam cockroaches are the size of beetles and can fly.
14. Viet Nam mice are the size of armadillos. They don't seem scared coming out at night and take their precious time moseying around. River rats are even bigger.
15. Snakes like to hang their skins on tree branches when they shed.
16. To mentally convert the exchange rate of approximately $17,000 Viet Nam dong to $1 U.S. dollar, it's best to divide by 20.
17. For three weeks, I got to be a millionnaire.
18. Viet Nam vans have musical tunes when put in reverse. This is apparently a popular add-on option when buying a mini-van.
19. In most open-air markets, there is no such thing as a "trash can." They'll laugh if you ask for one.
20. U.S. bills that are torn, have been written on, or have been folded across the president's face are de-valued. You get less dong for them when exchanging currency. Torn Vietnamese dong are not acceptable currency on the street.
    

With Wings Outstretched

Time to take off. We flew out of Viet Nam and had a two-hour layover at the airport in Taiwan. Tung and I wandered around the airport, stretching our legs before the long flight back to the States, exchanging currency to get Taiwanese coins and buying bottled water from vending machines. We played at the huge Hello Kitty store, sporting pastel colors and kiddy, cartoonish decor.





We browsed shelves of intricate, flowery fans and opera dolls.


We looked through the paper cut-out artwork on display.




We visited the potted orchids, hung heavy on their stalks in a wash of pastel colors.



As my travels draw to a close, I think about all the sights, scenes, and people whom I'll miss when I'm back in the States. I am by nature wary of strangers, so receiving such a warm welcome from family whom I'd never met greatly astonished me. They hugged and held my hand and bestowed familial kisses on the cheek as if I were their own daughter, coming home after having spent a long time away.


As I boarded the plane out of Viet Nam, I passed a young woman already strapped into her aisle seat. She was wearing an elaborate traditional "ao dai" and had gold and pearl jewelry around her neck, wrists, and fingers. But what was most striking about this woman was that she held up one hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, trying to contain the tears trickling out of her eyes. Two older people sat to her right, slightly looking away as if to give her time to come to peace with herself. As I took my seat and clicked on the seat belt, I couldn't help thinking about what her situation may be. Perhaps she was scared, having never flown before. Perhaps she was a new bride, leaving behind the country she had grown up in to start a life with a strange husband in a foreign land. Perhaps she was thinking about her family whom she may not see again for a long while, if at all, still standing outside the glass doors of the Tan Son Nhat Airport, peering in at the place they last saw her, trying to memorize the gait of her stride, the scent of her perfume.

There is a Vietnamese song that I really like, "Giac Mo Canh Co," about a white crane that spreads its wings to fly the world far and wide. The lush, golden rice fields of Viet Nam knew the crane when it was young. They throw their longing melody up to the heavens, and season after season, they wonder when the crane would hurdle the obstacles of tall mountains and deep seas, once again flying back to land in fields that it once called home.


Even before this trip, the song brings tears to my eyes, as if I were hearing the whispered longings of some voice that beckons me back to my homeland. There is also a famous Vietnamese saying about rural areas with patches of rice fields, stretching the horizon as far as the eye can see. The Mekong Delta, in Vietnamese known as "Dong Bang Song Cuu Long" (Nine Dragons River Delta), is an area especially conducive to fishing commerce and vegetation growth. They say these lands are where the crane can "bay thang canh"--fly with wings outstretched.

The city is crowded with people, traffic, and dense houses built with barely an alleyway in between, but I've been fortunate enough during my trip to South-Central Viet Nam, to be able to see these fertile, green-and-brown fields marked off like a giant checkerboard. I was born and raised a city girl, but it is there, in that clean air and open space, where my heart felt free and at home, as if it could suddenly sprout white wings and help me soar.

Night

In the morning, Tung went to visit his grandma for the last time, and also to return the wooden placard bearing his family surname because it wouldn't fit in the luggages. I used the cell phone Chu Nhan lent me to call my relations and my parents and let them know I'd be flying home tomorrow.

In the afternoon, Di Oanh took her lunch break off from work to come pick up the cell phone. Today is my vegetarian day, so Di Oanh and I went on a spur-of-the-moment lunch to Viet Chay Restaurant for an unusual vegetarian buffet meal. The place was the ground floor of a temple currently being built, sporting modern design after Chinese decorative influences and a spacious, cool interior with good wood furniture (instead of the more common, low, plastic chairs in cafes and diners). Even with three rooms of tables, the restaurant was so packed that we ended up having to share a long table with two other parties. This is a common scene in Viet Nam, with strangers sharing tables during rush hour, and people hurrying to finish their meal to make room for waiting customers.

I had never eaten at a vegetarian buffet before, and they had such interesting dishes as "banh canh" (fat, round rice noodles in clear broth), "bun rieu" (rice vermicelli with ground "pork" and "crab" cakes), "hu tieu xau" (rice noodles sauteed in garlic), fried "fish" cooked with soy sauce, jackfruit wedges marinated in soy sauce, veggie eggrolls, "ca phao" round eggplants prepared kimchee style, and fried rice. Everything was completely vegetarians and made from either tofu or gluten.

For dessert, there was "che bi" (tapioca-enclosed palm seed kernels), fresh fruits such as pineapples and bananas, and fresh fruit juice. The restaurant was on the ritzy end--right away, you could tell because it cost money to park your motorcycle, the service staff was in full "ao dai," the furniture was real wood, and the decor was modern. It cost $89,000 dong per person for the buffet (around $4-$5: cheap for us, pretty high-scale for Viet Nam). A $10 U.S.-per-person restaurant was expensive-wedding-meal quality. I was really excited to see Di Oanh and ride her motorbike again.

At night, we had our last meal with Co Xuan and an adopted daughter of hers named Phuong. Phuong is a journalist, and she offered to take us on a tour of Downtown Saigon. When people in the city ask, "Have you been to Saigon," what they mean is, "Have you been to Downtown Saigon, where Ben Thanh Market is?" To locals, this area is the heart of the city, and you really haven't visited "Saigon" unless you've gone downtown. At night, it is a whole different place. Familiar daytime cityscape warp into a show of Vegas-like neon lights.





The Cathedral of Notre Dame illuminates in a show of gold, the star in its center pulsating an erratically blinking rhythm.


As we stood in the little square in front of the cathedral, Phuong turned to me and asked, "What do you see and hear around you?" And with those words, from one writer to another, my gawking tourist brain shut off, and on flicked my creative-writing mind. I saw the world around me as only writers could see: everything was sharpened--my hearing more accute, my sight more selective.

I smelled the squid from the little cart as the vendor flattened the pieces between a metal contraption before roasting them on a little burner.



I felt the motor-scooters zipping closely by, a steady emission of honking like the throbbing heart of the city.



I saw youths in hip, trendy clothes, their futures stretched ahead, distant and bright.


I heard the church-goers' chanting prayers, an ethereal wailing sent to their gods upon the air.

I told Phuong all these things, and she told me I was right. She also told me that many of these sights and sounds and smells may not be around for much longer. The government has more than once threatened to shut down street-vendor business in this plaza; under the guise that the food and litter have been making a mess of the city, they wanted all vendors to close up shop. Phuong said countless families had afforded to put at least one of their children through college by hoarding the meager profits from their sales of cuttlefish, fried squid balls, cotton candy. When I asked why the city simply didn't put garbage cans around the plaza and enforce a "No Littering" policy, Phuong smiled at me with a look in her eyes that said, "If only it were that simple."


Phuong continued to guide us around the city, taking us on walks and taxi rides. We saw the magnificent architecture of Town Hall, now called the People's Committee Building, where political leaders gather for meetings.



Five-star hotels decaled their front windows with pictures to welcome the Year of the Ox. Phuong poses in front of one, below:



A woman ran a soup kitchen right in front of her clothing shop, dispensing a warm meal for the poor and homeless once every month.



Young ladies make paper orchid arrangements and sell them to wandering tourists.



The indoor Ben Thanh market closes its doors by evening, and nighttime vendors set up tents outside along the street aisles, selling souvenirs of polo shirts, purses, mother-of-pearl lacquered paintings, and figurines for display. If you didn't know how to drive a bargain, you were certain to get ripped off. Initially quoted prices are usually double or triple what vendors are truly willing to sell at.



I bought Tung a twisted-wire figurine of a palm tree and a siclo, which he made good use of for his iPod: