We went to a small ceremony a few weeks ago for two Americans who came to Vietnam roughly 40 years ago.  I don’t know their names, or where they were from; I don’t know if they were friends, or who their families were.  I only know they came here during the war between the United States and Vietnam, died on the field of battle, and were listed as missing-in-action.  Now after many years and much effort on the part of Americans and Vietnamese, they are going home.   

A small group of Americans, Vietnamese, and the press gathered at the airport on a rainy Saturday to witness their return.  Two boxes with flags on top where all that remained; the acidity of the soil and harshness of the climate have reduced there remains, and they will have to be identified by the Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command in Hawaii. 

               

There were no speeches at this ceremony, just honors rendered by members of the military.  The boxes were loaded one by one onto a military aircraft while we watched.  The Ambassador spoke briefly to the press afterword, and emphasized the hard work and good cooperation that brought us to that day, and need to do more. 

                    

I am still waiting to find out what their names are.

The time has come to blog again.  Let me write about what happened today…

Terri expressed her desire for a shoe rack for the laundry room, by the front door.  We don’t wear shoes in the house because we follow Asian traditions, and the streets here are DISGUSTING, and there is NO WAY we are going to track any of that in her house.  Of course I, the Neanderthal, would be happy to do that.  I am a beast.  An animal.   Grunt.

Anyway, she wanted to visit some of the metal workers along Metal Worker Street (it is called something else, but every single shop along the way is a metal worker.  There is also Plumbing Fixture Street, Shoe Street, Jean Street, or where we live, Used Cell Phone Street.  If you want the real names of the streets, talk to Terri, but I swear, you can navigate with instructions like this.  IT TRUE), and she wants them make a large shoe rack, because we (one of us) has a lot of shoes.  And we need a place by the door to put them.  Because they are not allowed in the house.  By one of us.  Snort.

So there we are, and Terri finds a few metal racks that are the style she like, but not the size, or the size she likes, but not the color, or the color, but … anyway, they would be fine on the floor, but here we are.  Sniff.  So she starts to talk to this guy, who appears to be the shop owner, and describe what she is looking for, versus what she has there.  He gestures a little.  She gestures a little.  There are some grand gestures, and before you know it, a tape measure is produced.  Now, she has not measured the area, per say, but she does have an idea of how things are supposed to fit.  Roughly.  Maybe.  From the elbow of the extended arm to the fingertips of the other arm:  length (plus or minus).  From her feet to almost her shoulder, minus a few inches, which need to be converted to centimeters (damn you French and the legacy of the metric system you left behind):  height (give or take).  Depth:  less than the length of a foot (an American foot from the foot of an American person, not a Vietnamese one). 

So anyhow, Terri is describing this in Vietnamese, to this shop owner, and he is taking notes, drawing designs, making plans.   His wife comes from the back of the store to help.  She makes some comments, and Terri answers back, all in Vietnamese (NOTE:  I am convinced the language is gibberish and they are all in on this gigantic joke on me, but that is another blog).   Soon, a guy who appears to be wandering aimlessly along the street saunters up, and he starts to add in (NOTE:  He was likely drunk).  Then another shop keeper from down the street wanders over to put in his two cents (NOTE:  I was wishing I was drunk at this point).  Likely drunk guy wanders off, Terri and the shop keepers settle on the height, width, length, and number of shelves, and then we negotiate price. 

What do they want for this simple task?  How much could they ask for this mundane, run of the mile errand?  1,000,000 Dongs (NOTE: Insert sophomoric humor here).   The Vietnamese Dong, for those of you not writing dirty jokes right now, is trading at 17,000 to the 1 U.S. dollar.  Thus, a cool million is about 50 bucks.  And they deliver, so we got that coming to us.  Gunga galunga.

At this point, things seem settled; the shop keepers are happy, and ready to deliver to us in 3 days, drunk guy wanders back over to provide some insight into the final negotiations, and I am impressed at Terri’s ability to use her new fake-language to reach agreement about this, or anything, really. 

 Then Terri made me walk 5 miles in the heat, and my legs fell off.  But that is another blog.