A day in the life

A normal week is a relative term out here. I went to work, I came home. That was normal. But normal out here is still pretty special. Take breakfast, for instance. At home, I'd crack an egg or grab a yogurt before I head in to the hospital. Out here, I can choose from pho that took eight hours to cook or banh mi made with bread that puts Parisian bakeries to shame.

Normal: Doing a little shopping. Out here, this.

Normal: Catching up with the neighbors. Out here:

Normal: Going for a walk after dinner. Out here:

Normal: Stumbling across an empty building. Out here:

Normal: Trying new foods. Out here:

I swear we didn't order a beer for our daughter.

There were a few more photos from the week that I couldn't think of any at-home equivalents for.  They're just more amazing scenes from our neighborhood.

I could really get used to this version of normal, and it's starting to sink in that we're halfway through the trip. But we're certainly not going home any time soon.

And in case you're wondering how that first shopping trip worked out, Mimi seems to be quite happy with her purchase.

Speaking of French food (scroll up, I went a little overboard with the photos), I have one guilty pleasure in this town. There's a restaurant in the French Quarter that is modeled after the "Hill Stations" that the French would set up in their colonies. They were essentially provincial outposts set up to keep any eye on things in the frontier lands. The French were known to be significantly less violent than other imperial forces of the time, but it was still an occupation. So I sort of feel bad eating at a restaurant that makes light of one country exploting another. But, man, the breakfast is good.

That said, the Hill Station is a sometimes food. Generally speaking, our meals come in ceramic bowls placed on small plastic tables. Viet Nam is internationally known for its street food, but this street food is nothing like the flashy food trucks parked outside of music festivals back at home. There is an emphasis on 'street' in Vietnamese street food. Raw meat sits on the countertop, dishwashing often happens just once at the end of the day, and you're rarely eating more than a few feet from zooming motorbikes. But just like the chaotic traffic tends to work itself out, the food safety does, too.

I've started to wonder which of our food safety rules really matter. I'm sure the risk of getting sick goes down when meat is kept in the fridge. But does keeping it at room temperature for an hour or two before cooking significantly increase the risk? A different set of food safety norms than what we're used to has evolved here, but I'm not sure if one is better or worse than the other. Yes, they leave meat out at room temperature, but the butchers kill the animal just a couple of hours before they take it to market. And even though there isn't a handwashing station at the corner food cart, locals deftly handle their chopsticks so that they never have to touch their food.

Most of these street carts are run by women who have been cooking one dish on the same street corner for fifteen or twenty years. Their reputation means the world to them, and they clearly take pride in their offerings. Locals know who does things right, both in terms of flavor and in terms of food safety. Our rule has been to stick to places that have a few locals already eating at them, and we've been ok so far. Only once did Aimee have to use chopsticks to take a fly out of her pho. "More protein," she said, as cartoon hearts and butterflies circled around my head. She's a keeper.

And speaking of Aimee, it was her first Mother's Day this week! And let me tell you, it's pretty hard to come up with a present for someone who is already in paradise, and has unfettered access to gourmet food and fine tailored clothing. She even has plenty of dark chocolate from Nona. Aimee is wanting for nothing. I settled on sending Aimee back to the spa and booking us all a hotel room for no other reason than to use their pool. So we continued living in paradise with unfettered access to gourmet food and fine tailored clothing, except now we were a few degrees cooler. It was lovely.

The Quiet American

Tuesday was a big day at work. We had our first training session with the doctors and health workers (i.e. promotoras) that will be gathering data for us in their rural clinics over the next few months.

From left: Dr. Quang (my boss and the project head), Yen (a program coordinator in Dr. Quang's office), Matthias (a German college student interning on the project), and me (demonstrating the doctor face that took years of medical school to perfect).

A memorable episode during the training was watching the group using a height measurement device (essentially a tape measure).

The group was clearly struggling with it, and I came up with this Romantic explanation in my head of the rural Vietnamese physicians that could probably rebuild their motorbike ambulances with their eyes closed, but haven't come across much Western medical equipment. I couldn't have been more wrong, the tape measure was just really hard to use! Come on, Myles. This isn't 1950, and this wasn't some East/West thing, it was just a classic case of "How many doctors does it take to figure out a tape measure?" Several, as it turns out, in any country.

By the way, if you replace "Tape measure" with "Fundamental governing structure" in that story, you have the plot of The Quiet American. Which, by the way, is a great read for anybody who wants to work overseas but not start a decades long war in the process.

The training that day was in a conference room on the other side of Da Nang, so I wandered around afterwards to check it out and find a taxi home. It was a big, busy part of the city, and as I turned a corner, I saw a crowd of people gathered in the middle of a major street. They seemed to be circling around a man laying on the ground, and I feared the worst.

For a country that is infamous for millions of motorbikes zipping chaotically through the streets, I hadn't ever seen a collision. But it was clear that I was observing the aftermath of one that day. I debated whether my presence would be more of a help or harm. What he really needed was a hospital, and I would definitely be a distraction. But when I saw his feet move, I decided to at least try to help. By the time I reached the group, he was starting to stir and moan. I introduced myself as a doctor (again, thank you Rosetta Stone), and made sure that there weren't any acutely life threatening injuries. I'll spare you the nitty gritty, but he appeared to have received a pretty major concussion (his helmet probably saved his life), and almost certainly had a broken leg. But all things considered, he was in better shape than I expected. An ambulance arrived a minute or two later, and I slipped off as soon as they loaded him up.

The rest of the week was far less eventful. Work during the day, quick trips to the beach in the evening. Our neighborhood shore is Cua Dai beach, An Bang's less famous, less busy, but equally beautiful neighbor. It's an easy bike ride from our house, so it's perfect for quick dips after work. There's a restaurant there that we camp out at every time, and Mimi became fast friends with the owners' son.

When we choose which restaurant to go to each night, we definitely factor in the likelihood of someone holding Mimi so that we can both eat. That one wins every time.

We usually talk about baby stuff with that family, since our kids are so close in age. It's always fun to explore the similarities and differences of childrearing in our two countries. The biggest difference that we've come across is diaper use. It Viet Nam, it's not uncommon to have babies potty trained by the time they're Mimi's age. In fact, the woman who runs the restaurant sounded a little embarrassed that her 12 month old son still occasionally wets his pants. And, no, I have no idea how they do that. We will not be discussing miracle potty training secrets in this blog. I'm just happy when I remember to put a diaper on Mimi every night (we'll probably just sail right past that story).

The only problem with evening beach runs (literally, the only problem) is that our little swimmer rarely makes it all the way home.

And in case you're wondering what a sleeping baby looks like on a bike, wonder no more.

I know. Too much.

We capped off the week with a little frog hunting.

As I was getting ready to give Mimi a bath on Friday, I saw a dark streak fly across the bathroom. My first thought was that the flying bug from Sue's house found out where we lived. But alas, it was just a frog. It was a big-ass frog, though! Mid leap, its wingspan was at least 8 inches, and it was  just about always mid-leap. It ping-ponged across our bathroom for a good thirty minutes before I could chase it out the window. With the glass wall and the wet floor, it's a small miracle that I didn't kill myself in the process. Needless to say, Mimi did not get a bath that night.

No water, departing friends, and a treat.

As we were walking down the street one night this week, a motorbike pulled over in front of us. In any other country, I might get concerned. In this country, I figured it was just someone pulling over to pinch our babies' cheeks (as has previously happened on multiple occasions). But instead, it was the owner of one of the neighborhood restaurants. She had recognized us walking down the street and just wanted to say hi. It's really starting to feel like we're a part of this community.

Towards the end of that week, reality started to sink in. Nona, Grael, and Conrad would be leaving soon. We had final meals at their favorite restaurants, and picked up the (multiple) additional items that we all had ordered from the tailor. My days were spent at work, and you can bet I took a cab home every single time.

When I was gone at work one day, the water in our house stopped flowing. So I checked the expat Facebook group, and we were hardly alone. It was unclear if this was an accidental outage or scheduled repair, but the expat gossip network said that crews would be working on it for a couple of days.

Now, let me put a plumbing outage in context. 80% of the food that I’ve consumed here has come from a street corner. And 100% of it contains visible chili flakes. Needless to say, I have really come to depend on a functioning plumbing system. So call it resourcefulness or desperation, but I learned that it is, in fact, possible to flush a toilet with bottled water.

The water came back overnight on the second day of the outage, two hours before the power went out. But I still love this country.

The night before Nona and Grael left, we went down to An Banh beach for their last visit (at least on this trip, we kept telling ourselves). Mimi was taking a long nap, so we sent them down ahead of us. By the time Aimee and I got there, Grael had met another couple from Arizona and was relaying all the food tips that I gave him on his first day. I was so proud.

We all got up early the next day to see them off. I picked up one last round of banh mis for the road, but even the world's greatest sandwiches couldn't lift our spirits.

So what do you do when your friends leave paradise, but you're still there? You Treat. Yo. Self. As it happens, all of the treats in that video are very easy to find in Hoi An.

Nguyen, our cooking teacher was conveniently opening a spa that weekend. Seriously. Can't make that up. So, I mean, we need to support our new friend, right?

And this was no ordinary spa. It was located in the rice paddies outside of the city, in Nguyen's childhood home. His family had all moved into town above his restaurant, so his home overlooking this little slice of paradise was sitting empty.

Since one of us needed to watch the baby, we took turns getting massages. Aimee went first, and Nguyen showed me around his home.

He pointed out the banana and mango trees that he would eat from as a kid. He noted that the chicken coop is now the public restroom. And he showed me the first motorbike his family could afford 15 years ago. "Before then, only bicycle."

He was beaming with pride, and took a big breath as he looked around. The spa had clearly taken months to get ready, and Nguyen said that his first day was going well. In Viet Nam, there is a lot of luck wrapped up in first customers. An early first customer at a local shop brings good luck for the day, and is often thanked with a small discount. Having several people over to his spa on the opening day was a similarly good omen. We were happy to do our part.

Nguyen looked at the newly renovated houses all around us. "The houses are much bigger now," Nguyen mused as we looked out over the rice paddies. Like most of Viet Nam, Hoi An is booming, and that growth is bringing a lot of families out of poverty.

(As you can tell from the photos, Aimee also had a little walkabout. She had been wanting to photograph the rice paddies at sunset, and this was the best possible excuse.)

I continued my walk after Nguyen had to go back to work. As I went through the neighborhood, I saw farmers heading home and families gathering for dinner.

One of the homes had several chairs sitting out, and had made a little cafe in their front yard. As I sipped my coffee (served by dad), grandma brought home the pots and pans from her food cart in the city, and mom came home from her job at a hotel.

We casually chatted a bit (mom spoke English well, as do most hotel employees), and I told them what I do and why I was in town. The mom immediately asked me to take a look at a rash on her two year old, and of course I was happy to (it was a harmless rash, and mom appreciated the reassurance). The entire experience was another nice peek into life in Hoi An. The massage was great, too.

My Son

Dinner that night was at Sue's house. Our new friend and tour guide had invited us to join her for a holiday meal with a few friends. Conrad was a little under the weather, so Nona and Grael very disappointedly sat this one out.

I have a bit of a confession to make. I had completely suspended reality when I was envisioning what this dinner would be like. I had pictured a beatiful spread of dishes, Anthony Bourdain at the table, maybe an old man laughing. Instead, we got reality. Sue has two kids, we have one, so most of the night was filled with three adults chasing three small children, and occasionally snatching a bite of delicious spring rolls or grilled chicken (com ga).

Sue, chief baby wrangler

Children aside, the meal was lovely, and it was extremely thoughtful for Sue to invite us over. But as Sue was in the kitchen cleaning up, things got a little interesting.

Everyone in Hoi An keeps their doors open at night. It's safe, hot, and not a malaria zone. Sue was no exception. However, the breeze wasn't the only thing that came in that night. As we were gathering our things, the biggest, fastest, nosiest flying insect that I had ever seen came in to the house. As terrified as I was, my paternal instincts kicked in. This monstrosity was in the same weight class as my daughter, and wouldn't have had much trouble flying off with her. So I picked up the closest rigid item, and knocked the bug somewhere into Central Thailand.

Or so I thought. Our assailaint, now injured and angry, flew right back into the house. I hit it again, but this time I couldn't get it out of the house. Just then, Sue came around the corner to offer us some tea. Aimee and I tried to politely accept, while keeping our full attention on Mothra's flight plan. "Uh huh, yep, delicious. Sue, are you seeing this?" She did finally notice the new guest at our dinner party. But of course, our host was unfazed, carrying on the conversation as if it were your standard fruit fly.

Sue, ever the tour guide, explained to us how the insect was in it's transitional phase, and would eventually become one of the cicadas we heard in the trees every night. I thought, "Well, maybe not this particular insect," as it lay on Sue's floor, motionless. Thankfully, Sue's younger daughter picked it up to give us a closer look. Repeatedly. Aimee shot me a look that said, "Shut it down, Myles. Shut it down now." But mercifully, our arriving taxi kept the entomology lesson to a minimum, and we safely escaped.

The next morning, Sue (who thankfully survived the night) picked us up for a quick trip to My Son (pronounce Mee Sone) before I went to work that afternoon. My Son is another beautiful trip back in time. Its a collection of Cham temples that are very well preserved, considering that most of them are nearly a thousand years old. Adding to their beauty is the rolling green hills that surround them.

The Cham people migrated across Southeast Asia from Indonesia at various points over the last millennium. They followed a derivative of Hinduism, and were master temple builders. Many of their hauntingly beautiful structures still stand in Viet Nam and Cambodia. But unfortunately, both countries have gone through decades of war in the era of aerial bombardment. In My Son, for example, there are bomb craters still visible from a 1968 campaign that leveled most of the buildings in the area (North Vietnamese fighters were thought to be using them for shelter). But several beautiful temples remain, and even more will be restored over the next decade. The only problem is that even with modern materials and techniques, international research teams still can't figure out how they were built. Several of the ruins are currently acting as test sites for various construction theories, giving the monument a distinctly living feel.

The lighter colored bricks were recently added, and will age to look like the rest.

After an hour or so, Mimi started to breakdown.

It was probably the heat, but nothing Sue couldn't fix.

Mimi was just saying what we were all thinking. It was hot. So we headed back down the trail back to our van. It was a beautiful way to spend the morning, and another striking blend of ancient and modern history. This country really is something else.

Cooking School

Tuesday was the last day of the Reunification Weekend, and we were determined to take advantage of every minute my office was closed. So it was time for a cooking class! The food in Hoi An is so renown that people come from all over the world to study it. That means literally every restaurant in town also functions a cooking school before the customers come in. Some classes are better than others, but the most famous restaurants often have 20-25 people in a class, and that didn't really appeal to us. But something much better fell on our lap.

Early in our trip, we were walking around our neighborhood and came across a small, nice-looking restaurant. We stopping in for a quick bite, and had some slow-cooked pork bites (essentially open-faced banh mi) that could easily stand up to the fanciest restaurants in New York or San Francisco. Seriously, it may have been one of the best dishes that I have ever had. So we asked if they offered a cooking class, and of course they did. We didn't know how big the class would be, how well the chef could teach, or what we would be cooking. But with a meal like that, we were willing to take our chances. And it couldn't have worked out any better.

We showed up at the restaurant at 8am to meet Nguyen (pronounced Win), the owner and head chef. He was immediately endearing, and bursting with energy. It was clear that he loved to both cook and share his secrets with anyone who asked. This was going to be fun.

Like every meal in Hoi An, ours started with a trip to the market to pick up the day's ingredients. We had been to the market several times previously, but having a local tour guide was infinitely more helpful.

Nguyen, showing us how to buy a squid.

We learned that locals never buy fish after 9am (for obvious reasons), but the butchers bring fresh meat every two hours (so it's safe to buy all day). We learned to look at a fish's eyes before you buy it. Freshly caught fish have bright, shiny eyes, whereas fish with cloudy eyes will make you wish you chose the chicken. Nguyen also told us about the five elements of balance (fire, water, metal, wood, and earth), and explained how the best recipes are inspired by the same principles. In other words, food should have sweetness, spiciness, saltiness, crunchiness, and all other components in a nice balance.

The market was definitely not for the faint of heart, but it really was a sight to see.

Nguyen says that fish heads are what most locals prefer, so he can get a great deal on the body. She was more than happy to oblige.

It's not at all uncommon to see a crab claw pinch or a fish tail flap as you walk by.

We're three weeks into the trip, and I just found out that we've been buying duck eggs every day.

This will be an amazing bowl of pho in 8 hours.

Apparently sardines are also available not in a can.

Need to buy a pig tail for your soup?

Nothing is wasted. Every part of the animals and plants were available for sale, and we left with herbs, veggies, fish, and meats to supply his restaurant for the day. We left a bit of our innocence behind, but now we're able to look a fish in the eye as we eat it.

Back in the kitchen, Nguyen showed us cooking basics, like how to hold a knife and how to not cut your finger off. Useful stuff.

We were joined for the class by a lovely family wearing clothing brands I recognized from our quick stop in Japan. I was so excited to share my three words of Japanese with them, even though they probably didn't want any coffee. They politely laughed, but didn't say much for the next few minutes, until it casually came up that they were actually Korean. Man, what an asshole. They were cool about it; I was redder than the aprons.

But thankfully, we didn't have much time to waste on awkward introductions. We jumped right in to the first course, a mango papaya salad. It was as good as it sounds.

This was me learning how to cut my first mango the Vietnamese way.

Faces not posed. Thanks, Aimee.

Meanwhile, we were simmering a pot of pho made from scratch.

That's a real cow bone. No bouillon here, folks.

Nguyen, showing us the perfect way to fry a spring roll.

No photos of the spring rolls, because we ate them all immediately. As in right out of the boiling oil. Worth it.

We learned that spring rolls are fried and traditionally eaten in the spring. Summer rolls are fresh, and eaten when it's too hot outside to want anything deep fried. Seems obvious, but I never put that together.

This is Aimee preparing our next course.

It was seared ahi coated with black sesame in a coconut lime sauce.

It lasted all of about 15 seconds on our plate.

And of course we can't forget the pho! We went back to the broth that had been simmering since we got back from the market. I couldn't get over that a pot of water turned into this.

The most authentic way to eat pho is to get fresh beef straight from the market, slice it paper thin, and dip it in the boiling broth for just a few seconds to cook it. It was an absolutely delicacy that will make it even harder to leave this country.

Nguyen was such an earnest and friendly host that we could have heard him talk about folding napkins for four hours and still have had a wonderful time. But the fact that we can butcher cook these dishes at home is an exciting bonus. And speaking of being at home, Nguyen's restaurant was on the ground floor of his home (where his parents also live). So every ten or fifteen minutes, Nguyen's 70ish year old mom (and sole cooking teacher) would walk by to tell him to throw more onions is the broth, cut the meat thinner, or roll the spring rolls tighter. Here we are in the kitchen of probably the best chef I've ever eaten from, in a restaurant that can stand up to anything Michelin rated, and he's still catching flack from his mom. It was adorable, and it made the experience that much more amazing. If we didn't have a baby at home (thanks, Nona and Grael), we'd go every day.

Reunification weekend

The rest of the weekend was relatively calm. The Reunification holiday brought thousands of local tourist to Hoi An and the surrounding beaches.

I always like seeing local tourists at sites like this. It signifies a lot: that they are proud of their natural resources, that there is a growing middle class with leisure time, and that they aren't intentionally or unintentionally boxed out by international tourists. It's a good thing.

We sipped coffee along the river, ate banh mis for at least two meals daily, and picked up our suits from the tailor.

That Monday was still part of the holiday weekend, so my office remained closed. We took advantage of the time off to do a walking tour of Old Town Hoi An. Our tour guide for the morning was Sue, a friend of Long (our fixer), and a professional trip coordinator. Sue speaks several languages, and generally coordinates the 40 person group tours that you often see in cities like this. But this is the slow season for Hoi An tourism, so Sue has been stopping by our house every few days to check in on us and show us something else amazing.

It's impossible to see everything in Hoi An in a day (or even two months). The United Nation has deemed over 800 buildings in this city as culturally and historically significant, so you can't walk more than a block or two without stopping in your tracks to gawk at a beautiful 300 year old building.

Since it was hot and we had the babies, Sue just picked out a few of her favorites. The first was the Fujian Assembly Hall. Hoi An has several of these assembly halls that were essentially a meeting point and community center for visiting traders. Most at the time were from China, but the idea of a single nation-state with well-defined borders called "China" is a relatively modern concept. During the peak trading years in the 18th and 19th centuries, it was much more common for traders to identify as being from their province than from "China". China was/is huge, and people from distant provinces might not share much in common other than being loosely overseen by the same emperor. One of those provinces was Fuji, and the Fujian Assembly House is nothing short of spectacular.

Our next stop was the very well preserved house of a prominent trader that was built in the 1700s.  The house has remained in the family for seven generations, and the trader's descedents still live in the upper floors. Unfortunately, we don't have any photos of that part of the tour because Mimi was getting antsy and we all were getting hot.

Couldn't agree more.

But Sue came through in a big way. She surprised us by taking us to a small boat that was waiting to take us down the Thu Bồn river that runs through the city. The breezy, beautiful boat ride was the perfect way to cap off the morning. Our little skipper barely made it out of the dock.

Sue wrapped up the morning by taking us to a riverfront cafe by her house, and we all enjoyed some ca phe with the locals. After we got dropped off at the house, 5/6ths of us took a nap while I went to our neighborhood cafe to work. But I don't mind working when this is the backdrop.

Dinner was at a French-Vietnamese restaurant downtown. It wasn't bad, but I've become so enamored with $0.75 street food that fancy restaurants seem a bit underwhelming, especially for the price. Four dollars for a meal?! What is this, New York City?!

Nona and Grael took Conrad back to bed after dinner. As we learned, jet lagged babies are a force to be reckoned with. So Aimee, Mimi, and I walked around the waterfront shops. I needed a few more t-shirts (Mimi's diapers knocked extra clothing off our packing list), so we stopped in a little tourist shop. I found out that I'm a XXXXL in Viet Nam. Maybe I should take it easy with the banh mis.