Celebrating Tet; saving a soccer ball; toe injury; experience

Phuong and I sat up and drank Italian wine on Tet eve. The low-altitude midnight fireworks woke up Joanna, but she was more fascinated than frightened. She's a good girl, even if she is just as stubborn as Phuong and her dad. During the day on Tet eve, I saw lots of people cleaning like crazy, which is part of the pre-Tet ritual. A clean house for Tet is purported to bring luck for the lunar new year. Many of our neighbors were hosing down the front of their house, washing motorbikes, waxing figurines and doing countless other nonsensical chores to increase their chances of a lucky new year. Family and food are the focus of the holiday, along with a week off from work. Motorbike traffic decreases substantially on Tet eve and Tet, which is sign of good luck for me.

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Phuong, Joanna and I shared camaraderie and satisfaction with another family at the park when all of us worked together to rescue the family's soccer ball from the mucky, smelly canal. Initially, Phuong said something about a ball in the canal, and I thought Joanna's ball had been kicked into the canal by her cousin. Hai. No big deal since it's a cheap ball. But then I saw a family of three -- dad, mom and son of about 12  --  all leaning over the stone barrier to the canal about 8 feet below. They had a really long pole with a large metal hook on the end.  They were trying to use the big hook to sort of pull and slide the ball up a steep concrete embankment and out of the canal. It wasn't working and the boy was getting angry -- it must have been his ball. Our family joined the effort, grabbing another long and flimsy pole without a hook. We tried to squeeze the ball with the two poles and lift it out. Failure and frustration. Then I saw a flat piece of packing Styrofoam floating in the muck (you gotta love litter) and suggested we push the ball onto the Styrofoam and drag the Styrofoam -- with ball on top -- out of the canal by using the two poles. We struggled with that darn thing for nearly a half-hour. It was almost dark, and we almost gave up, but we chose to stick with it, so to speak. We finally slid the Styrofoam and ball to where Phuong could reach it though the stone barrier. Twice the ball almost slid down the concrete embankment of the canal and back into the water, but Phuong hung on with her fingernails. Honestly. With Phuong clinging to the ball, the dad reached over and grabbed it, producing cheers and smiles all around, especially from the boy. Even Joanna was involved, watching the rescue in its entirety with her cousin, Hai. The family washed off the ball in the sprinkler water that's used to water the grass at the park, and then we did another round of high-fives and congratulations.  My family and I returned home to a wonderful and well-deserved dinner of pork and rice.

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My skin has gone to crap since I returned from Hanoi. I went from cool, nice weather in Hanoi to hotter temperatures and even more pollution in Bien Hoa. I've become a 64-year-old White Monkey with acne. I also smashed up my big toe on our ever-dangerous stairs, prompting Joanna to look at my toe and say: "Daddy's horrible, terrible big toe." Phuong accepts the White Monkey as he is, which is just one more reason I love this incredible woman. She also makes dynamite kimchi (I also see it spelled kim chi), which is appropriately spicy and always delicious. Happy Tet new year dear.

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I'm re-reading my Jack Vance collection to further appreciate the brilliance of the late author's unique style -- and to kill time by sitting in air-conditioned coffeehouses drinking cappuccinos and reading. I have a new book about the Vietnam War that I purchased at a museum in either Ho Chi Minh City or Hanoi (I can't remember since I'm an old man now). The book is rather long; it looks authoritative; and it's written from the perspective of the North. I'll read it between Vance books. I miss talking to my friend Andy, who had a safe trip back to the U.S. and is no longer wandering around Vietnam, walking scores of kilometers on an artificial hip. Since were both in our 60's, Andy and I talked about how we want to spend the rest of our lives. Andy sagely noted that he wants to accumulate experiences, not "things'. I agree wholeheartedly ... maybe we could recruit my buddy John to guide us around Belgium so we can drink some really good beer. Just a thought.