Good beer; no butts; IELTS success; comeback rained out

It was like I saw the Yeti, or the Loch Ness Monster "Nessie". Right in my very own neighborhood I spotted a bottle of Westmalle Tripel, one of the many wonderful beers brewed in Belgium. I was walking home from a birthday party with Phuong and Joanna when we we noticed a new bar right around the corner from our house called "Craft Beer".  I asked for a menu and they had Westmalle Tripel. In fact, I saw it in a cooler and bought a  bottle for 170.000 dong ($7.50 U.S.).  The bar gave me a mango beer from Belgium at no cost that I didn't recognize. It was good enough, but the Westmalle Tripel was a special treat for the White Monkey. Remember, the  best beer I can get in Bien Hoa is Chimay at about the same price, and Affligem for cheap (about 39,000 dong a bottle), which is very suitable for the money that I earn. But not since I got a La Trappe Quadrupel  and a Chimay Blue (after a rough day) have I enjoyed a beer in Vietnam as much as I enjoyed the Westmalle on Friday night. Vincom doesn't carry La Trappe anymore, but I still have rough days. The Westmalle Tripel has a slightly fruity taste but also delivers a slight alcohol burn from its 9.5% abv.  Am I being critical? Of course, which is a privilege that I pay for.  For the record, I owe any beer knowledge I have to my friend John S., who is a brewery of brilliance when it comes to beer. I thought Purple Haze was the world's best when I met him.  He set me straight in a hurry.

* * *

Saturday was my three-year anniversary of quitting cigarettes. For some reason, I've had the ability to moderate my drinking since I met Phuong. I have no more than a shared beer a day with my wife. That's a first for the obsessive-compulsive White Monkey. But smoking is another matter. If I don't quit altogether, my OCD will be in full bloom.  I'll smoke with coffee, when I drink beer, after meals, after sex, before sex, and during sex. I'm being a smart-ass, of course, but I'm unable to moderate my cigarette smoking. It's all-in at a pack a day, or nothing. I've chosen nothing and I've noticed a difference in my overall health. I sleep better and dream more, and colds and sinus infections don't last very long. I'm more proud of quitting cigarettes than I am of my 50,000+ pageviews for my blog.

* * *

My former private English student Sam, who I taught for more than a year, took her IELTS recently and scored what I think is a very respectable 5.5. I think that's a tough but fair score for Sam. Her speaking and listening skills are first-rate and deserve higher marks, but like so many students I've taught, writing is tricky. Her reading is good but -- like me -- she's a slow reader and that doesn't help when you're taking exams like IELTS. I'm proud of Sam, who went from absolute beginner to extremely competent in a very short time. She's a bright woman. Good work, Sam!

* * *

My highly anticipated return to the tennis court (highly anticipated by me, at least), got rained out on Sunday. I overcame the slight setback to my recovering left plantar fascia, caused by some clowning with Joanna, and I was ready to go. But an act of God put the comeback on hold, which means I'll stay No. 1 in the family rankings at least until we play next week.

Feeding kids in Vietnam; 1 guard pees, another mocks me

There are many different styles of parenting. As many styles as there are parents, I would guess. But the one constant I see in Vietnam is that parents would rather feed their little children and toddlers than have the children and toddlers feed themselves. A scene that I see everywhere is moms, armed with a spoon or chopsticks, squatting next to their child and shoving food into the child's mouth. Occasionally, I'll see a male feeding kids -- but it's almost always a mom or grandma, and she's almost always squatting and methodically thrusting food at the kid's mouth. It reminds me of a mother bird feeding its young. The little birds open their mouths, and the mother bird spits in the food. I haven't seen the spitting here -- except by males and many females on the streets, in the parks, next to churches -- but the children willingly open their mouths without so much as lifting their hands to help. My wife does this with our daughter as well, and it's a minor source of contention in our household. I got Phuong to stop chasing Joanna around the house with a plate and utensils, but she loves to feed our daughter. The White Monkey taught his daughter to use a spoon and fork (the first lessons came with passion cheesecake at The Coffee House). And I refuse to hold a cup, or soda, or glass of milk for her; Joanna holds her own drinks when dad is there or she doesn't drink. I'll bet you didn't know that White Monkeys could use tools and utensils. Anyway, Joanna and the children who come to our house for daycare are encouraged to feed themselves. The moms get it. The style of parents feeding kids continues here until the children are 4 or 5 years old. I've seen moms feeding 6-year-olds, but that's not overly common. Part of this practice could be cultural. Family sit-down dinners are handled differently here. They seem more random, with women running in and out of the kitchen serving food, men eating, drinking beer, and talking (and spitting), and kids coming to the table, eating a bite or two and then taking off to play. Joanna has been allowed to leave our dinner table and return; it's another source of contention.  But I won a concession: Joanna can't take food out of the kitchen. She'll try and cry, but it's a no-go with Dad. Sorry, Joanna.

* * *

When I was doing tai chi at the park last week at about 4:30 p.m., a security guard at a tea shop across the canal from me and the four moms and families from our daycare group pulled out his miniature manhood and began peeing in front of us. My sensibilities were intact, but I thought the security guard's behavior was unacceptable in front the moms and kids. I yelled over to him to go inside the tea house about 10 yards away and pee, but he merely laughed and kept peeing.  I shrugged because I wasn't going to walk on water to cross the canal and confront him. I resumed my tai chi when his security guard "buddy" decided to try to mock me by imitating my tai chi in an exaggerated fashion. Just as he started, my next posture and subsequent series of postures put my back to him, so I didn't get to see his unquestionably hilarious routine. Phuong witnessed the entire episode and said the tai chi imitator stopped his routine when he saw that no one was watching him and he slogged back to his chair, tail between his legs. Phuong and I didn't understand why the first guard didn't pee inside the tea shop. The second guard was just a fool. Actually, both guards were fools. 

* * *

-- I'm happy to report fantastic progress with my torn plantar fascia. My new shoes arrived and I'm walking pain-free and even doing minimal jogging. Very minimal. There's a tiny bit of discomfort when I run, so a scheduled return to the court for light tennis practice this weekend may be postponed a week. I'm day to day, so to speak,  so it could still happen.

-- One of the bags of fancy weasel coffee we bought wasn't quite right, and I got a mild headache every time I had a cup. Genius that I am, I stopped drinking from that bag. No problem with the other bags. Perhaps the three hours of daily screaming and crying from our house full of children is contributing to my headaches as well. Nah, not likely. 

-- Guys were shouting into their cell phones at my new coffee haunt and I couldn't read -- I could easily hear them through my headphones even with my music blasting. So I returned to The Coffee House where's it's busier but quieter. The thing about The Coffee House is that I'm more likely to bump into people there that I know from my old job, and that interrupts Jack Vance. Unacceptable.
-- This blog broke the 50,000 pageview barrier last week. Thank you to every reader of this blog. Again, a shoutout to my readers from Italy, who have pushed my numbers up quite a bit in the past year. Grazie. 

3rd wedding anniversary; blog nears 50,000 pageviews

Sunday, March 10, is a special day indeed.  It's the third anniversary of my marriage to Pham Thi Ngoc Phuong, my true love, my best friend, my partner in life, my partner in parenthood, and now my partner in business. We've been together more than five years. There have been some ups and downs -- we're human, after all -- but for two people who spend nearly all their time together, we've been amazingly "up". There are so many reasons I love Phuong; maybe the thing that appeals to me the most is her ability to adapt. Phuong is stubborn like all of us, but she'll listen and change when it's appropriate. For example, I complained that our daughter Joanna wasn't getting enough social interaction. So Phuong started a daycare business and not only has Joanna benefited socially, but Phuong and I are making more friends. I know I'm a lucky man and don't always deserve a woman like Phuong, but because of her I've stopped smoking, increased my tai chi practice, limited my drinking to half a beer a night, and do more than my share of cleaning, laundry, dishes and cooking -- she'll vouch for all of this. The White Monkey can be productive when he's happy. I've been helping Phuong with the daycare business as well, but admittedly I don't enjoy screaming children, especially when they're clingy in hot and humid weather.  (God bless Phuong's friend Nghi for helping with the daycare and quieting the whiny kids.) Also, Phuong has been my de facto manager when it comes to my teaching. I have eight students now -- it will be seven after next week when my favorite student Sam leaves to take her IELTS test. Boy, do I hate to see her go. Anyway, It's Phuong who handles the money, and interprets for the students and me when needed. So, in addition to our wedding anniversary, let March 10 also be known as Phuong Day for a woman who deserves to be celebrated for putting up with a sometimes sour and churlish White Monkey. (Marriage is for better or for worse.) By the way, I hope this blog puts me over the 50,000 mark for all-time pageviews; I'm only a handful of  pageviews short, and it would be nice to surpass the milestone on our third wedding anniversary. Love you dear Phuong.

* * *

Here's the real news that readers of this blog are craving to discover -- the status of my torn plantar fascia, that big band of pain that supposedly supported the arch on the bottom of my left foot. It's been a month since I suffered the injury playing tennis against my wife, and the pain remains. It doesn't hurt like it used to; I know it's there and it's uncomfortable. Some days are better than others and the ice treatments and stretching three times a day seem to help quite a bit. I'm back on the chi, but I don't do any standing meditation because that irritates the foot. I'll assume that when there's improvement, no matter how slight, there's healing, no matter how gradual. I'm appealing to the 'WTA' to maintain my No. 1 family ranking over Phuong despite my inactivity. I plan to try some very light jogging in two weeks when my old tennis shoes get re-soled or when my new kicks, a pair of plantar fascia friendly K-Swiss Hypercourt Express tennis shoes, arrive. I would guess and hope that I'm about two months away from playing some real tennis.

* * *

I've resumed walking to a coffee shop near our house where I read Jack Vance books (again!) and drink cappuccinos. I was there Thursday with nine other guys who were drinking Sting or some kind of "foo-foo" drink, and every one of those guys was playing a video game. The last video games I played were by Atari -- I remember playing biplanes in my early 20s at a bar in Newark, Del. But I never really got into the video game scene, Regardless, there are worse places to hang out in Bien Hoa than in a coffee shop, so I'm not complaining. Just saying.

Playgroup is now daycare business; rehab up and down

Our experimental playgroup for our daughter Joanna has turned into a full-blown daycare business, albeit a small one for now. I was under the impression that my wife was inviting a a couple of moms and their toddlers over for daily visits to improve Joanna's social skills and interactions.That may have been the initial intention, but now the children come at 8 a.m. and stay until 4:30 p.m. Monday through Friday. Oh, at 4:30 all the kids leave our house and join us at the park.  Our growing group -- consisting of kids, brothers, sisters, moms, and dads who show up after work -- hangs out at the park and finally heads  home around 6 p.m. The White Monkey is in the middle of all the action and the three children who come to our house seem to have taken a shine to me. I guess everyone likes to play with a White Monkey once in a while. Phuong and her friend Nghi have worked incredibly hard to make our house very kid-friendly. Phuong has set up a "safe" area where toys and such are located, and she's purchased large sheets of paper and crayons for art. Nghi has obtained some great toys and games; and all the moms contribute their best efforts to make their kids happy. I'm the group DJ, playing background kids' music in the morning on my laptop; Bluetooth amplifies the sound. Joanna, the oldest of the group by a few months, is an avid dancer to the music. Her temper has cooled off since the children have been coming, which is a result I wanted. While positives abound, life in the daycare world is not a bowl of cherries. Children will cry for extended lengths of time -- three hours in one case -- when moms must leave. The crying kids seem to prefer being held by the White Monkey ... instead of anyone else. Maybe they just want to scream in my ear for a while. That's good in a way because it gives the hard-working moms a break. Really, the kids are wonderful even when crying. Working with groups of kids means working with groups of viruses that work their way around the group. Everyone has gotten a stomach virus and fever, leaving the kids more whiny than usual, meaning they're spending more time being held by me than usual. None of the moms, including my wife, are willing to hold a whiny White Monkey, however. One of the hazards of the job, I guess. Other than being exhausted 99 percent of the time, I enjoy the work and play and, of course, the children. And I'm really enjoying my limited free time.

* * *

Rehabilitating my torn plantar fascia is pesky business. Improvement has been infinitesimal while frustration has been infinite. I can stand pain-free; walking is a mixed bag; running and tennis are not in the equation. I do stretching exercises for the foot every day, but some days I'm lazy or busy, and the exercises lack the elan they should have to be more effective. I remain committed to soaking my foot in ice three times a day -- this one's easy because I read Jack Vance books with headphones on for the 20-minute sessions. I remain cautiously optimistic because I've been able to do the tai chi form in its entirety with only occasional bouts of pain. However, pain and chi don't mix. I injured the foot 21 days ago. Dr. Internet says it takes at least three months to heal (or is it heel?) and I'm inclined to agree with the good doctor.

We start playgroup for Joanna; rehabilitation is rough

I really wanted my 31-month-old daughter to get some social contact with other kids her age. It's not easy here, especially since Joanna has a White Monkey dad and Vietnamese mom.  Our daughter sometimes seems more like a curiosity than a child to other kids and parents in Vietnam, especially on our street, because she looks more American than Vietnamese. So my incredible wife Phuong took matters into her own hands and has started a mini-playgroup with a mom named Nghi, who has a daughter nicknamed Baby Chip in the group. Nghi was a teacher and knows her way around kids. And she can draw OK as well. Another mom, Luong, and her son. Shin, joined the group to complete our initial trio. We've set up an area downstairs with lots of toys, LEGO sets, and our fish tank.  Snacks and lunch for the children are delivered in the kitchen, of course, and upstairs my classroom is used for drawing and coloring. Also, the third-floor balcony now has a small swimming pool, which the kids love.  The three kids play together -- actually, they play near each other -- for about four hours a day. It's noisy and a little hectic, especially when I teach my private student, but the children seem to be enjoying themselves, and my private student seems ready to move on after she takes her IELTS test next month. Joanna looks forward to the arrival of the other children, although she can be a little moody and rough when she goes to bed late or doesn't sleep well the night before. Tired and cranky happens to the best of us. The other moms are great and the kids are sweet. I'm very pleased with the setup and I want to thank my wife for doing everything in her power to better Joanna's life. Another child, a boy about Joanna's age, is expected to join our group tomorrow. I suggested that we max out at five kids (including Joanna) so we don't burn out and end up hating children. One more child plans to join us next week.

* * *

The thing I've never liked about pain is that it hurts. This evil cause and effect is making my rehabilitation of a torn plantar fascia ligament in my left foot extremely tedious and unpleasant. Progress and recovery have been understandably slow. I've been following Dr. Internet's wise counsel for treatment: I continue to soak the foot in ice for 20 minutes at a time, three times a day, and I do exercises three times a day -- after each ice treatment -- to strengthen and stretch the plantar fascia. The pain has subsided somewhat since I first injured the foot 11 days ago, and the ice treatment isn't nearly as bad as it was when I first started. Now, I read Jack Vance while on ice and the time flies. The foot actually feels better after stretching, but walking remains painful and running is out of the question. Most sites on the Internet say recovery time is a minimum of 3 months. Of course, I'm in it for the long haul with ice and stretching because I'd really like to play tennis again and do tai chi at a higher level than I'm performing now -- with one good leg. Plus, I don't have any choice; I have little girl and I must be mobile when I help my wife with our daughter and other kids in our fledgling playgroup. My advice to anyone worried about suffering an injury of any kind during tennis: Don't let your wife control the tempo of long rallies or she'll run you ragged and break you down. That's what happened to me, plus I hate losing so I compete like a young man ... unfortunately my competitive spirit is housed in an old man's body. I joke with Phuong that the WTA is reviewing our situation and may strip me of my No. 1 ranking because of inactivity. My wife has been classy and gracious the entire time, saying something to the effect that she wants to become No. 1 (in our family) on the court, not in the courtroom. Clearly, the foot is improving despite the lingering but tolerable pain, but a tennis match seems a long way off -- probably three months. Unlikely I'll be No. 1 then.

*** 

There was a "supermoon" that was quite visible here last week, and Joanna was enamored with it. She enjoys the night sky and spots stars/planets, airplanes and the moon. I took a phone photo of the supermoon and Phuong made some prints, and even framed one photo. Joanna insists on calling it a crescent moon even though she knows better. Stubborn kid. I'm back to restricting video time for her because videos do nothing for her behavior and social interaction. Even though the videos are educational, she's a little obsessive like her mom and dad, and gets too wrapped up in the screen. So I'm trying to channel her obsession into books, drawing -- which she loves -- and the night sky.

Torn plantar fascia halts tennis match, threatens career

Even the great ones succumb. If it isn't injury that ends an athlete's career, age will deliver the knockout blow -- the overused cliche that "Father Time is undefeated" is oh, so true, regardless of what Tom Brady says. Worst of all, age and injury often work in tandem. Therefore, it's with a heavy heart that I report that age and an injury have put my pathetic tennis career and slightly less pathetic tai chi practice in jeopardy at worst, and on hold at best. I tore the plantar fascia ligament in my left foot during my Sunday tennis match with Phuong. I stopped a little too abruptly to change direction to chase a Phuong backhand, and I heard a pop in my foot. Pain followed the pop and I dropped instantly. A local watching us play laughed loudly when I hit the ground and continued to laugh as I rolled around clutching my left foot. Maybe he thought I was doing my Mr. Bean impression. My wife didn't come to my aid right away, either, probably because my injury may have cost her the No. 1 ranking, which I seized three weeks ago. I was clinging to No. 1 with the score tied 5-5 when pop went the plantar. Two wins in a row on the same day are required to claim the No. 1 ranking in our bitter family rivalry, regardless of weather, injury, or an act of God. Phuong clobbered me in the first set 6-3 and she was leading 5-3 in the second when I made the foolish mistake of battling back to even things at 5-5. Then an act of God struck, or an injury, depending on your point of view. Forgetting the what-ifs and shunning a doctor's visit, I self-diagnosed by going online. And as we all know, if it's on the Internet, it must be true. The pop means a tear (hopefully, not a rupture) and recovery time varies -- from two months to a year to never. I've been applying ice, ice, baby, and sort of limping around when I need to walk. I walked a little in the park Monday night, but have been taking it easy ever since. I taught my private student Sam on Tuesday, and even stood to illustrate the finer points of defining and non-defining relative clauses on my whiteboard ... without remarkable pain. But I won't lie. The pain remains, probably more from the fact that I didn't control things better in my match with Phuong than from my foot getting hurt. But the entire arch area of the foot hurts, especially near the heel. That's as it should be, according to the ever-accurate Internet. If I recover, I won't rule out a comeback. But sadly, I won't be any younger when and if that happens. When the pain subsides, I'll begin self-structured rehab with guidance from the Internet. We'll see how things go.

* * * 

I guess the Vietnamese are obsessed with karaoke because they think they're good singers. Well, just like anywhere else, 99.99 percent sing like crap, and the remaining .01 percent don't sing karaoke. For three straight afternoons starting around noon and continuing  until 3 p.m. and beyond, our lovely neighbors launched into a karaoke fest that took the paint off the walls and sent the local rats scurrying for cover under our other neighbor's endless piles of trash. I heard three covers of the song Love Potion Number Nine in Vietnamese, with one woman's rendition sounding like she was giving birth without anesthesia.  Another neighbor had live guitar accompaniment, and it was wretched. Things were clean and quiet for Tet, but that train left the station and the litter and intrusions are back. I miss Tet, except for the fact you couldn't get a taxi. One taxi driver pulled over to give me, Phuong and Joanna a ride to tennis, then waved his hands at us and drove away. What a dork.

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.

* * *

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.

* * *

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.

* * *

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.