Illness, mountains of laundry and lots of reading

Phuong and I are great believers in recycling, so we have passed the same illnesses around in our household for the last month. We've run the gamut from head to toe -- headaches, sinus infections, runny noses, sore throats, chest congestion, stomach pain, bowel issues, as well as sore knees, ankles and arches. Phuong even had some sort of eye infection. I'm not entirely shocked at our health issues since it's 94 degrees and horribly humid every day, with monsoon rain most afternoons. Also, people dispose of trash here by burning it, so there's the lovely scent of melting plastic and burning tires wafting through the city air about three times a week. And don't forget cigarette smoke. People -- almost exclusively men -- light up everywhere here, including hospital waiting rooms. Somehow, Joanna has avoided almost all of the health issues under these daunting circumstances. She had a runny nose for a couple of days, but that's pretty much it. She reminds me of one of my other daughters, who at age 5 shook off the mumps in an afternoon, and gets sick about once every three years. Despite our persistent health issues, Phuong and I continue to play tennis, hoping to sweat out the viruses and infections that have set up camp in our bodies. We sweat like crazy, but remain a little sick. It'll take time.
I don't go out much or ride the bike anymore so I'm under a self-imposed house arrest in a manner of speaking. I've read eight Jack Vance books since I came back from the U.S. in late August, and I'm already fretting about what I'm going to do when I finish the remaining five Vance books I have. Reading has become a passion for me lately. So has laundry. I do more than an hour of laundry and tai chi every night. The laundry is a little overwhelming because Joanna is struggling with potty training, I take a minimum of three showers daily, and Phuong contributes her fair share to our bulging laundry basket. There are no dryers here, and it takes clothes a long time to dry when they're hung up outside because of the humidity. Laundry is actually more than a passion; it's a lifestyle.
Joanna is approaching 28 months old and she is such a joy for Phuong and I. Joanna speaks both English and Vietnamese, but she clearly prefers English and her vocabulary is remarkably extensive, in my opinion. She knows all the letters, numbers, and she displays a mischievous sense of humor. She loves the books I've gotten her, and one of her favorites is "I Am Bunny." In the book, the bunny says "my name is Nicholas and I live in a hollow tree." When we ask Joanna her name, she gives us  an elfish grin and says "My name is Nicholas." I pretend to be frustrated, pound the table or bed and say "You're not Nicholas, you're Joanna." Of course she repeats "My name is Nicholas" over and over to get me riled.
Phuong's mother got word that I liked bun bo Hue, and now we're getting shipments every other day. Phuong's mom did the same thing with spring rolls. Love Phuong's mom, but she doesn't understand the concept of 'too much of a good thing.'
Our interview at the U.S. embassy to move our family to the U.S. likely won't happen until March or April. If we get one. If Phuong is denied an interview, which I guess is possible, then we'll apply for a waiver. If that fails, then it's off to Uruguay or Ecuador or someplace I'd be more comfortable having my daughter go to school. We're waiting before we get serious about relocating.
Illness and rain haven't helped our tennis, but I did manage to come from ahead 5-2 on two occasions to lose to Phuong 5-7, 6-7 (5). In the second set, in addition to letting a 5-2 lead get away, I was winning 5-1 in the tiebreaker and fell apart to lose 5-7. Phuong courageously called my last shot "out!" when I was sure it painted the line. But I'm a notorious complainer, and it hasn't served me well yet.

From Kavanaugh to death music to my girl cursing

Even my wife's family followed the train wreck that was Donald Trump's nomination of Brett Kavanaugh to the U.S. Supreme Court. Phuong and her family didn't understand all the finer points of the situation, but they got the gist.  They relied on me to fill in the blanks. I tried to be unbiased, but really ... First, I'm a registered Democrat. Second, I can't get my Vietnamese wife a visa to enter the U.S. Finally, we're talking about Kavanaugh, a man who was accused of sexual assault and had the support of a Republican Senate and president who has discussed "grabbing (women) by the p*****",  adding that "when you're a star, they let you do it." The Vietnamese I've spoken to say they liked President Barack Obama. They don't really give me an opinion on Trump. You can guess my opinion. I saw Trump speak at the Bakersfield Business Conference in the 1990s, and I was more impressed with Phyllis Diller's speech. Really. I want to return to the U.S. with my wife and little girl, but I don't want to come back to a divided country that rejects foreigners. Unbelievable, isn't it, that a country made great by its immigrants is now trying to close the door? Hypocrites.

* * *

Everyone in our neighborhood is sick, which would normally make me smile, except I'm also one of the people who's sick. Here's what happened. Two neighbors on our street died last week. No, we didn't catch what they had. But all of us had to endure six days of loud, fingernail-on-chalkboard singing and music starting at 6:30 a.m. and finishing at 3 a.m. Death seems to be a more significant event than life is here, hence the massive death ceremonies. People "celebrate" the anniversaries of death with similar singing and music ... and gusto. The problem last week was that the music and singing really kicked into high gear around midnight and continued easily until 3 a.m. Professional mourners were hired to keep the music and wailing going until the wee-wee hours. Phuong and I went to Joanna's room, where it was only slightly quieter. Joanna tossed and turned, and Phuong and I didn't sleep well and got pissy with each other every day during the death concerts. Even with sickness, life improved the day the music died. I live with headphones on here so I can sleep and not hear death music and people asking me what my name is and where I'm from.

* * *

Joanna has become a talking machine, which makes me so happy since she's only 27 months old. One of my sons was a very late talker, not saying much until he was close to 3 and a half. "Everything was fine until then," he says now. Anyway, I have to be especially careful around Joanna, who listens when you don't think she's listening, and repeats what you have once said when you least expect it. She dropped a "What the f@#k?" on me when one of her toys fell apart while she was playing. And she copied my "bulls#&t" to describe a fish tank with live, exposed wires next to our tennis court. I didn't react either time and there hasn't been a repeat performance, thank God. Joanna copies some of the noises I make during tai chi five animals play exercises -- she does the "hi, hi, hi-yaa" sound of the "bear" very, very well. Love that little girl.

* * *

The tennis workouts and matches with Phuong are fantastic. Every match is close and the rallies are long and hotly contested. The heat is rough, but we persevere and enjoy ourselves. Joanna plays with Lego's or her cousin on the sidelines and is very well-behaved. The No. 1 ranking is up in the air because we've split the last six matches. Also, I want to publicly thank my ex-wife Lynda for getting my new glasses to Phuong's aunt in Chicago, who brought them to Bien Hoa this week. My life is finally coming into focus.

Where's my baby? trashy women; illness diet; be nice

Joanna and the stroller are a safety net for me in Bien Hoa. Don't get me wrong; cars and motorbikes don't slow down for us when we cross a street, and we were nearly hit the other day by a girl ripping around a corner on her bike, motocross style. But people are clearly more receptive and friendly when they see me pushing a stroller that actually has a child inside. A group of men always sit in the park and drink coffee, and the other day they smiled and said hello as I walked by on my way to the market with Joanna. Joanna and I bumped into Phuong at the market, so Phuong took Joanna home on the motorbike -- yes, Phuong still rides sometimes. I pushed the stroller back home with no baby, and walked past the group of men. They looked for Joanna in the stroller. I pretended like I was shocked and asked: baby o dau? -- where's the baby? Just then, Phuong rode by with Joanna, and I pointed and said me (sounds like may-uh), which means mom. We all laughed. I guess you had to be there.

• • •

On two separate occasions while walking with Joanna, I saw two women approaching SUVs after spending quality time in a coffee shop or karaoke club. On both occasions, the women who were driving dropped a bunch of trash in the street -- surreptitiously -- just before getting into the car. You can't make this stuff up. Living here, I don't have to. I've said it before, and I'll say it again and again and again. Littering is a lifestyle here, and it's obnoxious. The Vietnamese I've talked to who are also offended by littering say it's going to take a few generations and more education to halt this practice. When I see a woman who's holding a small child give that child trash to throw in the street, then I think that a "few generations" may be optimistic.

• • •

I was quite ill for about 10 days with some sort of stomach virus.  The great thing about being sick with the stomach virus I had was that the pounds just melted off me. People who haven't seen me in a while tell me how good I look. I may feel like hell, but I sure look good. And really, that's what it's all about, isn't it? My private student Sam asked me if I gave birth to a boy or girl. Being thinner hasn't helped my tennis or tai chi, but I didn't get sick to improve either. In fact, my tennis got worse, if that's possible. I'm all better now and I'm sure as I put my weight back on my tennis will return to its marvelous mediocrity.

 • • •

I admire bold, frank assessments, except when they involve children. I do my best to avoid making comments about a child's weight or personal appearance. Twice in the past week, I've heard adults criticize children for being fat. And folks, these kids aren't fat, at least by the White Monkey's standards. Anyway, in one instance, a dad told me his year-old 11-daughter was too heavy while his daughter stood next to me. This dad is actually a good guy, and he didn't dwell on the subject, but his daughter was obviously upset by the comment. In the other instance, a woman who lives across the street from us told a neighbor's 12-year-old daughter that she needed to change her posture when she walked so she wouldn't look so fat. The woman who made this suggestion has an ass the size of a freight train, so I'd suggest she looks in the mirror before making any more suggestions related to weight.

• • •

Joanna continues to be an incredible source of joy in my rather mundane life. She's 26 months old now and her English vocabulary is really quite extensive. I guess it's her ability to recall things -- she can recite the alphabet, count higher than she'll let us know, and surprise us by pointing out "ROOSTER" and "BUTTERFLY'' on the walk. She says "BACK HOME" when we return home in a taxi from tennis. It goes on and on ... and I don't want to go on and on about her. But .... she speaks more Vietnamese these days as well, but never to her dad. I've read where toddlers and young children in families that speak two languages know who speaks what language and they respond accordingly. Amazing and truly wonderful. Enough said by me ... I'll let Joanna do the talking.

Sorry, folks; I ain't THAT John Millman; just ask Roger

Let's set the record straight. My name is John Millman and I play tennis, but I'm not THAT John Millman. I'm 63 years old and he's 29. I couldn't beat Roger Rabbit in tennis, let alone Roger Federer. Hell, I can't even beat my diminutive and beautiful wife, Phuong. I love tennis and I'm a fan of the 29-year-old John Millman of Australia because he's gritty, persistent, focused and incredibly devoted to his profession and conditioning. I'm sadly lacking those qualities -- personally and professionally -- and the results have been borne out in a mediocre life without any notable accomplishments, other than my five fantastic children. John Millman of Australia deserves the spotlight because he has persevered though serious injuries and countless Challenger Tour and less-prestigious tournaments in remote locations -- such as Ho Chi Minh City -- to reach the bright lights of the U.S. Open in New York. He seems like a real gentleman to me and I couldn't be happier for him. Actually, I shouldn't have the exact name as this other Millman. My last name should be spelled Milman -- with one l -- but the hospital misspelled my grandfather's name on his birth certificate, and it stuck. My great-grandfather Elijah Milman (note the one l) was something of a legend in Georgetown, Del., according to my dad, who was something of an exaggerator when it came to family. Anyway, Elijah supposedly could open a clam with his bare hands, and he had 11 children. He was a farmer, and didn't play tennis.
Me? I'm an English teacher and former journalist.  I can open a beer with one hand if I have a good opener and I have five children. I can only imagine the reaction of people around the world when they opened my blog looking for information on the Australian who defeated Federer and tested Novak Djokovic at the U.S. Open. Instead, they saw my puffy, wrinkled face, which is a far cry from the chiseled, good-looking Australian tennis professional they were expecting to see. Well, there's good news for me. My blog got more hits in one day -- from all over the world -- than it usually gets in a couple of weeks. Sorry, folks; the Internet can be a funny place -- not funny ha-ha, but funny as in peculiar.

* * *

I've been taking Joanna for long morning walks three to four times a week.  We have a structure to our walks more than a fixed route. We'll cruise around the park a couple of times as Joanna sits in her stroller. Then, I'll pick Trứng cá for Joanna, who leaves her stroller to join me and enjoy this delicious little berry, also known as a Jamaican cherry.  Joanna will eat as many as I pick. The fruit has countless health benefits, and we're the only ones eating them, so it's a good father-daughter activity. But, the Jamaican cherry tree grows next to an open sewer/canal at the park, so I don't stay as long as I would like. The tree is also next to a fairly busy street that has lots of fast-moving traffic, which results in lots of staring and a great deal of danger for my daughter. Cars, trucks and motorbikes in Bien Hoa don't slow down for little children any more than they slow down for the White Monkey, so I have to be constantly vigilant while I try to pick the Trứng cá. I don't take my eyes off Joanna for a second when we go out here, of course, and it makes what should be a relaxing experience a little tense. I think Joanna understands the perils of life on the outside here, but after all, she's only 26 months old. After Joanna gets her fill of berries, she stays out of the stroller and walks the length of the park with me.  We used to look at the fish in aquariums at a restaurant, but one of the managers yelled at Joanna for touching the outside of a tank. I gave him a death stare and now we very rarely go there. The Mickey Mouse mural nearby is covered in red ants, so it's an occasional, careful visit. Sometimes, we'll go along Vo Thi Sau street to shop at a local market.  Having Joanna with me seems to lighten the mood with most strangers, who smile and try to talk with her. She's wisely wary of strangers and hates being touched by them. I intervene before they can pinch her  cheeks, a local favorite. Other than the vehicles that don't care about a baby in a stroller, it's a very pleasant morning with my daughter.

* * *

 I'll circle back to tennis for a moment. Phuong was playing the match of her life against me on Thursday, taking a 3-1 lead with solid serving and incredible shot-making. I was playing well, but she was on fire. Then, Joanna came out on the court and we stopped play. Joanna refused to leave, and ran away from us when we tried to pick her up. Phuong finally corralled her, but when we returned to playing, Phuong had lost her mojo. We stopped with the score tied 4-4 and Joanna still running wild everywhere. I owe her. Joanna clearly saved me from a thumping at the hands of Phuong, and the No. 1 ranking in our family remains up in the air.

Silly, disruptive court behavior; laughing; mood music

Reading, tai chi, music and tennis are my passions these days.  Family is No. 1, of course, along with eating and sharing a beer every night with Phuong, but that's another story. I find that tennis usually helps my mind-set – I'm less frustrated about the heat and traffic, teens cursing at me (it happened again on Thursday), and staring ... and all the other stuff. The aforementioned seem less significant when I battle Phuong for tennis supremacy in our household. We compete hard despite the brutal heat, and we finish our tennis battles incredibly sweaty, tired, and satisfied, depending on who wins.  But as I've reported before, even tennis has its peccadilloes and imbroglios (always wanted to drop those words into my blog, even if they're not apropos in this case). The following craziness has happened during our tennis encounters in the short time since I've been back in Vietnam:
• Two drunks at the city courts who had been "playing" engaged in a titanic shouting match next to our court while we tried to play. The shouting lasted way too long and was way too loud. I added to the noise by screaming at them to shut up or go argue on the highway. The so-called managers of the courts finally asked the two Einsteins to leave.
• Some tennis "instructor" at the city courts next to us came over to our side and picked up our loose balls on the ground and started inspecting them about four feet behind Phuong while we played a match. I guess he was looking for errant balls his "student" had hit. I asked him what's up, and he said "You have six balls." So what? Anyway, we had seven balls so the White Monkey got pissed and told him off, politely of course, pointing out he didn't have any balls.
• At the court where the police offices and barracks are located, some cop who's a good player started flirting hard with Phuong during our match. And they're yakking back and forth about shoes, lessons, etc., while I'm about to serve. Guess what? I got pissed and told her to go talk with the a-hole or play.
• A little kid who was riding on the trash truck that came through the cop court parking lot got off the truck, stood by fence and shouted at me as I was about to serve. The third time this happened, I left the court and walked toward him. He did what most punks here and everywhere else do. He ran away and tried to hide behind the trash truck, where his father probably worked. The cops came running out and surrounded me like I was the criminal, which I was in their eyes.
• Some clown at the city courts cut across our court twice during our match. I tried to confront him, but Phuong says he can't hear. I'm not good enough to hit him in the ear with a ball, but I won't miss when I put racket up his butt the next time it happens. Actually, this guy does a lot of weird staring at us ... I'm thinking there's something not quite right with him.
• A teen working for the so-called managers started sweeping the area around our court with a big broom while were finishing a match -- 5-4, 40-30, or something like that. I stopped, put my hands on my hips and glared at the loser working for the other losers. He asked Phuong: "What's wrong with your husband? Why's he angry at me? I'm just doing my job?" This cleaning occurred 15 minutes before our time on the court was up.
Phuong and I were talking about all these shenanigans while we shared a beer the other night, and we just started laughing and couldn't stop. We started making up our own interruptions and the laughing continued. The only reason this stuff ticks me off is that we have to pay for court time, and the locals are real sticklers about money. We waste enough money when Joanna runs onto the court, about 12 times a session. I can become a stickler too if they want to play the money game. Like my sage friend Andy says, "I'm on a fixed income."

* * *

Speaking of laughter, Joanna started giggling about something last week and it became infectious. I started giggling, too, and then she started belly laughing, and I couldn't help myself and belly-laughed as well. It took us a while to get ourselves under control. I start laughing now when I think about the whole thing, and I can't remember what happened to get it all started. I'm an old fart, but having a child like Joanna keeps me young at heart, for sure.

* * *

Despite my fixed income, I've been buying lots of music as background for walking, tai chi, and reading. Some recent purchases: The Stone Roses, Atlas Sound, Lotus Plaza, Deerhunter, Drake, Youth Lagoon, Working for a Nuclear Free City. I certainly enjoy these artists, but I don't recommend any of it. Much of it is melodic and moody pop/rock, which suits my needs.

One motorbike ride is all it takes; pizza face; Vance books

I returned to Vietnam on Aug. 16, and vowed never to ride a motorbike here again. No big reason other than the fact that I want to stay healthy and alive for my wife and daughter. For a few days, life was going according to plan. Then, the unthinkable happened. We ran out of beer on a Sunday. There was no choice: I had to ride the bike to Vincom, a shopping mall about 2 kilometers from our house. There is no good day to ride in Bien Hoa, but Sunday is especially wretched. The roads are more crowded than usual, the drunks are out (and that's acceptable here), there isn't a cop in sight, and it's nearly impossible to get a taxi early in the day. Yet, the White Monkey bravely and foolishly hopped on the bike and carefully, oh so carefully, headed to the supermarket inside Vincom. There was trouble right out of the blocks. A speeding A-hole came up behind me on a side street and cut me off as I merged into traffic on a bigger road. I was pissed and screamed at the bitch, threatening to kill him. He knew he was an A-hole and raced away from me as I cursed. Honest to God, he took off so fast he nearly rode into the back of a truck, swerved and almost wiped out. OK, that's typical crap here. I cautiously made it to Vincom and was waiting in a small line of bikes to get a parking pass. No big deal, right? Wrong. A girl rode into the back of my bike.  Not a hard hit, but a hit nonetheless. Nobody was moving, except the girl, when I got hit.  I turned around and asked, "What's wrong with you?" She defiantly responded, "I didn't hit you." Oh, my mistake. Anyway, no harm so I looked for a parking space in the super crowded basement parking lot. I got lucky and saw an empty space where there were two rows of bikes facing each other with escape routes behind each row. I got off my bike when a girl got on her bike across from me. Apparently, she didn't want to back out and go ALL THE WAY around her alley to the exit, so she laid on the horn and motioned for me to get on my bike and back out so she could take a shortcut. My friend Ron told me I should have given her the Vietnamese hand wave, but honestly, I didn't think of it. I just simply put on my headphones, put my keys in my pocket and went to the market. I bought two small bottles of La Trappe Tripel and four bottles of Leffe Brune for a total of about $20 U.S. Worth every penny after that ride. That's the only time I've been on the motorbike since I've been back from the U.S. and I don't see much riding in my future.

* * *

 I walked to the swimming pool on Monday with Phuong, Joanna and Joanna's two cousins. Joanna loves the pool even more now because she has floating devices on her arms that give her independence in the water. Afterward, I decided to buy the kids a pizza from a street vendor. While waiting on the sidewalk for the vendor to cook the pizza, a guy and girl pulled up behind me on a motorbike and laid on the horn for me to move (lots of horn laying in Vietnam). I didn't see them coming so it scared the crap out of me, and it was all I could do not to slap that clown across his face. I stayed calm, stood and stared Vietnamese-style, then smiled and refused to move. He parked his bike on the spot and his girlfriend never looked up from her cell phone. She was playing a video game -- very important ... you don't understand. Another day in the life of the White Monkey.

 * * *

I picked up some books written by the late Jack Vance when I was in the U.S. I've read almost all of Vance's science fiction work, -- it's brilliant -- but I found a couple I had not read or heard of -- Ports of Call and Lurulu. Finding these books was like finding a $50 bill in a pair of washed jeans. I'm in sci-fi heaven. Vance is a master of thoughtful dialogue and witty repartee. He has an unparalleled vocabulary. He creates remarkable settings and adventures for the spacemen in his books, drawing on his experiences as a Merchant Marine. Reading in an air conditioned room has become the great escape for me, which is what I really need living in a place like this. If not for Phuong and Joanna and good books, the White Monkey might be locked in the white room, with black curtains, near the station ...

Forbidden airport needs overhaul and civility training

Beijing is now a forbidden city for the White Monkey. I've had four connecting flights through Beijing airport, and I've had serious hassles all four times. On my first trip, soldiers stood on either side of me holding machine guns because I didn't have an entry visa for a five-hour layover and a "transfer ticket" for my suitcase. A counter clerk at Beijing made a stink. When I started the trip and checked in at Ho Chi Minh City airport, I expected the suitcase to go through to Dulles in Washington, D.C. -- I'm such an embezzle and maroon, as Bugs Bunny would say. Some shirt-and-tie official intervened, sent the soldiers away and in poor English said I had to retrieve the bag, check in, get another ticket and go through customs, immigration and bag scan again. I nearly missed the connecting flight to D.C. despite the five-hour layover. Really. The second time was a simple three-hour delay and gate change without any announcement in English. The gate change was noted on the schedule board -- the muffled announcement over the loudspeaker in Chinese didn't help. I learned my lesson from hassle #1 and kept checking the board. Hassle #3 was a missed connection due to weather -- we were told by Air China that the plane would wait for us (ha ha, it was one of the few connecting flights that took off on time). The missed flight was followed by a long wait in line for hotel vouchers that ran out, and to make a long, long story short, I got a flight to D.C. the following day. Hassle #4 last week was a simple 2-hour delay and long wait to go though customs and bag checks (again). This layover was also noteworthy for the remarkable rudeness of the staff. I asked the immigration official who checked my passport and ticket: "Where do I go from here?" He responded in what I considered a sharp tone: "You go away. You go away."  I get it. There's a serious language barrier. I'm an ugly American so there's going to be serious cultural differences. But if China is the No. 1 power in the world as some English guy at my former language center once said to me in a snarky tone, the world is in deep trouble. (It seems headed that way with Trump leading the U.S.) I love China -- I'm a devotee of tai chi and one of my tai chi instructors is like a hero to me. The food is OK -- not dazzling, but OK. The Air China flights I've taken have been fine for the most part with good movies, but Beijing airport and the massive amount of people shoving their way through lines there ... come on, this place is out of control and needs an organizational and politeness overhaul. And oddly enough, it's gotten a teeny, tiny bit better -- no more arrival and departure forms for connecting travelers, so maybe there's a teeny, tiny bit of hope.

* * *

It's difficult to describe how happy I was when I saw Phuong at the airport when I arrived at 2:40 a.m. instead of the schedule arrival time of 12:20 a.m. My wife has the most infectious and beautiful smile in the world, and we both smiled the entire, one-hour ride home in a taxi. Other than losing a present for Joanna and the charger for my MacBook Pro -- God knows how -- the trip was pretty much a success for me. Phuong's mom stayed in the house with Joanna, and it was difficult for me not to wake Joanna up and hug and kiss her when I got home. Joanna seemed really thrilled to see me when she woke up and has been showing off for me since I got back. She speaks constantly, and most of it is intelligible -- of course I think she's smart, charming and beautiful, like my other two daughters. Joanna changed quite a bit in the month I was away -- she's even taller and her hair is a shaggy mop. Her language skills are top notch, and her temper and stubbornness are second to none.

* * *

Phuong and I are waiting to hear from the U.S. Embassy to have a visa interview so she can come to the U.S. with me and Joanna to live and work.  We hope for the best, but sometimes I expect the worst. No matter. If she's rejected for what I think would be racist, petty and mean-spirited reasons, I'll simply return to the U.S. annually to take care of my eyes and other business, and then I'll return to Phuong and Joanna. I'd be OK with that because I won't go through Beijing airport anymore.