The airport in Ho Chi Minh City (which I will, from now here on after, refer to as Saigon) looks like every other airport I've ever been to. I didn't feel like I was in another country until I stepped outside through the automatic doors to the sweltering balmy air that carried rich wafts of smoky incense. Strange as it may seem for such a smoggy, crowded city that looks about as densely developed as Hong Kong, but Saigon actually smells pretty good.

I had my hands full. Along with my straw hat and green guitar, I had the frame backpack which was all I needed for a month of backpacking in Europe. I also dragged behind me two blue, wheeled suitcases like a pair of mules loaded with gifts and odd-and-ends that are hard to find in Vietnam. Never in my life have I traveled with so many bags.

At least a hundred people crowded outside the terminal waiting for arrivals. My bro and sis-in-law, each carrying a scooter helmet, found me through the crowd and ushered me and my canvas mules toward the rickety bus waiting to take us to my home for the next six months. Mike was wearing the shamrock shirt that goes with the baseball cap I was wearing--both were Christmas gifts from Kevin. T'was heart-warming to see them back together again.

Currency exchangers in the airport usually charge excessive fees, because hey, what choice do you have, so I still didn't have any đồng on me when we got on the bus. Lucky for me, Lữ came along for the ride to help me find my way home. She talked with the bus driver and negotiated the price, which may have been a bit excessive, since he charged full bus fare for each of my bags. Lữ picked up the tab, which was, by local standards, exorbitant. For the two of us and the three bags, the total came out to be 20,000₫, or about a dollar.

The bus sped off among throngs of scooters and taxis. The streets are a raging cacophony of tiny two-cycle engines revving up and ceaseless feeble beeps from scooter horns. Crossing at an intersection takes fortitude, faith, and luck. Lữ says the safest way to cross is at a brisk, consistent pace. Almost all the scooters will steer clear of you that way, and most of the cars. Not the buses though. Mike says the buses will honk a few times before they run you over. To me, it seems like a collision with a bus would be the hard one to walk away from.

Occasionally, you'll see a really fancy car on the streets as well. Later that night, Mike spotted a Bentley, and told me that, on top of its $200,000 price tag, the government in Hanoi slaps on a 100 percent import tax. You might ask, wait a minute, how can someone in a communist country afford that kind of extravagance? Needless to say, there's some disparity among classes in this people's nation. Average wages for folks in Saigon is around $200 a month. That doesn't buy a lot of Bentleys. Communism ain't what it used to be.

Flashes of scenery though the bus windows and, later on, a stroll through the city confirmed my initial impression: Saigon looks a lot like Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia, and not much different than Singapore. Which makes sense. All three cities are bustling trade centers which were once colonial capitals, with a melange of contemporary, traditional, and Euro-Asian architecture set among rows upon rows of shop-houses. Although here in Saigon, the Indio-British style with neo-classical features like rounded arches is largely absent compared to Malaysia and Singapore; in its place is the sharp, Gothic architecture characteristic of French influence.

The powerlines of Saigon tangle like cobwebs.

A perfect testimony of the stark contrast of new and old, perhaps, is the bundles upon bundles of telephone and electric wires overhead. They look like like rubbery-thick black tendrils of steam-punk vines that darken the sky and choke out all other forms of life. Whereas with most cities, in which the electricity that powers them is routed underground, here the wires are in the same location they were when the city was first electrified. It's as if the first electric wires that were installed so many ago were never replaced; they were just built layer upon layer with every successive generation.

The bus pulled into the stop, and we climbed out with bags in tow. Beyond the bus station was the notable Quách Thị Trang Square, which features a horse and rider statue in homage to a general who led the Vietnamese in their independence from China in the 15th century. Across the square was Bến Thành Market, which contains all manner of tasty foods and souvenirs. From there, it was a short walk in the balmy heat to Mike and Lữ's charming little apartment in a quiet ex-pat community in district 1, where its easy to hear the bells of the Notre Dame cathedral around the corner. With only two hours of sleep since the morning of my 19-hour flight, the rest of the day went by in a blur. But, between narcoleptic-like fits at the restaurant with Mike and Lữ, I remember feeling incredibly happy to be here.

Provender:
Bánh xèo with coconut buds

It's easy to forget how much I like Taiwan. Yet as I saw our plane's approach through the on-screen navigation system embedded in the head rest of the seat in front of me, I began to remember the sights, smells, and flavors that tied me to this place two years ago.

The ecology of Taiwan is outstanding. There's the sinuous crystal-blue river that snakes below the Shakadang Trail, the epic Qingshui cliffs that tower above beaches laden with blistering sun-hot jade stones, mudskippers basking on the rocks above lapis-colored waves. If you're lucky, you might spot a serpentine-tailed civet scamper up a banyan tree late in the night through a laundry room window, although no one will believe you saw one.

Then to the city, all laid out beneath Taipei 101, a tower of Babylonian proportions--easily three times taller than anything made by man in its shadow. Scattered throughout the city is the electric bustle and endless provender of the night markets, and dolled out betel-nut girls, propped on stools behind storefront glass, selling pouches of the crimson teeth-staining chew, and paper lanterns floating into the distance like listless satellites, and fruit stands hawking hand-size bags of salty-spiced mango, skewered strawberries, longyans, and cups of fresh-squeezed juices and frothy fruit milks. So you know, coconuts, however, are quite expensive, as are anything that has to be imported to this tiny, mountainous island.


I do wish I could have taken a detour to revisit the National Palace Museum, where in one day, I learned almost half of everything I know about Chinese history. Also, two national treasures of Taiwan are housed there. One is a slab of stone that's painted like a piece of barbecue pork and mounted on a guilded stand. The other is an exquisitely carved jade sculpture in the form of bok choy. Yes, I did say they are national treasures. In fact, I just was muscled out of the gift shop here in the airport, in which is sold jadetite cabbage key rings and bottle openers; I was told not to take pictures. Of souvenirs. Yes, they are national treasures, I'd say.

Also worthy of note: this trip marks my conical straw hat's return to its native land. I'm glad it had this one last chance before it falls apart. The voyage from Tucson to California was unkind to the hat's delicate constitution. The top is almost off, and I don't think it will keep out the rain like it used to. Which is too bad, because this happens to be the rainy season. -shudder-

This year marks the year of the rabbit. That's according to the Chinese Lunar calendar. Anyone born under the sign of the rabbit is born in 1915, 1927, 1939, 1951, 1963, 1975, 1987, 1999, and in 2011. (Well, it becomes complicated for anyone born in January or early February--since the Gregorian calendar isn't a good match for the Lunar one, these Jan and Feb babies actually fall under the year of the tiger.) The horoscopic descriptions for rabbit-born folks varies from website to website.

Because this is the year of the rabbit, I was really looking forward to this year's Mid-Autumn Festival, which takes place, as always, during the full moon of the eighth lunar month. Celebrated in Chinese and Vietnamese communities, it's a harvest festival holiday of bright lanterns hung from trees or bamboo stakes, floated down rivers, or carried off by winds; of savory-sweet pastries called moon cakes; and of viewers gazing in admiration of the full harvest moon. For those moon-gazers with a little imagination, the form of a rabbit can be seen in the maria, or dark basaltic plains of the moon. In the mythology that accompanies the origins of the Mid-Autumn festival, the moon rabbit is recognized in China, Japan, and Korea. But this Mid-Autumn Festival, taking place on Sept. 12, 2011, I'm going to be in Vietnam. As a matter of fact, I'm boarding the plane in a little less than 9 hours.

And in Vietnam, the moon has no rabbit, and 2011 is the year of the cat.