Saigon, Soldiers and Billy Joel

Twenty+ hours on a plane can teach you a lot. It can teach you how much room your body really needs to maintain appropriate circulation, it can teach you just how physically close you are willing to get to another strange human being, and it can allow you to get in touch with your roots. Functioning much like an infant, eager to shove your face full of whatever sustenance it is the ladies who have the privilege of standing in the aircraft distribute between turns of napping and using the loo.

Much like an infant, being on a plane for an entire day gives you nothing to do but eat, sleep and shit.

As sexy as the beginning of my first Asian adventure may sound, don't worry - if my last evening spent perched upon the pillow-less third tier bunk atop 2 friendly, if dim Brits is any indication of the how romantic an alluring my interaction with the far East will be, just sit tight because this is bound for the steamy pages of Cosmo.

Having boarded a plane Newark airport in my own special brand of homeless/90's gym attire chic I have to admit, I made note of the fact that I was one of the few caucasians hopping on this Ho Chi Minh, by way of Hong Kong, bound flight. For those who know me, my admitting to the fact that I am, in fact, Caucasian is a huge step, as I am fairly delusional and when flying to Africa or Latin America I feel right at home - as I am amongst my people. I almost don't know what to do when I am on a plane that is NOT filled with a dozen or so portly women clutching their  rosaries and praying to Guadalupe aloud. Needless to say, a plane filled with people of Asian decent made me notice just how white I am.

This flight had no prayers. No veiled Catholic allusions. It just had a couple of crying babies, barefoot elderly who felt it appropriate to put their unpedicured feet upon my seat, and hours of movies and snacks, both enough to make one ill.

I have been to the Eiffel Tower, the Roman Collesium; I have hiked Macchu Picchu, but for whatever reason, when deboarding in Hong Kong International Airport (the only point of contact had in China) all I could think was 'I am in fucking CHINA!' Sure, it looked just like SFO and sure there were books for purchase in English, but there was a moment when it was crystal clear that I was on the other side of the world. Alone.

After a brief layover and some wifi access I boarded my 2 hour flight to Vietnam, admittedly nervous about what lay before me. What lay immediately before me was another nap, as my body no longer had any clue as to what time zone it inhabited. Once at the airport there are the standard bells and whistles of entering a new country through immigration, though I have never before had to acquire a 'landing visa.' In my typical 'free spirit' fashion I had not only been remiss in obtaining a small photo of myself to accompany my paper work, but I also somehow made my visa single entrance, so unless something extraordinary happens, I believe Cambodia is out of the question for this journey. Bummer.

Full of firsts, I allowed a taxi driver to solicit me and put my safety, trust, and money in his hands hoping he could deliver me to Budget Hostel 2, and deliver he did. So honest was he that when I offered to pay upon arrival at my destination he politely reminded me that I already had and commented on how tired I must be. I have said this before, and I will say it again, I do believe the world is largely filled with good people.

A couple of restless sleep atop said third bunk which I had been banished to after the intoxicated lads from London came back late night to discover an American Goldie Locks who had mistakingly seen their bed as a vacant one, and I am up for Internet and breakfast before the sun rises an the streets fill with noise and exhaust.

A benefit of staying in a youth hostel, despite the fact that mine is ever waning, is that it allows one the opportunity to meet fellow travelers, as I did over bread and bananas this morning.

Maria and Paola, two devastanginly beautiful 20-somethings from Argentina suggested I tag along with them to visit the Cu-Chi tunnels, essentially the former playground of the Viet Cong. I accepted and paid the 100,000 dong (coochie and dong - my maturity is certainly being put to the test here) and hopped on what I soon discovered was a 2 hour bumpy bus rode out into war country.

Here is where I become a bit maudlin. Passing fields of uniformly lined rubber trees I could not help but think of my uncle and the boy he must have been before he went to war. It was a visceral realization that these fields were the battle ground for such a tragic war, both for Vietnam and America. When at the site of the tunnels our gregarious guide, Lan, spoke at length about killing the 'enemy' while showing the various contraptions used to booby trap a generation of men, resulting in their ultimate demise. As interesting as these archaic and what I can only imagine incredibly useful traps were, something about murder traps just doesn't sit well with me.

I do not purport to be some sort of patriot and I am still too young to recall any war of that magnitude in any real way, yet I felt guilty, as though I were betraying my uncle Danny and the friends he lost in the war by being a member of the fanny packed throng anxious to crawl into these infamous tunnels to get a feel for combat when, there is no way to even begin to estimate the terror and loss of war. I had not intended on doing war-related activities and this outing proved to me just why. 

Though I did crawl through a tunnel and merely listened to the Aussies shoot off AK-47s, which was an additional cost to the tour, I felt connected to a piece of my family, my history and my country by seeing such a thing, first hand.

The ride home was no less comforting and I attempted some Lamaze breathing to keep from retching all over my Argentianian seat mate (jet lag and motion sickness are a wicked cocktail). The bus did not return is to our start point and as I parted ways with Maria and Paola, I realized I was on my own to navigate the dusky, chaotic streets of Saigon. Stuck in my head all day, all I can hope is Billy Joel would be proud.