Arriving In Israel

We arrived in Israel on May 15. Our arrival here carries significance for all of us for at least two reasons. First, when we started our trip, Israel seemed so far away. It felt as if we had so much to do before we arrived there. To be here now forces us to acknowledge that this remarkable journey that we have taken as a family is approaching its conclusion. While we miss friends and family, after this, it will be hard, I think, to return to our normal routine. In particular, it will be hard to return to a life, in which at times, we feel more like ships that pass in the night than a close knit family. Hopefully, we can figure out a way to make our lives back in LA a little less hectic. I’m hopeful but skeptical.

Second, since the time that I spent my junior year in Israel, the country has always held significance for me. I remember back during the summer before my junior year, I was living with a bunch of guys on the Cape. I fully intended to return to Hamilton for my junior year. I was being groomed for the auspicious role of editor of the Hamilton newspaper. Most of the guys that I was living with worked on the paper, and I was finding them thoroughly annoying, with rare exception. It occurred to me—what the hell am I doing? It was not as if the Hamilton College Spectator carried the prestige of the Harvard Crimson. I then decided I wanted to go abroad.

The next question was where should I go and what programs could I still get into given that it was so late? I decided on Israel, primarily because I did not want to be another one of those kids who went to England, Spain and France (no offense intended to Melissa, who went to France). We made some phone calls, and a few weeks later, I was on a plane to Israel. My experience in Israel was nothing short of spectacular. I made a great group of friends, learned a great deal about the Middle East, and, thanks to a girlfriend, began to realize that being religious or even simply believing in God did not necessarily mean abrogating rationality. Of course, as has been alluded to in the other blogs, as a Jew arriving in Israel, you’re inevitably struck with this wondrous feeling of not being in the minority, that Judaism does not have to be nerdy and that Jews, when necessary, can be tough SOB’s. Like Maya and Emma, I found myself consumed with the idea that everyone is Jewish from the prostitutes to the generals. In my more ironic moods, I used to fantasize about how my mother would react if I told her I was dating a Jewish prostitute. There’s kind of a good news/bad news aspect to that.

I so loved my experience during my junior year that I returned to Israel for another 7 months after graduating to see if I wanted to make Aliyah. My experience was not as spectacular, probably having more to do with my depression at the fact that my graduation signified that adulthood was approaching, than anything to do with Israel. However, after leaving Israel in January 1988 (as the Intifada was starting, although my departure was not the result of the Intifada), I have not been back to Israel.

As Melissa has indicated, even in these few short days, it has been magical sharing the discovery of Israel with the kids and for Melissa and me to share it with each other. My kids, at this point, come both with so much experience in seeing other cultures and a much richer understanding of Judaism, than I possessed at the time of my first visit to Israel, that they are already getting so much out of the experience. I look forward to having a wonderful experience with my family in Israel, while at the same time I am filled with some trepidation about our fast approaching return date.

From Bangkok to Jerusalem

From Bangkok to Jerusalem

I must admit, as we were flying on a Royal Air Jordanian plane over Saudi Arabia along the border of Iraq (information I picked up on the cool little flight tracking screen airlines now provide) headed for Amman, Jordan (for a short stopover en route to Tel Aviv), I did think to myself, “are we %&@#$^ insane?” We decided to fly Royal Air Jordanian after determining it would save us over $2,000 and even a little time since El Al is prohibited from flying over “hostile airspace” and must take a more circuitous route. We even did a fair bit of “research” with some of the 1000s of Israelis traveling through Thailand, including parents of young children, who assured us it was safe, and even more comfortable than El Al (not a terribly high standard). But, at 2:00 am as we flew over the “hostile airspace”, it suddenly seemed like a very bad idea. In the middle of this mild panic, I did congratulate ourselves for the restraint we showed by waiting to share the information about our flight and routing with the grandparents until we were safely on the ground in Israel. My mild case of temporary insanity proved to be just that and we landed uneventfully in Amman, had a $10 Starbucks coffee, went through what seemed to me extremely lax security (what is that about??), and were safely ensconced in Ben Gurion International Airport within two hours.

As we have all noted to each other and in our various blog entries, arriving in Israel has been a mixture of conflicting emotions: absolute joy to be in the home of our people; trepidation that this portion of the trip will be so much different from the others; worry that our newly discovered family dynamic will be disturbed; excitement about seeing people who we have not seen in so long; relief to be able to brush our teeth with the tap water; sad that we are moving into the last leg of our journey; thrilled to be able to see and learn about Israel; anxious about trying to learn Hebrew; comforted to be safe to be a Jew; etc.. etc…

During our travels, there was an odd phenomenon when people would ask about our trip. Fellow travelers were always excited, bemused and maybe a little impressed to hear the story of how we quit our jobs, yanked the kids out of school and took off on this six month odyssey. Then there is this brief moment of truth when we go through our rough itinerary that seems perfectly acceptable in the world of leftie, hippiesh travelers who are out exploring the developing world--Africa, Cambodia, Thailand, Vietnam, Indonesia-- and then we mention that we will spend two months in Israel. We then either get an awkward pause with an even more awkward question about our religious background (my personal favorite—“oh, are you of the Judaic persuasion?”), a polite, “oh I hear it is a beautiful country,” a blatant, “why would you go there?”, a remotely judgmental nod and smile and even an occasional “where/what is Israel?” It is simply extremely comforting to be surrounded by Jews and Israeli flags unabashedly flying about, safe in the knowledge that we don’t have to have that conversation any more.

My last trip to Israel was nearly 20 years ago—practically half this country’s lifetime—and it has changed dramatically. In many ways, it feels like we are home. It is at once familiar and foreign. I don’t speak Hebrew, but unlike Swahili, Thai, Lao, Cambodian, Vietnamese, Indonesian and Balinese, I can read it (like a third grader) and understand a slew of words and even some sentences in context. The weather, warm and mild and even a bit chilly, as well as the plants and trees make me feel like I am in Southern California. We have friends that are like family and we are staying in Aloni’s house, where the walls and shelves are packed with familiar art and pictures of many people I know and love. On the other hand, I am surrounded by unfamiliar places, sounds, smells and it took me 30 minutes to find the vanilla yoghurt that my kids requested because I was trying to sound out the Hebrew letters (it was the “french” that threw me). I love the fact that I when I go running people yell kol ha kavod (essentially “way to go” in Hebrew) , instead of “mzungu,” (white person) “pole” (sorry) or just staring slack jawed in disbelief at the large white woman with big hips (not a particularly common anatomical feature in Asian women).

Within hours of getting off the plane, we walked through the old city and up to the Kotel. As I was seeing it all for the first time in 20 years and through my beautiful daughters’ wide eyes, I realized that we had spent the last 4.5 months learning about other cultures and now we have the great fortune to immerse ourselves in our own extraordinary tradition and experience it together as a family without the distraction of our daily lives. I am thrilled to be here and can’t wait to see what this part of the journey holds in store for us.

Who Needs A Pickup?

One of the most charming and amusing facets of life in Southeast Asia is the use of motorbikes and regular bikes as the equivalent of a large SUV. When we would rent a Uhaul to move a lamp, the South East Asians manage to pile what seems like an entire living room on the back of a motorbike—along with their entire family. We saw: water jugs; coffee tables; huge mirrors; cages with a dozen live chickens; a large pig (still alive, but tied up and ready for roasting on the spit); huge baskets of flowers, fruit and all manner of food to be sold to passers-by; mattresses; several cases of beer; gas tanks(?!); building supplies—and these are just examples. We also saw families of four (and even one of five); mothers nursing their babies; grade schoolers doing homework; teenagers reading; mothers preparing and feeding snacks to their kids; and even kids napping. Anyway, we were not always able to get the pictures as they sped by, but here are a few examples.

Bali: Paradise Shmaradise

Shortly before we left on our trip, as part of my job, I was subjected to a significant number of personality and behavioral tests together with the rest of my company’s management team (lest you think that I was singled out). It’s all part of this new approach to the softer side of management and team building. Needless to say, these are not my favorite activities. I’m sure that you’re wondering what does this have to do with Bali. However, bear with me. When I received the test results back, my abysmally poor score for interpersonal skills, was only exceeded by my complete and utter lack of aesthetic sensibility. Bali is a place that effortlessly harmonizes the interpersonal and the aesthetic. Accordingly, given the inviolate accuracy of the tests, I, of course, hate Bali. And, as you will see, who can blame me.

From the moment we arrived at the airport, I knew that we were in for trouble. We were greeted by a friendly driver, who asked how we were and, believe it or not, actually seemed to care about our answer. We then drove through appallingly beautiful scenery. Bali has not only world class beaches, but also has majestic volcanoes and rich forests. How the hell are you supposed to decide what to do or where to stay? We then made it to our villa in Ubud, considered the spiritual center of Bali. Our villa is a small one bedroom nestled in among the rice paddies. There are no 7-11s, no video stores, no Starbucks, no police sirens, no air traffic. The silence is maddening. Think Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

As you walk around Ubud, it is impossible to avoid noticing that every store, from the most high end to the lowest, is organized with great aesthetic sensitivity making you feel warmly invited into the store. Of course, this is simply a sinister effort to lull you into a sense of well-being that will compel you to purchase. As you walk around Ubud, you will also notice the ubiquitous spiritual “offerings” laid out on the sidewalks, in front of stores and homes, placed in cars, draped around motorbikes, etc. Every morning the women of Bali put these gorgeous offerings together, consisting of palm leaves, flowers and different grasses, rice, etc. as an offering to their ancestors. First, who has time to engage in such painstaking artistic endeavors? Second, the ancestors are dead—move on. As you walk around the streets the people are genuinely friendly, they don’t avert their eyes or give one word answers. They greet our children with genuine warmth and affection. It’s simply over the top.

To make matters worse, Balinese massage is both extraordinarily relaxing and extraordinarily inexpensive. For $10, you can get the most sublime two hour massages that leave you feeling genuinely relaxed and stress-free. In fact, there is something about life in Bali that is generally stress-relieving. It’s as if the people, notwithstanding the myriad challenges that they confront, seem to have found a way to simply enjoy life. Indeed, that is the most unsettling thing about my life in Bali—that I’m without stress. How do people function like that? Without the constant stress that I proudly carry as a badge of accomplishment, I’m left feeling uneasy and out of sorts.

Mercifully, we leave for Israel soon. I’m sure that when we’re deeply ensconced in the conflict and hostility that is endemic to the Middle East, I will regain the cynical and pessimistic world view that is key and core to my personality and greater sense of equilibrium.

Tortillas and Triumph--or Nacho Mama's Vacation

As we were toasting the four month anniversary of our adventure with club soda, nachos and guacamole at Nacho Mamas, the local Mexican restaurant in Ubud, Bali, Maya uttered a phrase I thought I would never live to hear escape from her mouth: “Mom and Dad,” she said, “these have been the best four months of my life.” I wanted to cry—or at least run and get a tape recorder. This is quite a departure from the dramatic scene of last September when, interestingly also in a Mexican restaurant (the Balaban/Wergeles equivalent to comfort food), we told the kids of our plans for this trip and she burst into tears. She then proceeded to weep for three solid days, refusing to speak to us except to procure the necessities of life (and then, practically only if a matter of life and death).

This moment at Nacho Mamas prompted me to pause for a moment and reflect a bit on what we have done over the past four months and how this trip has impacted our family. While I knew this trip would give our family a chance to be together in a way that we rarely have had the privilege to enjoy in the midst of our impossibly hectic lives, I don’t think I understood how profound the effect would be on our basic family structure and the way in which we function together. I have always felt exceedingly blessed to be part of this family and have felt some significant measure of pride in helping to create it despite the somewhat challenging odds I faced. What I did not realize was how many pleasures of this family I had missed while drowning in a sea of work, volunteer, school, obligations and extracurricular activities. I realized that even when we are all together at home, we tend to retreat to our separate corners and even when we are socializing with other families, the kids quickly disappear and leave the adults to their own “boring” conversations. This life “timeout” has allowed us to develop into a strong family unit and to discover in each other qualities and attributes that we didn’t even know existed and created a depth of relationships that we did not anticipate.

Each of our relationships has improved. Adam and I have become a more cohesive unit and have found a wonderful rhythm together as we wend our way through the logistics, challenges and surprises of the trip. Adam and I have become closer to each of our girls both separately and together. We have also noticed interesting patterns that have probably always existed, but are more pronounced because of the nature of this trip. For example, we have all observed that when the four of us are walking together Emma is always holding Adam’s hand, while Maya always gravitates to me. However, the most dramatic change has been the relationship between the girls. While our girls always loved each other and mostly got along, their relationship was laden with a significant dose of sibling bickering and sniping. Granted, Adam and I have a pretty low tolerance for this sort of thing, but we always noted that Maya reserved her small but wicked mean streak for her sister. This had already diminished significantly during the past four months—but it was still present enough to tick us off at least once or twice a day. After a particularly difficult day with the girls bickering on the bus from Siem Reap to Phnom Penh, I exploded at them. I was screaming while explaining how completely disheartening it was to hear them argue over who had the better view of the computer (when watching Freaks and Geeks) when we had just driven through the most desperate poverty I had ever witnessed. When I gained my composure, I more calmly discussed with them the many reasons for this trip and tried to impress upon them why arguing over such insignificant things made me think they were really missing the point. Furthermore, as sisters they should be each others’ allies not adversaries. By the end, we were all in tears and the girls locked themselves in their hotel room where they spent the better part of an hour hashing things out among themselves. The emerged contrite and seemed to have turned some sort of a corner. That night at dinner, in what in retrospect was a stroke of minor genius (albeit lifted from Ed and Wendy and the book One Year Off), we instituted a rule that for every two days they go without arguing they would each get an additional dollar toward souvenirs. Adam and I felt our life savings (such as it is after 4 months of unemployment and globetrotting) was safe. But we may have been happily mistaken.

The combination of these two events—my tantrum and the bribe—seemed to have had a profound effect on their behavior toward one another. To our shock and amazement before we knew it, they had gone for two weeks without a cross word between them (at least one that we observed). At first, their turnabout was clearly motivated by their pecuniary interest. We were both overjoyed and a little horrified that their crass desire for more useless tchotkes seemed to be the inspiration behind all of this good will and that we had come up with such strikingly capitalist ploy in the midst of communist South East Asia (of course, they have all moved to a market economies, so perhaps even they would approve.) But who were we to thwart this peaceful détente for some highfalutin principles? After another week of bliss, our cynical side was getting the best of us, and we decided to have a chat. What we learned was that their seemingly angelic behavior was initially economically motivated. However, after several days, they started to realize how much more pleasant life can be when they are able to refrain from bickering over something insignificant and work hard at getting along (a lesson from which Adam and I have benefited as well). In the midst of all this, they seemed to discover in each other best friends that they were not aware they had. Maya began to notice Emma’s innate charm and appeal and Emma’s love and idolization for Maya was finally being reciprocated. There have certainly been unpleasant moments since—especially when my mom arrived in Bali and they were competing for her attention--but really precious few, especially given the 24/7 nature of our experience together. This has truly been one of the many unexpected joys of this trip. And frankly, we are getting a little nervous about our life savings…

Getting Spoiled in Paradise

Adam and I fell in such deep love with Bali when we visited five years ago that I was secretly bracing myself for serious disappointment during this trip. However, Bali has more than lived up to our expectations—and perhaps even exceeded them.

After my mom and Aloni left, we decided to take advantage of the time to relax, let the kids get caught up on long neglected school work and take a break from the hectic travel pace. We are staying in this charming cottage that belongs to a friend of my Dad and Carolyn’s. It’s situated in the middle of the rice paddies in a village called Penestanen—a 10 minute walk from Ubud, the artistic and cultural center of Bali. It has a beautiful coy pond and the kids sleep on the porch outside on a big bed with a mosquito net.



For an incredibly reasonable $100/week that includes the cooking and cleaning services of Ilhu, a lovely Balinese woman who often comes with her adorable three-year old son, it is the bargain of the century and we will undoubtedly have a hard time leaving.















Bali is blessed with astonishing beauty. Apparently, when Balinese people are asked what heaven looks like they always say “like Bali.” Though 95% Hindu (as opposed to the rest of Indonesia which is Muslim) their practice is unique and intricate, with rituals and ceremonies for everything imaginable. There are little offerings of flowers and banana leaves everywhere you go—even on the ground in front of some little snack bar and on the dash board of the cars. They believe deeply in reincarnation and the ceremony surrounding cremations is the most joyous and elaborate of all celebrations.


We had the great fortune of happening upon one as we saw hundreds of people marching in procession with elaborately decorated floats (oddly some with advertising for local merchants) down the street dancing and singing. The floats were carried on large bamboo sticks by hundreds of men dressed in sarongs who were singing and laughing and would occasionally stop and spray each other with water (apparently to confuse the evil spirits, but with 90 degree weather and serious humidity, there was an obvious side benefit). Upon arrive at the cremation site, there was a long and careful ritual in which offerings and blessing were placed among the body inside a giant paper mache bull (a black one because apparently the deceased was of a high caste). Then, the bull is set aflame and the crowd watches as the whole contraption is burned. This is no solemn funereal scene—it is a relaxed and joyous event in which the entire town participates and they didn’t even seem to mind the throngs of white folks standing around observing. One of the striking things about Balinese Hinduism is that, even though almost everyone you meet is devout and exceedingly proud of their religion, they are pleased to welcome foreigners in to experience it without any judgment or stiffness. It is as though they know they have found the answer to life’s mysteries and they are anxious to share it with anyone who is willing to experience it for themselves.

Bali seems to be one of the few places on earth in which I can truly relax. So here is my rough daily schedule: Wake up after a solid nine hours of sleep (unprecedented in my previous life in which five or six is normally my max); observe amazing view of the rice paddies; go to yoga class; kiss children and husband; have breakfast; make complex and vital decisions (which style two-hour massage should I get for $10? should the body scrub be jasmine or green tea? The flower bath frangipani or spice?); remind Adam to make sure the kids are doing their homework; have lunch; read a book; write some blog entries; eat dinner; sleep. Rough life, huh? I feel a little guilty about all of this indulgence, but it is all I can do to muster the energy to answer emails or plan a few days away at a beach. I am clearly a shadow of my former self.

Bali is not immune to economic difficulties and the tourist industry—their main source of income--took a huge dive after the bombs in Southern Bali in 2002 by Muslim extremists. Given the pervasive sense of peacefulness that exists on the island, the bombings left the Balinese in a state of shock and disbelief. Tourists are finding their way back, but one result of this is an over abundance of hotels and other amenities. This has led to the only small annoyance on this otherwise idyllic island--the transport “touts” who are positively ubiquitous. As you walk through town you are constantly greeted by smiling (presumably unemployed) Balinese men yelling “Yes, transport? Maybe tomorrow?” while making the apparently universal taxi signal (two hands pantomiming a steering wheel). This has actually become a family joke and we contemplated making and selling t-shirts which say “No, transport” on the front and “Not tomorrow either” on the back—which would undoubtedly sell like hotcakes.

We finally did manage to plan a little vacation from our vacation from our vacation and spend a few days on the East Coast of Bali in a sleepy little town called Amed. We found a little hotel called the Dancing Dragon which billed itself as a “Feng Shui boutique hotel” and I could not resist. It was a nice little place with bungalows over looking the Lombok Straight of the Bali Sea with great snorkeling directly off the steps from the pool and wreck of a WW2 Japanese boat just a few kilometers off for even better underwater sites. We watched the sunrise both mornings—a site that us Californians don’t get to see much. It felt like we were at the end of the earth and we were the first people to see the world come alive.

All in all, Bali continues to be my quintessential image of paradise. Adam and I have been plotting how we could possibly manage to come back here for two weeks every year. Then we woke up and realized we might actually have to get jobs at some point, unless of course, the t-shirt business takes off.

You Can Rest When You're Dead

We just finished a wonderful nine days with my mom and Aloni visiting with us in Bali. “Relaxing vacation” is not a term with which my mother is familiar. Hence, her motto “you can rest when you’re dead.” So it was nine action-packed days--filled with from morning until night with activity.

When not involved in structured activities we spent our “free time” swimming, eating and shopping. For most people, shopping is a relaxing leisure activity, particularly on vacation, where you slowly stroll from shop to shop, observing the charming ethnic art and picking up a few souvenirs and gifts for family. For my mom, it is practically an aerobic sport. I must admit that I relished having the benefit of my mother’s seemingly preternatural ability to sift through the multitudes of junk and find the treasures. This is not really my skill set, and I had really been floundering in markets throughout Southeast Asia and Africa. With my mother’s “gift” and my penchant for efficiency, we managed to cover the town of Ubud in short order. My mom left me with a large duffel bag full of our spoils and marching orders, heavy on the specifics, to purchase the few things we had not managed to get during her time here—all to be shipped back to L.A. before we head off for a short stop in Bangkok and then Israel.

Among our many adventures was a glorious bike trip down Mount Batur. This was the most genteel of bike trips—starting with breakfast of banana pancakes and ginger tea on a terrace restaurant overlooking the extraordinarily beautiful Lake Batur. There was top notch equipment (including helmets and gloves), a van following close behind us, snacks and water always at the ready, and since the entire trip was down hill, we never actually had to peddle. The only exercise we got was for our wrists--from squeezing the break to avoid crashing into each other (mostly me avoiding crashing into my mother). Despite the lack of physical exertion for which I was hoping, it was a thoroughly enjoyable ride through Balinese rice fields, villages, temples and other exquisite scenery. Our guide was incredibly sweet—always making sure the kids (and my mom) were safe and happy. He also took time to explain many interesting facts about Balinese life and culture along the way. One stop was at a typical Balinese home which really consists of a series of buildings situated around an outside court yard. He explained that the front of the house (or the head) is the family temple in which the ancestors are worshipped. The oldest members of the household have the next most honored space, then the young adults (usually married), the kids and then the kitchen. The back of the house (the tush, I guess) is reserved for the animals. Even though each member of the family has some indoor place to sleep, the bulk of activity occurs in the center of the courtyard, from preparing offerings, to knitting to fixing the family motorbike. It’s seems like a lovely intergenerational way to live—sort of a Balinese schtetl.

The agenda for the next day included river rafting down the stunningly beautiful Ayung River. Our guide was a terrific, energetic guy who took the kids and Aloni’s Hebrew lessons (“say ‘kadima’ not ‘forward’”) in great humor and stride. It was not the roughest of rivers, but there were some exciting rapids, many opportunities to get soaked and great fun all around. It was the kids’ first experience with river rafting and it undoubtedly wetted their appetite for more (pun somewhat intended).



During their visit, my mom and Aloni graciously allowed Adam and I to take off for a few days—our first time alone in 4.5 months. We completely splurged on a spectacularly beautiful resort called the Oberoi on Seminyak beach. We truly relished the time alone together and utterly enjoyed every moment. Although, we did devote a significant portion of it to talking about our kids and acknowledging how much deeper our family attachment has become since spending 24/7 together for 4 months—much of it in a small room with bunk beds—and generally congratulating ourselves for taking this journey.

All in all, it was a terrific visit with my mom and Aloni. The kids had another tearful goodbye as they left for the airport on Monday evening, and we were back to our foursome. We look forward to seeing them in Israel in a month or so. Now, even though we are all still very much alive, it is time to relax…

Hanoi and Vietnam Concluded

Hotel Hell

Perhaps, the gods were punishing us for our one night in splendiferous luxury (at least, relatively speaking), as Melissa described in her last posting. We took a late flight from Hue to Hanoi, where we would spend the last three days of our time in Vietnam. I’m not a big fan of late night flights as when you arrive, you have no ability to get any sense of where you are or what the environment is like. However, it was really the only flight that worked for us. We arrived in Hanoi at around 11:00 pm and we’re picked up by our hotel, The Hanoi Paradise. Suffice it to say, this was no paradise. Choosing a hotel continues to be a bit of a puzzle for Melissa and me. Certainly, it’s easy if you’re going for all five star locales. However, when you’re trying to find the more reasonably priced boutiques, it’s a bit more perilous. It seems that the best thing to do is really to show up in a city and then look for a hotel. However, that’s simply not workable when you’re traveling with four and you have enough stuff to clothe Vietnam. So when we found a place in Hanoi that was ranked extraordinarily and consistently high on TripAdviser.com, we thought we had scored. Trip Adviser is a site where travelers rate their hotel experiences. We have learned that TripAdviser is only useful as one of many data points, it’s not to be relied on alone. There are a number of problems with it. First, there seems to be some risk that an unscrupulous hotel could find shills to throw up a bunch of bogus reviews. Second, there’s no baseline, meaning that you have no way of knowing if the reviewer is an 18 year old accustomed to austere accommodations. What may be excellent to the 18 year old backpacker may be sorely lacking for someone else (such as Melissa and me, and apparently, our kids). We arrived at the place and it appeared dreary to begin with, but we did not have much choice. We went to our room, which was also dreary and dirty (eg. footprints on the bath mat). However, the clincher, was when Maya exclaimed that there’s a rodent on the floor. This was troubling for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that it was not a rodent, but, in fact, a huge cockroach. Not sure which is worse. The hotel’s explanation was that “there are cockroaches in Vietnam.” I immediately got on the phone and called every five star hotel in Hanoi to no avail. So we had to suck it up, and spend the night. Melissa was annoyed at me, because I was so unable to hide my distaste that I was freaking the kids out. I could not sleep the entire night as every time I experienced any bodily sensation, I was convinced a cockroach was crawling on me. I guess I’m not quite as adaptable as I thought as I was. Oh well. Breakfast was not much better as there were an army of ants frolicking in the sugar bowl, and another infantry division of their compatriots marching up the wall. Needless to say, we got out of there quickly, and found a great little boutique, for $45/ night and we were all relieved.

Hanoi

Hanoi may be my favorite among the major cities that we have visited. It’s a compelling combination of Asian and French influences. This, of course, is true of much of Indochina, but the French influence, to me anyway, seemed the most prominent. The old quarter is a colossus of activity, with small maze-like streets containing everything from five star restaurants, to street vendors, to silk merchants, to old men sitting around smoking pipes that look awfully like bongs (or so I have been told). When you leave the old quarter, there are huge boulevards with wide sidewalks, dotted with cafes, very reminiscent of the Champs Elysee. The streets themselves are packed with cars and the ubiquitous motor bikes. The city has all the passion and dynamism of New York, without the claustrophobic feel, with, however, considerably more pollution. This is illustrated by the fact that almost all the locals wear face masks as they travel via motorbike, looking like they’re either rushing to perform surgery or about to hold you up. To our kids’ credit we basically spent three days walking all over the city, experiencing the sights, smells, sounds and tastes of Hanoi. We loved it.

Uncle Ho Under Glass

One of the most unusual things that we did was visit the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum. We had tried to go the day before but learned that it’s only open from 8:00 to 11:00. I only mention this because it’s one fact, among many, that Melissa used to support her conspiracy theory, which I will describe a bit later. When you arrive at the area of the Mausoleum, which is a huge, foreboding gray building, you immediately notice the military presence. We were sternly instructed that we were not permitted to walk where we were walking and were directed, by severe humorless soldiers, where to go. We found the line and were amazed to see how long it was, at least a ¼ of a mile. It was also very diverse, including both Western and Eastern tourists. When you’re about 1/3 of the way from the entrance, you are instructed to leave large bags. Since, we did not have any, we were pointed toward security, equivalent to airport security. I was asked by a female security officer to tell her how many cameras we had. I showed her our camera and Maya’s camera, but I forgot that I was also holding Emma’s camera. When she discovered Emma’s camera in my bag, she looked at me incredulously, as if she thought I was trying to pull a fast one. We were then told to drop off our cameras. We did so and returned to the line. At this point the line was moving pretty quickly. We then approached the entrance to the Mausoleum. At this point, there was even more military presence. People were instructed to remove their hats and sunglasses. Melissa and I had to explain that our “very hip” transition glasses were necessary for us to see. I was instructed to remove my hands from my pockets. It was all so odd. However, none of this compared with the strangeness of the actual viewing. You enter the viewing site behind and to the right of Uncle Ho. The room is quite dark. The first thing that you see is a ghoulish, yellowish glow on his hands. As you walk further down the aisle, you see the same yellow glow on his face. You then take a left which essentially puts you right in front of him. And there he is, looking like an odd combination of your kindly uncle and something out of a Friday 13th movie. As I walked to the spot right in front of Uncle Ho, I stopped for a moment to take a closer look and was immediately and not so gently pushed forward by one of the guards. You then take another left, putting you on the other side of Ho and you move on and exit. The experience takes less than two minutes and has the feel of a Saturday Night Live skit. I kept waiting for Ho to stand up and say “Smile, You’re on Candid Camera.”

Melissa, as you may know, has some tendency towards conspiracy theories and she is convinced that the Uncle Ho on display is a wax figure. In fairness to Melissa, there is ample evidence to support this and she is not the first to suggest it: the Mausoleum is open for limited hours to keep the lines long; the light in the mausoleum is low; the security far exceeds what one would think necessary under the circumstances; once you’re inside, they keep the line moving quickly; and they push you along if you stop even for a brief moment while viewing Uncle Ho. It seems to suggest that “they” have something to hide. Who knows? who cares? Nonetheless, it was certainly an interesting morning.

An American In Vietnam

I was confronted with two sets of feelings as I traveled around the countries of Indochina: Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam.

First, it’s impossible to travel around Southeast Asia and not think about the US’s checkered past with respect to the countries of Indochina. The more I learn about US policies with regard to the countries during the Cold War period, the more disgusted I am. While Vietnam had removed the Khmer Rouge from power in 1979, until 1982, the UN continued to view the Khmer Rouge as the legitimate government of Cambodia. The Khmer Rouge was perhaps the most genocidal group of thugs since the Nazis, but because they were aligned with China, as opposed to the Soviet Union (and it’s ostensible puppet, Vietnam), the US refused to do anything even in the face of incontrovertible evidence of their atrocities. Our war in Vietnam, much like the current war in Iraq, was initiated on the basis of lies and factual manipulations, predicated on a theory of communist world domination that would be funny, if not so many people had died in furtherance of such theory. Cambodia and Laos had essentially become the region’s whipping boys, used and manipulated in any way that the stronger powers felt was appropriate. I certainly understand, indeed grew up experiencing, the fears associated with the Cold War. However, US action in furtherance of its Cold War strategy was so perversely Machiavellian as to be simply horrifying.

Second, as you travel through Vietnam, you see significant amounts of Vietnamese propaganda trumpeting their various military victories, including their victory over the United States. It is worth noting that the Vietnamese, themselves, are extraordinarily warm and friendly. You only see the propaganda relating to the war at official sites. The visit to the Cu Chi Tunnels, near Saigon, is a particularly stirring experience. The Cu Chi Tunnels are these vast networks of underground tunnels used by the Viet Cong to attack US troops. The area is now one of the top tourist sites. First, you see this grainy, circa 1975, movie, which is just a bad propaganda film that I found somewhat laughable. However, you are then shown the various instrumentalities of death used against the American GI’s. There are also many photos, with captions such as “American GIs running from the victorious Vietnam Army.” At the same time, I recently read Tim O’Brien’s stunning Vietnam memoir, “If I Die in a Combat Zone.” The horrors that our GI’s suffered both in Vietnam and upon their return to a largely ungrateful country were innumerable. Having grown up with a vaguely arrogant sense that “people like me” did not join the military, I came away with not only a renewed sense of horror over America’s behavior in Vietnam, but also a profound sense of guilt about my arrogance and a greatly enhanced gratitude for those who serve their country.

Our only regret about Vietnam is that we did not get to spend more in this amazing country.

Next up—Bali.