Having a Baby in Korea, Part 1

We found out I was pregnant a few days before Christmas. The weekend before Christmas we had some friends over, Joe cooked dinner, and we headed to the noraebang (Korean karaoke room) to sing some Christmas carols. It was a fabulous night, and everyone was drinking except for me. You can imagine my surprise when I woke up the next morning with what felt like a very severe hangover. I remember feeling slightly irritated that my husband, who was feeling no pain the night before, seemed to be fine the next morning. I, on the other hand, could barely get out of bed and felt repulsed by all of the foods that had tasted so wonderful only the night before. A few days later my pregnancy suspicions were confirmed by the bright red line on my Korean pregnancy test. Luckily I speak enough Korean that I was able to confirm that the line did in fact mean I was pregnant!

Shortly afterwards I made an appointment at Asan Hospital in Seoul. A friend of mine had surgery there and had a positive experience. She had informed me about their international clinic, where volunteers who spoke English helped foreigners navigate the Korean hospital system. Knowing nothing about having a baby, let alone having a baby in Korea, just having someone who spoke English soothed a great deal of my anxiety. Making the appointment was simple. At the appointment I found out I was 6 weeks pregnant (not as far along as I thought I was) and was able to see the baby on the ultrasound. Joe came to the appointment with me, but unfortunately he wasn't allowed in when I had the ultrasound or when I met with the doctor. The fathers are almost completely left out of the birthing process in Korea at most of the major hospitals, a fact that didn't really sit well with either of us. When I met with the doctor I was thrilled to find out he spoke English quite well. I didn't even need the international clinic volunteer to stay with me. My main concern at the time was getting a prescription for something that would help with my morning sickness. We were leaving in three weeks for a 24 day trip to SE Asia, and I had been very ill for over 2 weeks at that point. I was rapidly losing weight and barely keeping fluids down, so the doctor prescribed me Vitamin B and an anti-nausea drug that is commonly taken here. While it didn't cure the morning sickness, it definitely made it bearable.

I didn't have another appointment until 7 weeks later because of our trip. When we returned I ventured to Asan Hospital on my own (no point in Joe going since he couldn't participate in anything). I was very anxious about the appointment, especially considering that the only pregnancy symptom I had was morning sickness. I couldn't feel the baby yet, and until I could feel my baby moving, I worried every day that I was going to lose it. My fears were immediately placated when I saw my little one on the monitor. I can honestly say that no moment to date, other than my wedding day, comes close to equaling the joy and amazement I felt when I saw my baby kicking and punching at the ultrasound equipment. Feisty little thing- no surprise there! It is amazing how much they look like a baby at 13 weeks, especially when you consider that the first 4 weeks of pregnancy they aren't even implanted in your uterus. I met with the doctor and was relieved to have him inform me that my baby appeared to be completely normal and that he considered my pregnancy very low risk. He then talked with me about the series of tests he wanted to run at my next appointment- screening for genetic abnormalities. While he was a little hesitant to have me take the tests because I am not Korean, he advised me to take the tests to rule out certain potential disorders. Completely naive, I agreed and made the next appointment, learning later that these tests are rarely performed in the United States without reason.

After we came home from Bali, Joe and I began to seriously discuss what type of birth I should have. Our situation is rather complicated. Baby Boyd is due to arrive around August 23rd. Our employment contracts in Korea expire August 31st, meaning we will no longer have our apartment or health insurance after that date. In addition, we have to leave within 10 days of our contract expiring in order for our schools to pay for our airfare home. Our original plan was to have a planned c-section at 39 weeks (August 16th) so that I would have enough time to recover to travel home on September 10th. In Korea, almost 50% of women end up having a c-section. Women are strapped down during the birth, and if their labor isn't progressing fast enough, they will be forced to have a c-section. You can imagine the complications this could cause if I were to have an unplanned c-section on August 31st. With nowhere to live and no health insurance, it wouldn't be a very positive situation to bring our little one into. So, we figured let's be proactive and just schedule a c-section, hoping to avoid complicating our situation further.

Around this time, I started researching c-sections, particularly how to prepare for them and recover from them. It didn't take me very long to realize that I REALLY didn't want to have a c-section. I decided I needed to talk with my doctor about everything at my next appointment and see what he thought. When I met with him, his solution was simply to have me try to have a natural childbirth. He advised induction around the 28th of August if the baby still hadn't come. I left the appointment determined to do everything possible to prepare for a successful natural childbirth.

In addition to my newly found determination deliver this baby naturally, I started to realize that perhaps the traditional Korean hospital route was not going to be the right fit for me. As an American, used to making my own individual decisions, it can be really frustrating to live in a country that has standard procedures and rituals that are followed by almost everyone without question. For example, after a woman gives birth in Korea they believe that she should only eat seaweed soup for a month. They also believe it is important for the woman to be hot, meaning lots of blankets and no air conditioning, even in the summer. I happen to hate seaweed soup. I know it is healthy, is rich in iron, and is probably a good food to eat after having a baby, but the stuff makes me gag. When I informed my co-teacher (who is also pregnant) that I didn't think I would be able to eat seaweed soup after the birth she looked at me like I was crazy and told me that the hospital would not allow me to eat anything else. As silly as it may seem, the possibility of being forced to eat seaweed soup was what inspired me to start researching options other than birthing at a hospital. Because they force you to stay at the hospital after the birth for 2-3 more nights, I could not imagine sweating profusely in my hospital bed being forced to eat seaweed soup. It just wasn't how I wanted to start my experience as a mother.

Fortunately I came across Birthing in Korea run by Lisa Fincaryk. She runs childbirth classes in Seoul and works as a doula. A doula is someone who offers non-medical support during pregnancy and childbirth, and statistics show that they reduce c-section rates, shorten labor, reduce the need for interventions and medication, and increase the mother's overall satisfaction with the birth experience. We met with Lisa a few Saturdays ago and were thrilled to find out that we did in fact have options other than having our baby at a hospital in Seoul, and if we did decide to have our baby in a hospital, some hospitals are more flexible than others. Since our meeting we have signed up for birthing classes that are focused on the Hypnobirthing method (more on that later), hired Lisa as our doula, and set up an appointment at Mediflower Women's Clinic and Natural Birthing Center. I am really exited about visiting Mediflower. Not only are the costs comparable to a Korean hospital, but they emphasize birthing your baby as comfortably as possible, allowing the mother to move around, even birth in  the tub if that is what she wants. After the birth, the baby is immediately given to the mother, whereas in Korean hospitals you barely see the baby until you take it home. The rooms are free of medical equipment and look like a wonderful place to give birth. They don't force you to stay there if you don't need to be there, unlike Korean hospitals where you are forced to stay for the mandatory 2-3 nights. I was also informed that since the clinic opened, they have only had to transfer 3 women to nearby hospitals for a c-section. And yes, I would have the option of having an epidural, but I am very focused on avoiding medication during the birth.

I have one remaining appointment at Asan on Tuesday to have an ultrasound (hopefully we will be able to tell if we are having a boy or a girl), and at that point I am going to ask them for all of my files so I can pass the information on to whatever hospital or birthing center we decide on. Even though we don't yet know where we are having the baby, I feel a lot more confident and happy about having the baby in Korea.

Sprints

Today I finished week two of a new three-day-a-week morning sprint interval regiment. Sami came up with the idea to run in the mornings. She had read in one of her pregnancy books that mothers who perform light exercise while pregnant lose post-birth baby fat faster than those who don't, and politely suggested that I show my support by accompanying her in her endeavor. I responded the same way I respond to all of her ideas by first vehemently opposing, then politely declining, then leaving it up for debate, and finally consenting. I can't stand a guilty conscience and so I always come around. It went something like this:

Me: "You're mad I'm not going to run with you aren't you?"

Her: "No, it's fine."

Me: "I'm sorry, but it's just that I hate running and I hate waking up early."

Her: "It's fine. I'll go by myself. I knew it was a long shot."

Me: (Heavy sigh) "Fine. Maybe I'll do it even though I don't want to. Let me think about it."

Her: "Joe. It's ok. Seriously, don't worry about it."

Me: "Fine, I'll do it. Whatever."

The worst is when, as in this instance, my initial negative reaction to an idea doesn't seem to bother her. She plays it off like it's no big deal, but it's ALWAYS a big deal. Right? Maybe. Who knows? I don't think man will ever understand the complexity and mystery of woman. Because I cannot be sure of her true feelings, (and I am slowly beginning to feel that a husband is secretly tested a half dozen times every day) I play it safe and give in. Also, I seem to be more comfortable doing something against my will.

Weeks passed and we kept putting off our start date claiming that the weather was still too cold. Finally, after staring down at my muffin top of a stomach, I decided it was time to go for it. By this time, however, Sami had lost interest and embarked on a new endeavor of "hardcore" stretching.

Why did I continue on without her? Easy. I borrowed a stopwatch from school. There is just something obsessively appealing about the chirping sound of the start and stop button, and to look down and read numbers so exact.

The first day I went, it was cold and windy out, which did not bother me during the workout. It was only after I had returned into the warm apartment that my ears began to throb. Since then I have worn Sami's girly earmuffs which I can get away with here, being a strange foreigner and all.

There is a turf field next to the subway station about a three minute light jog away from our doorstep (and believe me, this is accurate. I have a stopwatch). This is where I do my sprinting. That first day, I could only manage four down and backs at around 20 seconds each with a 90 second jog in between. This doesn't sound like much, and it isn't, but I finished begging for an extra pair of lungs. I have gradually worked my way up to five down-back-down-backs at 40 seconds each- more than double what I started. I may choose to keep going for more, but I run before school and prefer to sleep in as long as possible, leaving me just enough time to get ready for the day when I return.

While my lungs have adapted slightly, and increased their capacity, my leg muscles still ache like the first day. My hamstrings in particular are as tight as piano wires. I stretch before and after and even throughout the day, but to no avail. Luckily, we wear indoor slippers at work, so I can shuffle around like the rest instead of walking like a 90 year old man who needs to poop.

During my run I am usually accompanied by one older woman who speed walks the perimeter of the field, and a man who reads the paper while hula-hooping. Hula-hoops are big here and even taken seriously as exercise. A woman at my gym stands and watches TV for 40 plus minutes, gyrating and thrusting and spinning that damn hoop all the while. I on the other hand, can only hula-hoop for three to four revolutions, depending on how fast I can get it started spinning with my hands and how fast gravity works.

Ideally, I would like to sprint Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but this week muscle soreness and laziness pushed me into Saturday. The great part about running on Saturday is that I was able to sleep in, however, this meant that more people would be occupying my running space. Koreans have school every other Saturday, and today there were a group of them bunched in my field farting around with badminton racquets and shuttlecocks. As I jogged to warm up many of them said hello, but I ignored them and acted as if the combination of my girly earmuffs and the blasting volume on my iPod was enough to drown their greetings. This may sound cruel and inconsiderate, but after nearly two years in Korea, you get a little tired of being a spectacle and just wish for nothing more than to blend in and be inconspicuous. This is impossible given the current situation because 1) I am white and no one else is white and 2) I am running outside for exercise and this is unheard of.

As I started my first sprint one funny guy, the class clown, decided to run along with me in a mock race. This was mildly annoying, but he quit after a down and only half of an up. As I charged ahead I told myself that if anyone got in my way I was just going to run them over. I was in a surly mood. After all, I was doing something I never wanted to do without the person I wanted to be doing it with. The one back at home doing the hardcore stretches whom I still can't figure out.

Ha Long Bay: Part 2

In my previous post I failed to mention the presence of another passenger on our trip to Ha Long Bay- the mixologist. He rode in the back of the van with us from Hanoi and carried with him a cardboard box filled with clanking, half drained fifths. His mission was to train the bartender on our boat whom I imagined alone on the ship and making an exhaustive attempt at opening a can of beer with a corkscrew. Our friend had trouble gaining access to the boat, what with his libation bottles, but eventually words were exchanged and promises made and he joined us in the cabin. While he stayed after lunch and taught the crew how to evenly layer a cosmopolitan no one would ever order, we climbed up to the deck and partook in smuggled scotch swilled from plastic rinse cups.

Liquor purchased from anywhere other than the sparse bar on board was strictly prohibited, but this didn't stop the boat vendors that paddled from ship to ship from pushing product. One woman accosted us from her floating 7-11 the moment we slowed to reach the ferry that would take us to Sung Sot Cave, the largest cave in Ha Long Bay located on Bo Hon Island. Her inventory of beers and snacks were tempting, but the look from our guide suggested we stick to the rules.

The cave itself was magnificent and (much to my amazement) rivaled the caves of Mulu National Park in Borneo. While climbing up to the mouth of the cave, we couldn't help but slow down the procession of followers by taking extra time to enjoy the view below. The combination of green water and wooden ships framed by harshly vertical limestone islands seemed of another era. There were more than a few prime locations reserved for families and couples, but Sami had opted to stay back on the boat, having grown increasingly sick and worried that she had contracted a virus. The only thing she was able to keep down was sliced white bread.

Inside the warty icicle stalactydes and stalagmites- typically the color of mud, glowed bright green, yellow and blue under artificial light. The ambiance couldn't have contrasted more with the 17th century pirate scene out in the water. It was like walking through a Star Trek episode.

Of course, the lighting inside of the cave makes it impossible for a camera to capture it's true magnitude of depth and complexity. I tried in vain to snap digital photos, but our cheap Kodak captured the scene as a blur of grainy color. The pictures might as well have been taken at an Ecstasy fueled rave.

Pictures never turn out inside caves

 One image that did come in clearly was a trash receptacle fashioned as an orca. At least I thought it was an orca. Tor called it a dolphin, but to Becky it was a penguin. Identical trash receptacles lined the path inside , which worked wonders for keeping the cave clean even if they did seem a bit out of place.

Penguin? Orca?

 After the cave we were ferried to another small island with a peak resting pagoda that offered even more spectacular views of the bay. After taking pictures at the top, I tried to get the young man at the beer stand to sell me a can for anything less than thirty-thousand dong (or was it 40?), but he wouldn't budge. After initially walking away in disgust, I sheepishly returned, all to eager to maintain my fading buzz. We sat at a picnic table and drank our '333' brand beers and watched as a girl stripped down to her bikini on a dare and ran into the cold water. It couldn't have been warmer than 50 degrees outside. I think she may have been European from one of those Scandinavian countries.

When we got back to our ship I checked on Sami who was in terrible shape and questioning our decision to travel in the first place. One of our fellow shipmates offered up a litany of suggestions intended to handle morning sickness, not of which were available to us given our current location.

While Sami lay suffering in our cabin a few feet away, the rest of us gathered around for our Vietnamese cooking lesson. It wasn't cooking really, just assembling spring rolls, the ingredients of which had all been chopped beforehand. The mixture consisted of a beaten egg, mushrooms, garlic, white and green onion, pork, carrot and salt. I volunteered to wrap the first one and when our guide commented that it was too big, I informed him that mine was "American sized" while patting my belly.

That guy looks pretty happy about my roll

After dinner (fish, rice, vegetables and our spring rolls for us; bread in bed for Sami) we went upstairs to finish off the scotch. I should mention at this time that Sami insisted I go up and have a good time. I fear I am starting to sound like a selfish drunk.

We sat and chatted with the older Australian bloke. He tried to explain rugby to us and we tried to explain American football. Neither party left impressed.

After finishing the bottle, it was a wobbly walk down the steps. I don't remember much of the night other than visiting the toilet to call dinosaurs. Perhaps Sami could tell the story better, but I doubt she wants to.

Ha Long Bay: Part 1

Our Ha Long Bay cruise traveling crew consisted of our friends Tor and Becky, two sets of Australian couples, and a Chinese family of four. We were each asked to introduce ourselves early into the early morning van ride from Hanoi. Rolling through flat farmland interrupted by jutting French inspired architecture- worn down relics of a bygone era- I kept one ear on the short and sweet recent histories of our fellow passengers and another monitoring the nauseous grumblings of my sick wife.

The older Australian couple had just finished visiting Malaysia. I didn't pick up on this, but a questions was raised about their accents and it was explained that they had been raised in Wales before migrating to Gold Coast. Or was it Melbourne? Anyway, the female half of the younger two from down under was of Vietnamese descent. Her and her boyfriend were vacationing in Vietnam and visiting areas her family came from. A younger daughter in the Chinese foursome did the talking and translating for her family. I can't recall anything she had to say.

Snapshots from inside the van on our drive from Hanoi

Sami had convinced herself that it was the unidentifiable green vegetable in our noodles from the night before that had made her sick. She vomited throughout the night, but claimed that she was feeling better in the morning. However, as the van bumped along third world roads her hangover-like symptoms began to resurface.

We stopped at a rest area/tourist shop about half-way through our ride. I was on a quest to find the price of dragon fruit. I knew that it had to be dirt cheap for Sami to let me get it because I had already spent my allowance on a bottle of scotch to bring on the boat.

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I don't remember boarding our cruise ship. I can't recall if we took a ferry ride to it or if we boarded right from the dock. I wish I could recapture those first waves of emotion I must have felt taking in the scenery. The truth is that a tragedy took place on those same waters a mere three weeks after we visited. A wooden pirate inspired vessel similar in style to ours started listing in the early evening of February 17th. Despite notifications from other boats, the crew neglected to notify the passengers and 12 people, including 10 tourists died trapped inside their cabins in the early hours of the next morning.

For days afterward, I couldn't help but imagine the horror of the situation. I became obsessed with certain thoughts. How long did the passengers locked inside their rooms know what was going on? What did the moment feel like when they realized the gravity of the situation? It must have been terrifying and it bothers me to no end.

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Once aboard we passengers were able to properly assess our surroundings. Huge windows lined the perimeter of the dining room and lounge letting in a pallor of natural light. Outside limestone mountains bobbed out of the colorless ocean, their forms smudged by fog that could make entire cliffs disappear. At the time I was disappointed that the weather wasn't ten degrees warmer, the sky bluer and clearer. However, I as look back on the experience I am pleased that we were able to capture they mystery of a landscape so often depicted on book cover jackets. I imagine summertime Ha Long Bay to be none too different than Lake Shasta over Memorial Day weekend, and that just doesn't seem right.

Our lunch on the boat was fish, shrimp and vegetables. We were all quite pleased with the meal at the time, but it was one we would become quite familiar with by the end of the excursion. 

Feeling sick, Sami retired to our room to rest and I grabbed the bottle of scotch to meet with Tor and Becky. Ours was the only room in the main cabin, and felt safer than the rooms downstairs whose entrance led to a wooden walkway around the outside of the boat guarded only by a knee-high wall. I felt confident walking that potentially hazardous path that led to Tor and Becky's room carrying an unopened bottle of J&B scotch. I wasn't so sure how easily a time I would have maneuvering the plank after the bottle had been emptied. 

You can see how low the side railing is in this picture

After a couple of pops inside the warm cabin, the three of us ventured upstairs to the top deck. Up there we drank the throat warming scotch discreetly, out of our yellow plastic rinsing cups. We smoked the cigarillos purchased in Saigon and looked out into a landscape of natural wonder, completely giving in to the adventure ahead.

Freak Out

I freaked out Tuesday, third period. Homeroom #6 isn't even my worst class. Far from it. In fact, Homeroom #6 has the greatest number of students with a high level of English proficiency. Maybe that is part of the problem. Maybe they feel that the subject matter is too basic to take seriously. Maybe they thought that because my co-teacher was out of the room it would be ok to disregard the basic tenets of respect and classroom protocol ingrained through thousands of school days endured over a seven year span of formal education. Maybe they were looking ahead to an upcoming three day field trip, and just couldn't contain their excitement enough to focus.

Or maybe they are just bastards.

This is my fourth semester teaching English at an elementary school in Korea. The first three were spent exclusively with 3rd and 5th graders, which was fine. I had each 5th grade homeroom class twice a week, and each 3rd grade class once a week. The 5th graders could be buttheads at times, carrying on conversations in their native tongue and constantly hitting each other instead of paying attention, but the third graders were cute and funny and, most importantly, had an unadulterated passion for the subject matter that made it all worthwhile. As the school year wore on, the fifth graders became worse and worse, and in my limited understanding of Korean, I was able to pick up on grumblings from the other teachers as to just how bad this particular group was. Everyone was happy that they would be moving on to the sixth grade, except of course, those who would be teaching sixth grade the following year.

One of the things a foreigner must learn to accept about Korean culture is that they refuse to make plans in advance. Here it was the day before the new school year was to start and I still had no clue as to whom my co-teacher was to be, nor what grade I would be teaching. Minutes before I left for the day my Vice Principal called me into her office and informed me that I would be teaching 5th grade exclusively. It was decided that 5th and 6th grade would have English class three times a week, and another teacher would handle the 3rd graders. My new co-teacher (and as an aside, in Korea all of the teachers change grades every year and schools every 5, so at just about the time a teacher masters a grade or a subject, they move on to something entirely different) would be a young female teacher transferring in from another school. I left the brief meeting feeling a little bummed that I would no longer have the 3rd graders, but relieved that I could move forward and begin planning having finally received my assignment. Minutes later I was summoned back into the VPs office where she informed me that the school's other native English speaking teacher- the one who handled 4th and 6th graders, had refused to teach 6th grade for another year. I was asked if I wouldn't mind handling 6th grade exclusively. Being an accommodating tool, I acquiesced.

So here I was this past Tuesday with a group of students who have gotten to know me well over the last year and a month. My co-teacher, being both young and new to the school, has been given additional responsibilities undoubtedly passed on to her by more tenured co-workers which cause her to miss the majority of class time. I have been left alone with the students many times, and until this year, I have never had a problem getting the students' full attention. This year has been a struggle, and on this particular day, I reached my breaking point.

At first I called up the class leader (voted on by the other students at the beginning of the year) to quiet the class down. After all, he speaks their language, maybe he could get through to them with a special chant or something. No go. I stayed silent for a moment and then just decided to jump into the lesson, hoping my smile and enthusiasm would catch on. It didn't and then seemingly out of nowhere the rage overtook me.

"WHY CAN'T YOU BE QUIET!!!" (pause, deep breath to gather air for maximum force) "LISTEN!!!"

The class was stunned. I made eye contact with one of my best students and I could see that she was visibly frightened. I scared myself a little actually. My throat tightened and I could feel the adrenaline racing through me. I wanted to throw or break something, but thankfully held back and said something else like "What's the matter with you?" that I am sure they don't have the ability to translate.

I instructed them to put their hands on their heads (common practice I probably should have attempted first) and walked out of the classroom. I crossed paths with my co-teacher who was on her way back in. She must have heard the melee because she asked if I was ok. I said yes and told her that I just needed to get some water. I went in the teacher's room and sat, cooling off for 5-10 minutes. When I walked back in it was deathly quiet and I finished the lesson without one person speaking out of turn. It was eerie, but it felt kind of great.

I told the other teachers about the incident and they assured me that my actions were fine. The thing is, they don't really understand the rage that I felt inside of me and with the cultural barrier, I cannot adequately describe it. The next day the students left for the three day field trip which afforded me a much needed break.

Hanoi: Day One

At baggage claim in Hanoi, I noticed a lot of red suitcases pushed continually around the belt. Normally, I wouldn't notice such a minor detail, but we have grown accustomed to flying with Korean passengers, 99 percent of whom travel exclusively with black Samsonites. It is always easy to spot Sami's indigo hiker's backpack make it's way around. Much like Korea, however, there is a mad rush to jockey for position at baggage claim, as if the bags aren't crawling at a snail's pace. Perhaps my humble upbringing in the wide open spaces of the US has instilled in me an unrealistic value in elbow room. Whatever it is, I have never grown accustomed to being shouldered out of the way by elderly women a foot shorter. Most of the time I take it like the accommodating weenie that I am, but there have been instances where I have pushed back with something more than subtle force. So far my action has elicited no more than a grunt and sideways stare from my victims, but Sami is always left mortified by her companion's behavior.

Luckily, there was no such incident leaving the Hanoi Airport. Unlike our first night in Saigon, we were picked up by one of our hotel drivers and were spared the frustrations of having to negotiate a fare. It took nearly an hour to drive from the airport to our hotel in the Old Quarter. Judging by the scenery on the other side of the windshield, I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that we had entered another country entirely. The sky was mottled gray and thick as we rolled through brown flooded rice paddies flanked by dirty concrete buildings.

Once inside its boundaries, the city instantly overwhelmed us. Narrow main thoroughfares sprouted impossibly skinny sidestreet tributaries. Rapidly crisscrossing motorscooters clogged every artery and parked scooters monopolized sidewalks. Trudging on foot was a move at your own risk proposition and many heavy white tourists clutching fat spouse arms and Loney Planet guides stood, mouth agape, and waited for a moment of open space that never arrived. Space not taken up by one man vehicles was swallowed by spillover markets, and indeed thousands of rural residents had flocked to Hanoi days before to capitalize on the upcoming Lunar New Year holiday.

Thanks to planning and luck we met our friends Tor and Becky Ostrom outside of our hotel at sundown. As we cautiously tiptoed through the chaos all around us, Tor regaled us with a tale of their cobra eating adventure earlier in the day. A live cobra was sacrificed for them and cooked in a number of different ways (judging by the pictures, I was surprised at just how much meat a snake contained). Highlights included ingesting the still beating heart and swilling a shot of snake bile. Apparently, the bile is none too appetizing. Tor smiled maniacally as he verbally painted, but Becky merely smiled, happy to have the experience behind her.

I took the initiative and chose an eating establishment for the evening. It was a little more authentic (see: dirty) than Sami would have liked, but she was happy enough to play along- a fact she would come to regret later when food borne illness took hold. But in the meantime, we sat down on the ubiquitous tiny plastic stools and ordered by pointing at fellow diner's plates. Our bowls of noodles were good, but they contained an unidentifiable green vegetable that we later pinpointed as the cause of Sami's sickness.

The three of us (minus Sami) drank beers with dinner. Much to the horror of my dining companions, I asked for an ice-filled mug- the way the locals drink it. Apparently they did not agree with my dangerous approach, but when is an authentic experience not worth the risk of diarrhea? Oh, yeah- every time.

We drank more beers out on the street (all very legal and commonplace) after dinner and did our best to ignore the peddlers. Eventually one of us caved and bought too much of something we all wanted a little of.

We said our goodbyes with an early morning looming over our heads. Back at the hotel Sami gave me two instructions while hurrying toward the toilet. I was to buy a bottle of water and request a wake up call for 6am. The visit to the front desk provided yet another reminder that we were away from Korea: an employee with an actual sense of humor. When I asked for a bottle of water she said "Ok, one million dong" as opposed to the ten thousand it actually cost. When I asked for a 6am wake up call she said "ok, we wake you up 3 a.m."

Eating for Two

The bus trip back to Ho Chi Minh City from Phnom Penh was brutally long. The ones in charge shoved in a VHS copy of Mr. Bones 2 which was dubbed in a shreiking language no passenger could understand. My ipod died early into the journey and I never have the best luck trying to read in a moving vehicle, so I passed the time by covering my ears and staring out into the flat, ox strewn farmland.

We knew going in that our Southeast Asia vacation had energy-wiping potential. Instead of kicking back on a beach at an all inclusive resort for three weeks, we opted to bounce around in an attempt to cover as much ground as possible. All told we would board 8 separate flights totaling 19 and a half hours on top of 23 combined hours of layover time. During our time on the ground and out of airports, over 42 hours were spent riding in 9 different buses or vans. During the 23 day excursion we slept in 9 different beds.

The itinerary was even more daunting for Sami who, at the time, was in the middle of her first trimester of pregnancy. This new development forced us to fall into a fuel stretching routine. Morning was the most energetic time and we responded by rising early, dining on breakfast typically provided by whatever hotel we were staying in and heading out on our designated mission. Lunch was usually early and when we could manage it, a mid afternoon rest, cleanup for dinner and in bed by eight or nine. When Sami slept I usually found something to watch online. I think I watched Black Swan early in the trip and the NFL playoffs were on during this time as well.

Eating was also a problem. Sami would get nauseous when her stomach was empty, but certain foods would make it worse. Every meal was a gamble- would it stay down or no? Would it leave a disgusting aftertaste no toothpaste could conceal? Our plan of attack was to order small amounts of as much food as possible. If she liked it, she ate much as she could stomach, and I polished off the rest. If she couldn't, I ate it all. Sami tended to crave the kind of foods she was familiar with and indulged in growing up- pizza, pasta, fries. After one or two bites, she would give up. I would pick up the slack on the hard hitting greasy foods, but I was still insistent on trying all of the local cuisine, so between feedings I would indulge in a street food treat. I ended up a fat and hating myself (but secretly happy).

When our bus finally did arrive back in Ho Chi Minh City, it was nearing our bedtime. I would have been content calling it a day, full from days of eating for two. However, Sami was feeling as woozy as she had all trip and insisted we find a place to eat. She led us to a well lit restaurant with a diner quality. We sat in the front, flanked by the street and open air. Further inside sat a loud group of six young tourists. The three couples let a Filipino man do most of the talking. He waxed poetic about his home country's culinary reputation and I listened carefully to his descriptions of fried pork and greasy concoctions knowing our time in The Philippines lay a mere two weeks ahead.

Sami had a bowl of Pho and (victory!) ate it all. We shared a rice flour crepe filled with pork, shrimp and bean sprouts which was served with a sweet chili dipping sauce. I also ordered chicken wings with fish sauce. I love fish sauce and I hear that there is a restaurant in Portland known for such wings, so I couldn't pass it up. They were perfect, not too salty, and I can't wait to get back to Oregon to compare.

Let it be known that the conclusion of this meal marked the exact moment when her craving for fruit and sweets began and would last for the duration of the trip. This is what we ordered:

While we waited for dessert, a young peddler came to our table and showed off her briefcase of cigars. We found that the peddlers in Vietnam had more of a sense of humor than those in Cambodia. To Sami's horror, I inquired as to the price of each item. I am not a smoker, but hey I'm on vacation. I asked the price of a tin of Dutch coffee cigarellos and was told 200,000 Dong (about $10 US).

"Too much," I said. "100" (meaning 100 thousand)

"No, sir," she replied. "150 ok you buy now"

"No, no, no. Sorry 100 or nothing." I had been burned too many times and now I was standing my ground. After a few minutes which were fun to me, but agonizing to Sami, our new friend came up with an idea.

"Ok, we play game. You know rock, paper, scissors? If I win you pay 150, if you win 100."

I laughed, charmed by her creativeness, but was determined to hold my ground. After an impossibly long and uncomfortable silence, she finally relented.

"Ok, 100."

"Deal."

The next morning while walking outside near our hotel I saw the same brand of cigars in a convenience store being sold for 60.