Up and fed by the normal time, Tim and I had some items to exchange at a couple of nearby shops. I had bought a nice Polo brand suitcase, which I needed only to carry home the gift tonnage I was acquiring. This Polo bag was too small. I remember feeling pretty lame carrying the big thing down the street the other day. Now I got to do it again. Together, we braved the street crossings and, after a few lucky choices regarding directions, we re-located the luggage shop.
Our particular luggage store was one of nearly a dozen on 'Luggage Row'. Each street-side shop had many different kinds and sizes of luggage placed on the sidewalk, as well as hung all over the street side walls. We remembered that our store had only a few samples placed out front. We had to look past all of the street samples for a very narrow, enclosed isle which led to a darkened interior, ending at a steep staircase. We found the isle, and lugged up two flights of stairs, through a sliding door next to the toilet, into a much cluttered storeroom.
The owner knew she had me over a barrel, and I had no success trying to negotiate a best price for the up-grade size difference. I found myself just shaking my head and accepting that I was in no position to bargain. Needless to say, the price for the first Polo penciled out much better than did the up-grade Polo.
Having now lugged this even bigger suitcase along crowded walkways, and across the busy streets to our hotel, I was through shopping for the day. I waited in the room until my taxi arrived to take me to school.
At 12:40pm, right on the button, Nghea called to tell me that it was time to leave. I was assured that the driver understood which school at the university section of the city I was to be dropped off. Once there, I carefully followed Duong's instructions. I waited on a bench inside the school's main gate.
I enjoyed watching the diversity of students come and go, but our 1:10pm meeting time had now come and gone. At 1:20pm, I walked to the gatehouse and showed the keeper the address I had been given for the school. It was during this mutually, non-understood conversation that Duong walked up. I was at the wrong school. Duong's school was a block away; we hurriedly walked to the classroom. Arriving late, Duong walked into the classroom. I was just behind her. In unison the room of over 40 students stood, and said in clear English, "Good afternoon, teacher."
Duong asked them to be seated, apologized for her tardiness, and then graciously made my introduction. This was to by my class. The game plan was to speak a little about myself, my family, America, and then solicit questions. The students needed to be exposed to impromptu opportunities to speak in English. I suspected that the subject was far too broad for most of the students. They couldn't identify topics to ask questions about.
I soon found myself walking into the classroom seeking volunteers. Selecting kids at random, I asked their name and what their plans were after high school. Each student stood and, a few taking a moment to compose their responses, told me their goals. Without exception, all of these seventeen year olds were on to full university. After university, most expressed a desire to work at a rewarding job.
This first class had only one male student. There was laughter when I asked him if he felt pretty special being the only boy in the room. He, too, was well spoken about his future after high school.
The period was over after forty five minutes. It was time for the teachers to take a five minute break. The kids all stood as Duong and I left the room; on our way to the teacher's lounge. I asked Duong why the students weren't leaving the room, also. She said we would have them again after the short break. In the lounge, we enjoyed a quick cup of tea. Duong pointed out that this teacher taught physics, and that one taught biology. Time was up.
The students were all in their seats when we re-entered the classroom. During the next 45 minutes, I received many unsolicited questions about America, what I thought of Vietnamese food and many about what teenagers were like at home. This period sped by quickly. At end of the class time a pre-selected student stood and thanked me for spending time with them. She expressed sadness that I couldn't stay longer. Before I left, I was given a warm applause.
The Vietnamese student is always very respectful. Dressed in uniforms of white shirts, or blouses, and dark pants, or skirts, they took their education very seriously. At this school, homework was always turned in on time, and demeanor in the room, impeccable. The kids know that if they were asked to leave the school because of discipline problems, or for lack of studious production, that their adult futures would be very sad, indeed.
Music is very dear to the Vietnamese people. Singing is second nature to them. In each class there was a bit of noise about who would sing a song to me, and what the song would be. Each time it was a girl who sang. I thought that either she knew every song in the world, or the discussions had been about which of her songs, that everyone liked, she would sing.
The voices were clear and bright. The words were easily followed. Each had chosen a song of thank you, and friendship. These girls were truly proud, and very happy, to have been asked to thank me in this heartfelt way. I found out later that public displays of affection were not usually done. However, it was understood by the students why I had decided to hug each of these young ladies, when they had finished their songs. The class applauded when I hugged the girls.
At the end of this second class period, the students all changed classrooms. I found myself greeted in the hallway by many of the girls. A couple of them had prepared special thank you notes. One girl had sketched her rendition of Mr. Rob standing at the front of the classroom. Another student had written a poem, in Vietnamese, of thanks for this special day I had spent with them. All of the girls wanted to exchange email addresses with me. Each committed that she would write to me. After a few minutes of eager questions, Duong rescued me for a break before the next class.
This class was to be on the fourth floor of the school. The final bunch of kids was Duong's lower achiever English class. The make-up of the students was about 50:50. The number of students was about half as large as the other two periods had been.
Perhaps the word had gotten out that the school had a special visitor today. This group of kids was all over me with questions. Their queries ranged from: Had I eaten Pho, yet? (Pho is a soup, and it is pronounced "fur".) What sports team did I like best? Do I eat hotdogs? Did I like hamburgers? And, did I ever eat KFC?
The KFC question got me. As the student repeated the question several times for me, I kept hearing KFC as a new Vietnamese word. Finally, it dawned on me these were initials. Yes, I said, with excitement. The children, who all knew what the boy was asking, cheered when I finally understood.
A girl asked me, very seriously, a question about how many subjects the kids at my school had to study. I sensed a bit of geopolitical underlay in her description of the arduous task it was to be a student in Vietnam. I prefaced my answer with how outstanding American students had been some 40 years ago; how America's world standing in some subjects had fallen from number one to the high teens. I praised the Vietnamese population for being one of the most learned nations in the world. I finished by suggesting to her that, at the current rate of Asian development, she would soon be a member of one of our most advanced societies. I had forgotten to ask her if that answered her question.
This class didn't have any singing volunteers. They asked me to sing to them. Boy, how did I end up here? I mimed serious thought, as I paced back and forth. Then, I said, "I've got one." They unanimously booed me when I started to sing Old McDonald. Well, I tried. One of the other classes had asked me to show them how I danced as a teenager. That show received applause.
Students in this class were unable to decide what to sing. I asked them to sing a song about Uncle Ho. This one, they all knew. I didn't know, but I suspected that at some point in their schooling, they would have been expected to put to memory such a tune; a song which spoke highly of Chairman Ming's wisdom, and good tidings to the unified nation. The song was in English, and well vocalized. It praised the good of their society. I gave them kudos and applause when they had finished.
At the end of this last period, one student presented me with two clay figures he had sculpted during class time. So much for staying tuned in. One of the pieces was of an eagle, with mouth open in a scream, legs lowered, and talons spread in a grasping, attack mode. The other clay figure was of a coiled cobra, looking skyward, with mouth open, and fangs ready to receive this diving prey. The two pieces of art, together, barely covered my open palm. The detail of each creature was a true work of art. This young man is a gifted sculpture, and I told him so.
Duong and I returned to the lounge for a minute, where I took pictures of the two clay figures. I didn't want to try to carry them away with me, as I knew they wouldn't survive. We found a place to set them so they could harden, undisturbed.
We weren't on our way home yet. Duong introduced me to the Vice Principal. She told me he was also a university professor of physics; of more than national acclaim. We spoke a few minutes before he was called away for a meeting. We then walked to where the Principal was finishing up some business. He was very grateful for my participation and asked me if I could stay until October 21st. This is the end of an important scholastic period, and the school would welcome my assistance. I gave him my regrets, and I told him I would visit again one day. He asked me when?
The afternoon in front of such receptive students had been truly rewarding. Tim had said I would cherish the time, and I truly do. Now it was time for the next bit of excitement for the day. I didn't have to face the traffic in yet another taxi. I was going back to the hotel as a guest on Duong's Honda. Whoa, hold on there!
I received no preliminaries. The rear pegs were lowered, and I hopped on. True to her promise, Duong was very careful. Well, as careful as one could be while navigating Hanoi streets.
So far, on my roadway ventures, I had seen passengers in love hugs with their drivers. Some with arms full around the waist, and some with their palms comfortably placed on their own legs. The choice for me was established when I first mounted the extended seat. Find something under the seat I could grab, and hold on tight.
No where on a street in Hanoi would one see a woman driving with a male passenger. This wasn't how the gender lines were to be drawn. I knew this brought some discomfort to Duong, but she didn't let it show.
Every few minutes, she would say something to me and I would need to put my ear near the side of her head to hear. This type of passenger movement was very natural on a bike. Also, almost as frequently, she would reach into her left hand pock, retrieve her vibrating phone, and then spend a minute of more talking while she drove with her right hand, only.
We both knew that the man-in-the-back gig was up, when two guys pulled alongside. The man on the back of the bike gestured for me to put my arms around her. As I watched him, he then mimicked me turning my palms upward and raising my arms up her side. I waved him off. Duong had watched the guy's gestures out of the side of her eyes.
We made it unscathed to the hotel. We collected Tim and left in a taxi to eat at a special restaurant, for our last meal together. Tim was flying out tomorrow afternoon. This new place was very large, part under open sides, and part without roof. It was full of town's people, so we knew it would be good. Once seated, Tim ordered his favorite dishes. I asked Duong to please select for me. We all acknowledged that this had, without a doubt, been our best restaurant meal.
It had been a pattern that Tim and I would ask Duong to review the tickets, before we paid them. Tonight's review was lengthy, and full of foreign discussion. I found myself wandering to other places in the restaurant. A few minutes later, Tim and Duong caught up with me. I asked what had happened. I was told that she and they had come to an agreement that there had been a 100,000 dong overcharge. Duong said that when it was pointed out, they had been very apologetic. We anticipated that sooner or later, this would be tried.
On the way back to the Win, we found ourselves in a traffic deadlock. Tonight was a night to celebrate children. On the sidewalks, and into the streets, were hundreds of booths. They displayed everything imaginable for a child's enjoyment. Balloons, noise makers, Tonka-type cars, stuffed animals, it was all here. The colors on the street were magnificent, bright yellows, reds, greens, and blues. It was endless beyond each intersection. I discovered, in one vendor's display, some very engaging rubber yo-yo balls. These would be fun. I bought one for myself, too.
The walk back to the hotel was long. Tim and I voiced agreement that Duong had gotten us lost. You'd have to have grown up in the city to counter our jest with such certainty that we were not lost. Sure enough, around a few more corners, we were home. Why, it was only a quarter to midnight. Tim and I felt bad that Duong now had to bike all the way home. We were asleep within half an hour.
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