It's Sunday morning, which means the neighborhood kids are home. This is the day of the week that we have to adjust our need for personal space. It starts early (around 6 a.m.). The kids pull on the door and ring the bells on our bicycles which are parked just out front. If we ignore them long enough, they'll just resort to running around and screaming for awhile. However, once we are forced to crack open the front door to let the dog out to do her business, the dam has been opened and the kids stream in. Most days, I literally stand at the door and push them back. As sweet as they seem to be, I'm not up for a house party at 6 a.m. on a Sunday morning. This dilemma calls for more language skills than I currently possess. It seems rude to slam the door and lock it in their faces. The only Vietnamese word I know to get my point across is "no." I use that one and smile a lot as I gently redirect them away from the door and secure the dead bolt.
I've given up on the exterior space. Our little friend Ti hangs out on the patio and spits his fruit seeds everywhere. He eats his crackers and just tosses the plastic on the ground. I am working on the litter thing (when his mom's not around). I pick it up and ask our kids, "Is this yours?" Then I turn to Ti and ask him the same thing. He usually just laughs at me, so I hand it to him, and he runs away. Then I throw it on his patio. Do as I say, not as I do (does that apply if I can't say it in your language?). Whatever.
On other fronts...
We made our first visit to a Vietnamese medical clinic. Let me just say that when the staff t-shirt is embroidered with "We need your bleed," it's just a wee bit unsettling. When the syringe goes in to retrieve the "bleed," you just pray that it's a mutually beneficial arrangement. No worries, the "bleed" is good.
On the way to the medical clinic, I provided the ATPF humor for the week. I was riding on the back of John's motorbike - wearing jeans for perhaps the second time ever in Vietnam - when something started stinging me mid thigh. It took a good twenty seconds of screaming into the wind to get John to pull over and understand that something was stuck in my pants and stinging me. Once I got off the bike on the side of the road and determined I could not shake out the perpetrator, there was only one thing to do...drop my pants in the sand dune. To the amusement of passing traffic, I proceeded to dance around and get the offending insect out of my jeans without getting arrested.
The post office continues to befuddle us. John attempted to pick up a package addressed to "John and Jennifer Borch and kids." They wouldn't let him have it because everyone on the address needs to be present with passports to sign for it. When he inquired about the "and kids" part of the label, he was told that he needed to return with at least two unnamed children in order to retrieve the parcel. Funny.
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