Week 16: Torture, Temper, and Tunes

So I was babysitting One Dollar at Kat's house this week, and had the strange voyeuristic (dis)pleasure of watching him/her (gender-challenged cat, remember?) engage in the eternal cat and mouse chase. One Dollar, having captured the doomed mouse, proceeded to torture it for hours before finally killing it and eating it. (I believe the kitten eats its prey, as I haven't seen any bloody remnants of mouse around the house.) The shrieks of the mouse being tortured by One Dollar was deafening--I almost feel bad for the poor vermin. But then I think about how pests like that liquidated a third of Europe's population in the Middle Ages (Black Death, anyone?), I don't feel so bad. However, I do feel that One Dollar should keep its killing swift and merciful. After a stint of sadistic torture and killing that lasted for hours, One Dollar jumped on my lap to play the role of fluffy, cute, and lovable lap kitty. Funny how domestication works. (Have posted pictures of the cold-blooded butcher of rodents sleeping on my computer, as it is the only warm thing in the house nowadays.)

Funny thing happened the other day--got hit on at the library. I'm at the National Library everyday, but other than the people who work there, I know none of the patrons. Most of the time, I sit in the back, typing on my computer or digitizing pictures. I am completely in work mode--my library uniform consists of unenticing jeans, Berkeley hoodie, sneakers, ponytail, no makeup and glasses. I notice nobody, and I didn't think that anyone noticed me--until last week, when I was stopped by a man while leaving the library. It was 8 PM, and I was kicked out of my workspace as usual. An older Vietnamese man (late-thirties), stopped me on my motorbike and asked, "Excuse me, miss, but I have noticed you for a long time, and would really like to get to know you." At that moment, the Library Director's car came driving up and his chauffeur honked at me to move. (I am eternally grateful to him for that.) Excusing myself, I sped off, much relieved. While flattered, I really did not want to return his interest.

The following week, I was sitting across from another Vietnamese man, who passed me a note (Hello, are we in middle school?) . The note said in Vietnamese, "I don't mean to bother you, but my friend, who comes here often, REALLY wants to get to know you. He said he tried to talk to you in front of the library the other day. Here is his cell phone number." I read the note and handed it back to him, saying no thanks. He asks me, "Did you understand the note? Do you read Vietnamese?" That's when I got snappy--please, if you're trying to get on my good side for your friend, the last thing you should do is insult my intelligence. I replied, "I'm sorry, I read colonial-era newspapers, but I didn't understand your note. I am trying to work--please do not bother me about this anymore."

In retrospect, I am amazed at how quickly my temper flared. I think that after 4 months in Vietnam, I am less tolerant of people in general. I felt bad, but think that being away from my family and friends, combined with being in a new place, makes me edgy and sensitive. I am less likely now to chalk things up to cultural differences, and it seems that the small things bother me the most. I have no qualms now about mouthing off to people who cut in front of me in line (there is no line etiquette here), high-handed traffic cops, vendors who try to rip me off, and people who try to put women "in their place." Where was the Martina who passed out mismatched and crooked chopsticks in a James-Scott-esque form of passive resistance? (see Week 5.) And who has replaced her?

Saw Herbie Hancock play in Hanoi this week. The US Embassy invited Hancock, Wayne Shorter, and people from the Thelonious Monk Institute of Jazz to Vietnam to play to commemorate the 10th year anniversary of US-Vietnam normalization of relations. I don't know very much about Jazz, but I have heard of Herbie Hancock and Wayne Shorter, and I was not going to miss hearing them play. They were fantastic--instead of playing just the classics, they also played some experimental jazz. At one point during a song, Herbie Hancock started tapping on the strings and frame of his piano, using the piano as a percussion as well as a keyboard instrument. I wished that my piano teacher (I played for 8 years) had allowed me to learn a little jazz piano rather than strict classical. Ah, well....

Well, must get back to dissertating. (Even though its not a word, I kinda like it.) More next week...