Vampire Weekend

Elliot Crofton

             I have reached the point in the year that one might call the doldrums. I have settled into my routine, and new and extraordinary experiences come less and less. This is to be expected, as everything good must come to an end. However I have found that maybe nothing really ends, but just continues in new forms.

            I started this Sunday very early. It was especially difficult because I had gotten very little sleep the night before. I started the day early to play tennis with my father and a friend of his. The match was horrific. I usually am fairly good at picking up a sport that I’m somewhat inept at. This is not the case with me and tennis. I lost four tennis balls, and spent most of the time I was playing mumbling expletives under my breath.
            We finished at 8 and I decided to go for my usual walk at the nearby lake. Near the entrance an older lady grabbed me and started saying something to me. This kind of thing happens sometimes, and I had my headphones in, so I smiled at her and kept on walking through the gate. As I paid the entrance fee, she waited for me. I walked up to her and she snatched the iPod out of my hoodie pocket and held it up to her ear, expecting to hear something. I laughed and put my other headphone in her ear. She loved this.
            We talked for a little bit. I expected her to listen for just a moment and then take the earphone out, but she didn’t. After walking for a couple minutes she informed me that we would be doing 4 laps around the lake together (about 3 miles). At first I could not contain my laughter. The idea of this old woman listening to my music (Vampire Weekend, The Strokes, Lady Gaga) with me was simply ridiculous. After a few minutes the whole idea became less silly and more fascinating. She became more interested in the music than in me, and I realized she was thoroughly enjoying it. It occurred to me that this old woman probably remembered when my country was bombing hers. But still she had no problem sharing an earbud with an American and listening to American music. Perhaps it doesn’t seem so profound, but the idea of it really struck me.
            After our 4 laps she said she was going home and we parted ways. I do hope I see her again, even though it is a nuisance sharing headphones with someone while walking. To me she is living proof that forgiveness is an unstoppable force, and that time and Vampire Weekend conquer all political differences.

The Art Studio

Sarah Weiner

            It was the unexpected burst of red and orange against the dusty, gray stone wall that drew me into the empty alleyway.  I walked towards the color tentatively at first, dubious of the sincerity of their warmth is this city of such sickly smog. However, my pace and purpose strengthened when the indiscernible blobs of color began to take shape as messily painted letters on a dry piece of cracking wood.  “Art Studio” it said, with an arrow pointing aggressively towards the small door that stood still and impassively beside it. 
            I looked over my shoulder in both directions, searching for someone's approval to discover what type of Art Studio would lay behind such a careless door.  Suddenly, a woman hurriedly turned the corner and entered the alleyway carrying a basket full of wet vegetables and looking slightly flustered.  She paused momentarily, noticing my hand hovering above the door knob. She tilted her head back and shouted up to an open window a few feet above the Art Studio sign.  I heard someone mumble in response to her agitated call.  With a flick of her fingers and a quick nod of her head, she approved my entrance to the Art Studio.
           I opened the door, expecting to see an entire room erupting with color.  Instead, I found myself in a small dark kitchen, a plate of half eaten chicken and rice on the table and dirty dishes stacked high in the sink.  If this was indeed an art studio, it was certainly somebody's home as well.
            Hearing gentle footsteps from above, I looked up to my left and noticed another sign proclaiming, “Art Studio”, in yellow, chipping paint.  This time the arrow pointed towards a narrow staircase.
            At the top of the staircase, I was met by an elderly man with a wide grin and intelligent eyes.  As I followed his careful, yet assured footsteps, into the room behind him, I greeted him formally: Chau chao ong a. He turned around, his soft white-gray hair shifting slightly around his face, clearly surprised to see a young foreigner speaking Vietnamese.  However, I barely noticed the way his eyes widened behind his thick framed glasses, for I was too entranced by the flood of color surrounding me.
            All around me, hanging on the wall, leaning against the window, stacked on the floor, were paintings.  Exploding with color and emotion, they were confrontational in a way that demanded attention and respect. 
            Dep qua! I exclaimed, unable to find stronger words to express the beauty held in the pieces of art.  The old man smiled gently, and I could see by the pride in his eyes that he was the painter.
            I wondered how such passionate, almost fearsome art could come from such a tender man.  I attempted to focus my eyes on one painting, wanting to see it all at once but knowing that my simple human eyes lacked the capacity.   The painting spoke loudly with distraught and disquieted emotions.  I could see that the paint was still wet, so glossy and fresh. I resisted the urge to touch a smear of crimson against a fretful backdrop of blue.  I wanted so badly to feel the slick, smooth texture of wet oil paint between my fingers. 
            Chau co thich ve khong? The man said, inquiring if I liked to paint.
            Co, a. I replied, secretly a bit embarrassed.  My paintings and sketches, although I enjoy creating them very much, would have appeared so meager and pathetic next to these masterpieces.  
            Ong thich hoa sy nhat? Chau rat thich Picasso, I said, inquiring which painter the man likes the most, and commenting that I was a dear fan of Pablo Picasso's artwork.
            The old man breathed in and out deeply, as if the question was particularly hard to answer.  He turned his back to me for a moment, walking across the room to open a door leading to a small balcony.  He beckoned me onto the balcony, where there was a small table and chairs.  I could sense years of patience and resilience as he cautiously settled down in one of the low chairs, sighing slowly.  After pouring us both a steaming cup of green tea, he proceeded to answer my seemingly simple question. 
            How could one even begin to compare the beauty of a painter's works to those of a different painter?  The old man leaned in closer to me and looked right into my eyes as he posed this question.  I was slightly puzzled, and he noticed this in my face.
            Let me explain.  You are a very beautiful girl, but there are many beautiful girls in this world.  It would be impossible to say which girl was the most beautiful because each and every girl is different.
            I leaned back in my chair, contemplating this idea.
            It is the same with artwork.  It would be unjust to say that Van Gogh's paintings are superior to Monet's, because each artist paints in a different way.  They are all beautiful in some way, and so I could not choose which one I like the most.
            The man smiled, satisfied and content with his answer.  He took a sip of his tea, and watched me carefully as I dwelled on what he had said.  We sat in silence, both of us thinking.  Soon, however, I realized that the shadows on the street below were getting longer as the light of day began to dim.
            I stood up, telling the old man that I must be getting home.  I put out my hand to say thank you, and he grasped it in the warm comfort of his two hands.  We could have been age-old friends. 
            I bid him farewell, knowing our paths would unlikely cross again.  I was still thinking of his smiling eyes as I walked out of the art studio and onto the bustling street.  There was something about the way he spoke to me, choosing his words so carefully and delicately; he wanted to make me think, consider and reconsider.  
            And so I began to contemplate my definition of beauty. 

The Hue Children's Shelter

Anna Oakes

     We came back from our most recent trip to Da Nang, Hoi An, and Hue little more than a week ago. One of the most notable events of the trip, for me, was the day we spent volunteering at the Hue Children’s Shelter. Little actual work was done; instead, we spent hours playing soccer, beading bracelets, blowing up balloons, and playing hand games with the kids. When we first arrived at the school, both our group and theirs seemed to keep a wary distance from each other—within an hour, though, even the older kids had joined us. I walked around for what felt like hours giving a little girl a piggyback. We went around to all the berry bushes in the yard, and she picked the highest, ripest ones that no one else had been able to, which we then shared. Of course once the other children saw this, they all ran up to me and clamored for piggybacks as well—if I acted at all reluctant, they’d start trying to actually climb up me to the desired height, and refuse to let go for several minutes. Most of us also played a passionate group hand game that even the younger ones, who had no idea how to play, got involved in.

     While waiting for our barbecue dinner to be set up, I somehow ended up watching a boy play Tetris on an antiquated gaming device from the 90s. Every time I tried to move away to see if my help was needed elsewhere, he would pull my arm, eyes still glued to the screen, and demand that I keep watching. To keep things interesting, he would shout “yes!” whenever anything remotely exciting happened on screen. I thought I might as well contribute, so I would reply “good job!” and “rất tốt!” After an American dinner of hotdogs and grilled chicken, we sadly said our goodbyes and got back on our bus.
   For me, this was the first time I’d really felt a strong sense of connection and friendship with the various groups of students we’ve met so far. I’ve talked to several people at the university here, and had fun talking to other university students in the South during other activities. However, the day that we spent entertaining and getting to know the kids brought us much closer to them—we were there primarily for them, and not for our own gratification even though we all ended up having a lot of fun. I think it’s unlikely that I’ll see them again—however, thanks to memories abetted by photos and Facebook, I won’t forget them either. I hope I’ll be able to return for a summer during college as a volunteer at the school.

"When life gives you a hundred reasons to cry, show life that you have a thousand reasons to smile.” Plato

Perrine Anderson

Sometimes when you travel there comes a moment of realization. The first thing I’ve realized is what I missed, what I refused to do that would’ve been worth it, but also what I do. Sometimes, it’s hard to deal with what comes across your way, but that’s part of life; you lose friends, and make new ones. Since I arrived here, I’ve been wondering if there was a real purpose for me being here, or if it was just another of those moments of questioning, of "fluttering”. I had my loads of previous disappointments and frustrations helping me to understand that if I wanted to make something good of my year here, I had to decide to change things around me, not wait for someone else to do it nor for another of my friends to fade away. I am absolutely convinced that we live the life that we create for ourselves; therefore we are the only ones able to achieve what we want.

Another thing I understood appeared to me during some long sleepless nights, when I came to wondering what I should do with my days, to try to make the best of my time left here. And that’s when it hit me, the time we have passes by so quickly that we don’t realize how much we can lose. Here we are, awaiting the day we’ll look at each other, hands in hands, heads full of vibrant memories, eyes full of tears, saying goodbye, maybe, or shall I say certainly, forever. And that can be hard to think about, but it’s life, and it won’t be the last time we’ll part ways with our friends. So either we cope with it, or we don’t, but both ways have their cota of pain and disappointments, discovery and understanding.

Hot Pot: A Giant Bowl of Patience

Luke Williams

Vietnam is not a fast paced country. Instead of a McDonald’s on every corner, it is a coffee shop in which people spend hours sipping on sinhto xoai and caphe sua da.  In my host family, dinner is prepared about two hours before consumption while eating takes another hour itself. Even major celebrations are enjoyed slowly, over long stretches of time. For instance, the lunar new year (Tet) is celebrated for a whole week and everything is shut down. On that same note Vietnamese weddings typically last two days for hours and hours of eating and celebrating.

This change of speed is very different from my life back home in the states. I am used to a “fast-paced” lifestyle where I have one thing going on right after another. As soon as one event in my daily routine ends, another one quickly begins. Nothing is prolonged and this is due in part to the “maximizing-efficiency” mindset of living in a capitalist country. Everyone wants things done as quickly as possible because time is money. Every second that I am doing something could be spent somewhere else, which leads me to get things done as soon as possible.  I could never imagine spending an hour eating a leisurely lunch during the hectic school week. Most people find this break in speed relaxing, but for me, it has created a sense of impatience.

Essentially this impatience has made my life feel like it is stuck in a vat of caramel. This had made me feel like I have been in Ha Noi for an eternity.  At this point it would seem Ha Noi has become the epitome of boredom and that really there is nothing to have gained from this other than a “break” from the typical American lifestyle.

However in this slower pace, I am able to pay attention to the small things more. I know this place well enough to tell the scamming cab drivers where to go. This pausing and stopping has really made me realize that things take time.  It’s almost like the hot pot our director is notorious for always ordering when we eat out. Not only do you have to wait for the soup to boil, but you have to wait for the meat and the greens and the roots to cook as well. It has shown me how patience is a virtue. Being able to accept that you have to wait for things is now something I find admirable, because in Vietnam waiting is all you can do.