Dave Fox's Outbursts!

Crazy Buffalo Tramples Saigon

Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), Vietnam

There is something surreal about sitting at a sidewalk bar at one a.m., in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, hearing “Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd drown out the horns of motorbikes. This is my favorite Saigon street corner, but it has changed since my last visit. My eyeballs are currently being molested by a cacophony of neon –- a four-story neon buffalo head to be exact.

The neon buffalo is the logo of Saigon's recently opened Crazy Buffalo Bar. Although I am unable to confirm this, I suspect this neon buffalo is the largest neon buffalo anywhere in the world. Neon smoke puffs from the buffalo’s flaring neon nostrils. The Crazy Buffalo looks truly crazy, and not the “Hey dude, let’s have a crazy party” kind of crazy. No. It is more like a “I am a mentally unstable buffalo, and I would like to stomp upon your crunchy little head” kind of crazy.

The giant neon buffalo is attached to a wall that did not exist seven months ago, the last time I was in Vietnam. Behind the newly constructed, four-story wall, there used to be four floors of balconies. I used to sit and write on those balconies. Back then, the Crazy Buffalo Bar was the Quyen Thanh Hotel -– basic, clean rooms, with full baths, air conditioning, minibars, and pet geckos, for 17 US dollars a night. The former balconies are now hidden behind a wall of cement and neon, and I am guessing the geckos have scampered into hiding too. Across the street, as I sit and write at a different bar, frenetic flashes of Crazy Buffalo neon are reverberating off my notepad, hitting my eyeballs in a manner that would likely cause me to have a seizure if I were epileptic.

When I stayed at the Quyen Thanh last March, strange things started happening. One day, the desk in my room disappeared. The day after that, the chair that had belonged to the desk vanished as well. I left town for a couple of days, and when I came back and checked into a new room, the receptionist told me there were no available rooms with refrigerators -– even though every room had had a fridge a year earlier.

The Quyen Thanh, I eventually discovered, was closing. The staff, a friendly family who slept in the lobby at night, did not know what would become of it.

The Crazy Buffalo is what has become of it. Its first two levels have been serving cocktails 24 hours a day for a couple of months now to backpackers who probably do not need cocktails 24 hours a day, but who am I to judge? The third-story hip-hop club had its grand opening two weeks ago.

I loved Saigon from the first hour of my first morning here, 19 months ago. It is urban sprawl at its finest, with epic snarls of motorbikes, sidewalk barbecues, and resilient, smiling faces. It is delicious, delicious chaos -- hot sauce: optional. There are so many things I love about this city, one of which is marveling at the motorcycle traffic, and the Quyen Thanh balconies were ideal for that.

I worry about my old gecko friends who would visit me in my room in the late afternoons. They used to hang out on the walls, near the air conditioners but I doubt they are there anymore. I sense the Crazy Buffalo is not their kind of joint. I hope they have found a new home where they can live in peace, like they used to.

And I wonder about the politics of a place like the Crazy Buffalo. I mean, Saigon has faced far sadder disasters than this. But when the US military came here in the 1960s to, you know, defend democracy and capitalism and all that stuff, I don't think this is what they had in mind.

---

[See the Crazy Buffalo in crazy neon action! Click the crazy window below!]

It Rhymes with Book!

I should have known.

I should have know that if I posted an update on Twitter that said I was about to go on a motorbike journey through the Mekong Delta with my friend Phúc, that people’s reaction was not going to be, “Cool! Dave’s going on a big adventure in rural Vietnam!” I should have known that instead, people’s reaction was going to be, “Dave has a friend named what?!”

So for starters, let’s get something straight. His name rhymes with “book,” not “buck.” Though if you want to get geekish and uptight, the letter “c” is actually what is referred to among linguists as an unvoiced glottal stop. It’s practically silent. So quit your snickering.

Names can be awkward in foreign languages. I do not know what “Dave” means in Vietnamese – or Romanian, Esperanto, Farsi, or Xhosa, for that matter – but it might mean something that makes 13-year-old boys giggle in some obscure corner of our planet.

 When I lived in Turkey many years ago, I had two British roommates, Phil and Natasha. If you do not speak Turkish, you will not find humor in this. It turns out, however, that “fil” is the Turkish word for “elephant,” and “Natasha,” at least back then, was Turkish slang for a Russian prostitute. During the latter part of the Clinton era, many Turks could not be bothered to learn how to pronounce “Lewinsky,” but if you happened to be a foreign visitor named Monica, well….

So anyway, yeah. Phúc rhymes with “book.” Sort of. It’s a name as common in Vietnamese as “Dave” is in America.

If you read this blog on a quasi-regular basis, it’s a name you might as well get used to because I’m going to be writing more in the coming year about my travels with Phúc. He’s a tour guide. I’m a tour guide. He and I are planning a super-amazing creative writing tour of Vietnam for next year. You are welcome to join us, but please stop giggling first.

By the way, HA! I don’t mean to make you feel self-conscious, but do you know what your first name means in Uzbek?!?!

I didn’t think so.

Early Morning Funeral in Saigon: Dancing in the Streets

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

The early morning honkfest outside my hotel window here in Saigon is nothing unusual. It never stops. But I dragged myself out of bed at 6 a.m. when I heard the marching band. Seven floors below me was a lively parade with people dancing in the middle of an intersection and twirling a coffin around in circles before setting it back on an elaborate vehicle that was part fancy hearse, part bus for the mourners.

That's the kind of funeral I want. Not today, please (I'm about to ride on the back of a motorbike through Saigon rush hour, down to Vinh Long in the Mekong Delta. After enough time on motorbikes in this city, one becomes fatalistic.) ...but when it's my time to go, I think it would be nifty if people danced in the streets and celebrated my life. I think we've got death figured out all wrong in the West.

[More bloggage from Vietnam coming soon.]

Early Bird Holiday Book Sale! Buy Two, Get One Free!

It's Thanksgiving in America today, and we all know what that means. It means that today, we will all gorge ourselves on obscene amounts of food as a kick-off to our annual holiday shopping frenzy!

Retailers will be whacking us over the head with sales pitches and special offers, and hey, I've got bills to pay too, so here I go!

Between now and December 8, 2009, order any two books or audiobook CDs from my website and get a third one free! Has anyone ever given you a book, and told you to hurry up and read it so they could read it too? Don't be one of those obnoxious people! Get your own damn copy... free!

Getting Lost: Mishaps of an Accidental Nomad is my collection of humorous tales about things that have gone wrong in my overseas travels -- from the riot I nearly started in Northern Africa at age eight, to the year I survived local high school graduation rites of passage as a foreign exchange student in Norway, to my so-called adult life as a tour guide for Rick Steves. Getting Lost won the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop Book Proposal Contest in 2004.

Globejotting: How to Write Extraordinary Travel Journals (and still have time to enjoy your trip) recently made Amazon's Top-100 list of best-selling travel books. It teaches you how to write about your travels in vivid detail. It's a great gift for any aspiring travel writer.

The Fox that Quacked: Essays from Planet Earth is my audiobook CD of humor essays. Yes! It's a CD! It's an excellent gift for anybody who can't read! Even your cat can listen to it!

For full details on all of these nifty offers, click on over to davesbook.com/order.htm and order lots of books before I come to my senses and stop selling them so cheap!

Never Mind the Migraine Gremlins! Vietnam is Beckoning... Again!

The last time I was packing to go to Vietnam, I was wrestling with the remnants of my worst case of the flu in years. This time, I have no flu. Just a pounding migraine. As I sit here typing this, I feel as if an evil gremlin is gently tapping a nail into my skull. I do wish he would go away, and perhaps go visit Sarah Palin instead.

Nevertheless, in 36 hours, I will have just flown from Seattle to San Francisco, and will be boarding a flight to Hong Kong, which will then continue to Ho Chi Minh City (a.k.a. Saigon), Vietnam. I am hoping the aforementioned gremlin gets stopped at security.

This will be my third trip to Vietnam in less than two years. The first time I went, in April, 2008, I was excited but apprehensive. Born in America in 1968, I grew up hearing horrific war stories. But once I arrived in Vietnam, I fell instantly in love with the country. I was captivated by the scenery, the cuisine, and most of all, the people -- who overwhelmed me with their friendliness, gentleness, industriousness, and resilience.

Eleven months later, I went back for a second visit. I caught up with friends I made my first time there.  On my final night in Saigon, the sadness I felt about leaving was more intense than I feel in most places. Vietnam was beginning to feel like home.

Tempted last month by the lure of crazy-low air fares, I started flirting with the idea of going back again. I was just there in March, but I feel homesick for Ho Chi Minh City, a place that intimidated me before I arrived my first time. Now it's one of my favorite places on Earth. But zipping across the Pacific for a quick trip, even at rock-bottom prices, seemed frivolous. I just spent all summer guiding tours in Europe. In January, I'm going to Africa to teach travel journaling classes on a safari in Botswana. In the meantime, I've got projects at home I should be working on. Bouncing over to Asia... I just couldn't justify it.

Or could I?

Oh yes.

I have a plan. And you're invited.

I'm going back to Vietnam this coming week to organize a travel journaling and essay writing tour. I've been kicking the idea around for a while. It's time to make it happen. So that's what I'm doing -- a whirlwind trip, eight days of meetings with tour companies, hotels, and restaurants -- to plan a unique and exciting tour, tentatively scheduled for October, 2010, for writers of all skill levels. Beginners are welcome and encouraged.

Next year, our group of no more than 12 participants will explore the diversities of southern Vietnam. We'll marvel at frenetic and friendly Saigon, immerse ourselves in the floating markets at Cai Be, explore lush palm tree jungles and rural villages in the Mekong Delta, romp in the Mui Ne sand dunes, and splash in the South China Sea. We'll travel with a local, licensed Vietnamese guide... and I'll be teaching travel journaling and essay writing classes along the way to help you capture your experiences in writing. My book, Globejotting, teaches how to write more meaningful and exciting travel diaries. This tour will put the book into action as we learn while exploring.

I hope to have full details available by early January. In the meantime, if you would like to guarantee a spot for yourself, with no obligation until the details and prices are finalized, just drop me an e-mail at dave@davethefox.com and I will give you first priority when I start taking deposits. (You can also subscribe to my free e-mail list if you would like updates when they're available.)

My tentative plans for the next week and a half (keeping in mind that Vietnam is on the other side of the International Date Line from the United States, so it's a day later there than in the US) are:

• November 27: Depart Seattle early morning. Cross the Date Line.
• November 28: Arrive in Saigon late at night.
• November 29-30: Meetings in Saigon.
• December 1: Day trip into the Mekong Delta to check out accommodations.
• December 2-4: Check out hotels and restaurants in Mui Ne. (Okay, and drink a mojito on the beach while I watch the kite surfers.)
• December 5-6: Back in Saigon.
• December 7: Fly home.

I'll be blogging as time and technology allow. Stay tuned!

Oh, and if anyone out there has any gremlin repellent, could you send some my way?

Wanderlust and Lipstick: My Manly Perspective on the Female Travelers' Guidebook Series

I am not a woman, nor do I play one on TV, so I can’t fully understand the challenges solo female travelers face. But in my never-ending efforts to learn all I can about foreign cultures, I recently read two books by Beth Whitman about the culture of the female traveler. And now, it gives me great pleasure to share with you my extremely manly opinions on these two books, which I found fascinating and helpful, in spite of the fact that wearing lipstick isn’t really my thing.

In her first book, Wanderlust and Lipstick: The Essential Guide for Women Traveling Solo, Beth begins with motivational advice that will cure potential women travelers of excuses as to why they can’t or shouldn’t travel. Then, she dives into several chapters of practical advice on everything from packing to travel health and safety, and even a page of international romance tips.

What makes Beth Whitman an authority on solo female travel? She’s ridden a motorcycle from Seattle to Panama, been harangued by Nicaraguan police, and worked with orphans in Vietnam, among other things. But her book isn’t only from her perspective. Throughout it, she includes quick vignettes from other women who have traveled solo and brought back stories and advice.

Like Europe Through the Back Door, Rick Steves’ groundbreaking book of tips for first-time travelers in Europe, Wanderlust and Lipstick offers enlightenment and encouragement for women who want to travel just about anywhere on their own. If the thought of solo travel excites you, and you are a woman or hope to become one someday, Wanderlust and Lipstick will give you the knowledge and confidence you need to explore our planet without the overbearing companionship of some guy who never wants to ask for directions.

But wait! There’s more! Last year, Beth released a more specialized follow-up book: Wanderlust and Lipstick for Women Traveling to India. Here is the deep, dark secret Beth Whitman does not want you to know about her second book: Wanderlust and Lipstick for Women Traveling to India is crammed with advice and information about India that is not only useful to women. Beth’s advice is helpful for men and space aliens of other genders too.

I’ll be honest: I’ve traveled in more than 40 countries on five continents, but I’ve never been to India, and the thought of it leaves me a little spooked. I like to think of myself as a cultural chameleon. I thrive on feeling lost, confused, and out of my element. But I’ve read enough about travel in India that I’ve always feared I’d feel in over my head there. After reading Beth’s book, I am ready to go now. Seriously. So if you happen to be Bill Gates, please send one of your private jets to pick me up immediately. (Send a small one, because my street does not have enough space to land a 777.)

Wanderlust and Lipstick for Women Traveling to India starts with a quick and honest overview. It covers the good (India’s booming tech industry and improving pro-environment transportation system), the bad (traffic, slums, and overpopulation) and the ugly (leering men and, yes, occasional terrorism). And as much as Beth really wants to inspire you to go to India, she addresses these not-so-pleasant sides of the country honestly without sugar-coating them. She then delves into 12 more chapters that cover practical issues such as transportation and accommodation, food, health and safety, and –- perhaps most useful -– emotional issues like culture shock and the all-too-often neglected reality of reverse culture shock when you return home from an intensely different place. (My fave sentence in the whole book: “Where are the people? The traffic? The cows?” Perhaps her next book will be about Wisconsin.) In short, Wanderlust and Lipstick for Women Traveling to India is a screamingly brilliant  resource for anyone who wants to go see India, regardless of whether or not they are female.

So why, then, does she title her book “for women traveling to India?” Beth and I got together recently at my favorite local Scandinavian pub (my own cultural bias), and after Beth got all tanked up on mineral water and cranberry juice, she confessed to doing what I suspected: She is a brilliant marketer who is branding herself for a target audience of females. “Wanderlust and Lipstick” is a phrase that applies to women more than it applies to men or space aliens of other genders. (Actually, I don’t know. Maybe seventh-gender space aliens use lipstick. Pardon my ignorance.) But there is more to her choice of title than a desire to sell books. Her books really are written with the woman traveler in mind. She devotes more coverage than a gender-neutral travel book would to things such as the unfortunate extra safety issues female travelers face. And, like in her first book, she offers personal stories from other female travelers. In addition, Beth’s book plays an important role of encouragement, letting women know that she’s traveled alone in India and flourished -– and they can too. Rather than ignoring the gender stereotypes that plague our planet, Beth offers realistic advice on how to overcome them. In that sense, her book truly is written for women.

So who should buy Beth’s India book? Women? Men? Space aliens of the seventh gender?

All of the above.

Because of the title, most men will not feel inclined to read Wanderlust and Lipstick for Women Traveling to India. But I quickly found myself immersed, and wanting to go visit a country that has always intimidated me. Men will learn a lot from Beth’s female-centric book. For women planning their first trip to the Indian subcontinent, Wanderlust and Lipstick for Women Traveling to India is indispensable. It’s $16.95 cover price is an investment that will pay off many times once you’re on the ground, exploring one of our planet's most intense and thrilling countries.

          

Windstorm Mania and Live Team Megacoverage!

Seattle is being whacked by its second big windstorm in two days. Team Coverage is in full effect on every news channel, along with Supercalifragalistic Mega-Quintuple Doppler Radar. And dramatic weather music!

All the local TV channels are giving advice to the thousands of people who have lost power. Never mind that it's difficult to watch television without electricity. I was especially perplexed by this comment from a KOMO television news anchor Monday night:

"So many people are sitting in the dark tonight, cleaning up from round one."

Can somebody please explain how this is possible? I would like to sit in the dark while I clean my condo. If I can take a nap, even better.

If you want to promote my books, please learn how to write!

It's a stormy Friday afternoon here in Seattle, and I was just about to initiate my new, probably hopeless plan of cleaning my office before each weekend begins. Luckily for me, some spam that is just too good to ignore blipped into my e-mail box, offering me this fine opportunity to blog (translation: procrastinate).

The e-mail came from Hazel, a "marketing services consultant" for a company that charges authors to promote their books. I have never hired an independent publicist to promote my books. I know people who have. Some say it's worth it. But hey, if you are an author, and you want to pay someone to promote your book, I recommend finding a company that does not put sentences like these on its website. (Yes, these are real, pasted verbatim, as they appear on the company's website. All spelling and grammar errors, and obscenely bad sentence structures, are theirs, not mine. Read them slowly so you don't gloss over the best typos!):

"Amidst missing out education on his early years, Tom strived his very best to deserve what he is now, a successful financial management coach and educator."

Apparently your editors also missed out education on their early years. [sic]

"Marriage is hard work! Two minds coming together to form one is hardly anything easy at all."

Yes! And apparently for you, writing sentences with basic English grammar is also hardly anything easy at all!

"Running for the entire month of November, the Early Bird Thanksgiving Promo offers appealing discounted prices to all authors planning to boost their books marketing campaign this Holiday Season."

Never mind the above bad grammar. Why is it called the "Early Bird Thanksgiving Promo" if it runs until after Thanksgiving?

"Kicking off on the first of week of the Thanksgiving month, discounts starts at $100 markdown from November 2-6."

Oh, I get it! You are running all of your copy through Google Translate -- from English to Finnish to Xhosa and then back to English -- before putting it on your website.

And finally...

"Generate major “buzz” for your published work by employing a dynamic combination of BOOKWHIRL.com’s four staple book publicity services -- the Basic Media Release Campaign (MRC), MRC-Tailored, and MRC Follow-Up Add-on services -- as well as its newest product, the E-Media Release Campaign (ERC), which is specially designed to provide online reinforcement conventional publicity programs."

...which is specially designed to provide what? I can't handle all of these big words.

The good news is these guys are book promoters. If they were brain surgeons, people would be dying.

The Scariest Halloween Costume Ever!

[Note: Due to a technological meltdown of epic proportions, I am unable to upload anything to my main website tonight. Therefore, I am posting this month's humor column on this blog. By the way, have you ever wondered why people often begin notes with the word, "Note?" I mean, we can all see what it is.]

---

Every year at Halloween, my friends have costume parties, and every year, I insist on going to those parties as myself.

"Where is your costume?" my friends ask me, and I tell them that costumes are for people who like costumes. I am not of that tribe.

I'm not sure what turned me into a Halloween Scrooge. When I was a child (which I no longer am, in spite of rumors to the contrary), Halloween was my favorite holiday. And I am still pro-candy, but dressing up as a ghost, or a monster, or the Dear Leader of North Korea just doesn't have the same appeal to me today as it did when I was five.

But this gets awkward. When you show up at a Halloween party without a costume, people think you are a loser and give you wedgies, which I am getting too old to enjoy. So I have come up with a solution. This year, I am still going as myself, only I am making a costume. I am taking a picture of my face, printing it out, and making a mask out of it.

This is an extremely versatile costume. For example, my friends Austin and Patty are not only requiring that everyone at their party wear a costume, but each year they choose a theme, and this year's theme is superheroes. So I am going as Superdave.

The awesome thing about the simplicity of the Superdave Costume is that Superdave is so super, he don't need no stinkin' cape! All he needs is a beer in his hand and his super powers are activated!

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, "Yeah, right! What super powers could you, Dave Fox, mild-mannered travel geek, possibly have?"

Well, for starters, I can drink tall beers in a single bound. But wait! There's more! My beer-guzzling super powers are so super, I once prevented an airplane from taking off.

It was a snowy, post-Christmas-holiday weekend at O'Hare Airport, and I was flying back to Madison, Wisconsin, where I was living at the time. My connecting flight had been delayed so many times that I had consumed multiple tall beers in a single bound at various adult beverage establishments throughout the airport. Finally, it was time for my flight to board, and although I needed one last trip to the men's room, the gate agent was telling us to please hurry and take our seats before they closed the airport again. So being the mild-mannered travel geek that I am, I did what I was told. I figured I could hold it another 20 minutes until we were airborne.

I fastened my seatbelt and we taxied out to the runway. As we waited behind a long line of other aircraft, my bladder began to swell. "Hold it, hold it, hold it," I meditated. We had just three more aircraft in front of us. Two more aircraft. One more aircraft. "Ten more minutes before the seatbelt sign goes off," I thought. "Hold it, hold it, hold it."

Then the pilot made an announcement. A very bad announcement.

"Because of the expected turbulence, we will not be providing drink service on this flight. I am asking all passengers and flight attendants to remain seated for the duration of the flight."

There comes a time in every superhero's life when he really has to urinate. Really. I had two choices. Disobey the captain or wet myself. I was young. I was tough. I could handle being throttled against the lavatory walls a lot better than I could handle the alternative embarrassment. I concocted a plan. I would slither back to the bathroom and relieve myself while we were taking off. The flight crew wouldn't even know. It would be an adventure.

Complicating matters was the fact that I was in a window seat. I looked at the two gentlemen next to me. "I'm really sorry, but I need to get up," I said.

Apparently, my face was filled with superhero charisma, because the two men did not argue. They dove out of my way, realizing I was on a mission.

I hobbled toward the back, now in considerable pain, when… curses! A flight attendant foiled my plan. "You can't stand up right now!" she yelped. "We're about to take off!"

But I, Superdave, was having none of that. "This is an emergency, ma'am," I said. "Please step aside."

"I'll call the captain and tell him to wait."

There is something intimidating about the fact that two hundred airline passengers, who have already been delayed several hours, are now being further delayed because of your need to urinate. I don't quite know what took over, but in spite of what was now an excruciating pressure in my loins, nothing was happening. I stood there, as guys do, but nothing was leaving my body. The pressure within me was no match for the external pressure of 200 irritated passengers hoping I would hurry up. I stood there for a long, long time, knowing I could not return to my seat before accomplishing my mission, because if I did, the urgency was only going to grow worse once I sat down.

So I closed my eyes and did some superhero deep-breathing exercises until finally, a great sense of relief flowed out of me. Finally, I returned to my seat. We took off and landed without further incident. At the baggage claim in Madison, I could hear people talking about me, asking each other, "Did you see that guy as he flew down the aisle? His face was pretty red."

Yep. Just like the Incredible Hulk, only a different color.

But here is the thing: Can you name one other superhero in the history of the world who has ever stopped an airplane from taking off… with his own urine?!?! No! No, you cannot!

So I am going for Halloween this year as Superdave. And I realized, my idea of creating a mask out of my own photograph is so brilliant, everyone should do this! Even you! Yes, you too should go trick-or-treating this year as me! Which is why I am pleased to offer you, free of charge, this Superdave Halloween Costume Kit. (Some assembly required.)

To create your Superdave costume, you will need the following:

• A computer printer, and, ideally, some heavy-duty card stock
• A pair of scissors
• A thick rubber band
• A stapler
• Beer
• A drinking straw

Once you have assembled these items, please follow these instructions:

1. Print the image to the right. You may need to adjust the scale of the photo to fit the size of your own head. (You may click for a larger version.
   
2. Cut out around the face part so it is the shape of a mask.
3. Cut holes in each eyeball, and also a small hole in the mouth, large enough to insert a straw through.
4. Snip your rubber band so it is just one long piece of rubber. (Alternatively, an elastic band or a mangled coat hanger will work.
5. Staple the rubber band to the back of the mask - one staple on each side, next to the ears.
6. Put the mask on your head in the usual mask-putting-on manner.
7. Open the beer.
8. If you are not yet of legal drinking age, pour the beer into an empty Coke can so you do not get in trouble.
9. Insert one end of the straw through the hole in the mask's mouth.
10. Insert the other end of the straw through the hole in the top of the beer bottle or can.
    

Congratulations! Your Superdave Halloween Costume is now ready for use! Just please drink responsibly, and if you need to fly anywhere, remember that after the aforementioned airline incident, Superdave now always asks for an aisle seat.

A Bad Day in Greenwood

The fire down the street started more than 12 hours ago, and TV news helicopters are still hovering over my condo.

It's been a weird day.

It's not every morning you get a 5:45 a.m. phone call to inform you your neighborhood is on fire, but that's how my day began. My girlfriend, Kattina, woke me up to say goodbye. We could hear a helicopter outside. I joked that the paparazzi wouldn't leave me alone. I rolled over in bed as I heard the front door shut. Sixty seconds later, Kattina phoned from out in the street. "Greenwood's on fire," she said.

Greenwood is the name of my North Seattle neighborhood, as well as the major shopping street that runs parallel to my street, a short block away. 

"What do you mean Greenwood's on fire?" I asked. I had already pulled on a pair of jeans before I finished the sentence. No time for boxer shorts.

"I don't know. There's a huge fire burning somewhere around Greenwood and 85th."

"Is my building safe?"

"Yeah but you might want to see what's going on."

Okay, so there was time to put on a shirt. No time to find my camera. And it didn't occur to me until I had sprinted halfway down the block that my bladder needed attention.

The intersection a block away was chaos. Four businesses were burning. Even in the early-morning darkness, I could see the air filled with smoke. Fire engine ladders and microwave antennas from TV news trucks were poking into the sky, and a mini swarm of helicopters was hovering overhead. My heart sank when I realized one of my favorite neighborhood restaurants, a hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese place called Pho Tic-Tac, was among those burning and unsalvageable.

If you read my blog on a regular basis, or my website or Twitter feed, or if you've ever had a conversation with me for more than a few minutes, you probably already know how much I love Vietnam. I made my first trip there in April, 2008, and was so captivated by the people and landscape, I went back again 11 months later. On the last night of my last visit, after I said my goodbyes to friends there, I remember walking down the noisy street around midnight thinking, "This feels like home."

And I get homesick. I think about the country every single day and calculate how, and how soon, I can get myself back there. (I'm returning next month to organize a small group tour for 2010. Stay tuned or subscribe to my free e-mail list for details.)

When I can't be in Vietnam, one of the things that has kept me sane is Pho Tic-Tac. The restaurant, right down the street from me in Seattle, has served the most authentic Vietnamese food I've found outside of Vietnam. Their pho was like the same traditional noodle soup I slurp for breakfast in Saigon. Their pork chops, grilled and served with sticky rice and a side of fish sauce for dipping, rivaled the late-night Saigon street food I gobble at makeshift restaurants.

This afternoon, Pho Tic-Tac is a smoldering pile of rubble. You can see the melted fridge through a hole in the wall. It feels eerie peering in and remembering where my favorite table was.

I stood in the rain and shivered in the early morning, watching fire fighters try to keep up with hot spots that flared inside all four businesses, but they could only stop the flames from spreading further. Three restaurants and a coffee house were gone -- and while it looked like Taproot Theater, the little community theater next door, would be spared, it too suffered major water damage.

But eleven kitties were evacuated from a shelter down the street. They're all okay. And other than a fire fighter who sprained his ankle, no humans were injured. So, yeah, things could have been worse.

After the sun rose, and the drama of fire hoses and live coverage grew redundant, I went home to work, but I couldn't focus. I wandered down the street for some breakfast, then called my friend Solomon, who had been scheduled to do a late-night storytelling performance at the water-damaged theater. He was at the theater, helping salvage sets and costumes. So I went back and started at the spectacle some more. Then I went home and tried to work again. But my plan for today was to work on my monthly humor column, and that just wasn't going to happen. 

I went back to the scene of the fire again in the afternoon. I didn't want to be a gawker, or one of the attention-desperate people who insert themselves in front of TV cameras. I just didn't know what else to do with myself. All day, there's been a small crowd gathered, staring in shock, so I stared some more with them.

The most popular business among the four destroyed was the Green Bean, a coffee shop whose owner has a well-deserved reputation for community involvement and charity, both locally and globally. They also display work by local artists. I'm guessing somebody's original stuff was lost.

"That's tragic about the Green Bean," a woman standing near me said to a guy I'd been talking to. "Those other restaurants don't matter, but the Green Bean was so important to our community."

I almost lost it.

"Those other restaurants don't matter?"

"Well I didn't mean it like that," she said.

"Those were all family-run businesses. They've just lost everything. I don't think they'd agree with you that they don't matter."

"You're getting me all wrong," she said.

I was too depressed to get into it further. I shrugged and turned away.

"I don't care about those other restaurants," I overheard her say a minute later. "It's just so sad about the Green Bean."

At that moment, the family that owns the shell of a building that had been the Szechuan Bistro walked by.

"Well now I feel like a schmuck," the lady said to me once the family had passed us.

Good.

I explained to her, as calmly as I could, about my love for Vietnam, and how Pho Tic-Tac was my neighborhood connection with a part of my spirit I needed to feed. I think she got it in the end that it isn't cool to stand in front of somebody else's tragedy and say it doesn't matter. At least I hope she got it.

It was dark out when I got out of bed this morning. It will be dark again soon. A crowd is still gathered. The TV crews are still here. So is the fire department. The buildings are still smouldering, and I have a feeling the neighborhood is going to smell like smoke for weeks.

What's the point to all of this? Hell, I don't know. I had planned to work on my monthly humor column today, but that wasn't happening. After my mini-confrontation with Ms. "The other restaurants don't matter," I felt a need to write something.

In the world of personal essay writing, there's a fine line between telling a good story and being pathetically self-indulgent. If I've crossed that line this afternoon, thanks for humoring me and reading anyway. And this doesn't even qualify as personal essay writing. It's unedited, stream-of-consciousness rambling I just had to get out of my system. I needed to do something other than watching the news for another three hours or continuing to stare at a smoking pile of rubble until another spectator pissed me off with a flippant remark. (There have been others I don't have the energy to write about.)

Pho is one of my favorite comfort foods, and Pho Tic-Tac has been a place I've gravitated to when I've needed comfort. It's not a place I can go this evening. So I'm writing instead.

Travel Journaling and Essay Writing Safari in Botswana

I've rambled about this possibility long enough. It's time to go! Join me and African wildlife specialist Bill Given, January 19-31, 2010, for a one-of-a-kind safari through Botswana's Okavango Delta and Kalahari regions. Say hello to lions, hippos, wildebeest, and other wildlife you've probably never heard of. (At least, I haven't!) Meet Kalahari Bushmen and learn about their culture. And... capture it all in writing through a unique series of travel journaling and essay writing classes!

 

Bill Given owns The Wild Source, a specialized safari company based in Denver, Colorado. He has spent many years leading small-group safaris in Botswana and throughout Africa, and is also a researcher for the Denver Zoo. He'll lead us on game drives in the morning and late afternoon, when the weather is coolest and the animals are most active. Back at camp in the middle of the day, I'll teach writing classes to help you document your journey. You'll return home with stories you can savor for yourself, share with friends and family, or publish professionally. I'll offer solid lessons in how to capture the most vivid details of this or any trip, how to hone your journal entries into polished essays, and, if you aspire to do so, how to go about publishing your work. Writers of all skill levels are welcome!

 

After a one-night stopover in Johannesburg, South Africa, we'll fly on to Botswana for ten days of wildlife viewing. We'll sleep in environmentally-friendly, luxury safari camps, and travel from camp to camp by motor vehicle or small airplane. Our small group (maximum 12 participants) will be the perfect size for hands-on writing lessons, and will enable us to explore the Kalahari and Okavango Delta in two small Land Rovers (or similar vehicles) where everybody gets a "window seat." (Well, except there are no windows... just the warm African breeze in your hair!) You'll have great adventures, spiff up your writing, and return home with the ultimate souvenir -- a journal packed with memories and personal stories of where you've been.

 

The cost for this writing safari is US $4,295 per person, plus airfare to Botswana. The price includes all internal flights within Botswana, road transportation, accommodations, meals, drinks, laundry, and other activities. Traveling alone? There are no single suppliment fees! Space is limited to 12 participants, however, so if you'd like to join us, don't wait until it's too late to sign up!

 

For more information, you can visit my website at www.traveljournaling.com/botswana, or check out a more extensive .pdf file, which includes lots more pictures of the luxury camps we'll stay in and the animals we'll likely see, at http://thewildsource.com/images/newsletter/botswanajournalingsafarifinal.pdf. If you have any questions, please feel free to e-mail me at dave@davefox.org, or get in touch with Bill through his website at www.thewildsource.com.

Is that a chicken in your mouth or are you just happy to see me?

I really should give credit where credit is due. The title for last Wednesday's bloggage was inspired by a sign I spotted recently at a restaurant in Nicosia, Cyprus:

Moral of the story: I don't care how well you think you speak a second language. Always hire a native speaker editor before going public with your marketing campaign.

Oral Pleasure

Oral storytelling is a fading art in today's society. As if the invention of the book wasn't threatening enough, now we've got this thing called television. And then there's the Internet, blogging, tweeting, and a modern mess of other distractions that have minimized the importance our culture places on an exquisitely told tale.

I first got interested in oral storytelling when I was invited to tell one of the stories from my travel humor book to a group that's trying to bring back the craft of oral storytelling. I was fine with the idea until the morning of the event, when I woke up in a cold sweat, terrorized by the sudden realization that not only was this not a reading, but I also wasn't supposed to use any notes.

But once I was "on stage," sitting on a stool in a closed gift shop with about 80 strangers watching me, something clicked. I got a huge adrenaline rush as I ran my mouth, spouting off about my arrival in England at age seven, smuggling my little brother's blankie through customs, and watching from the back seat as my parents learned to drive on what we in America like to call the "wrong" side of the road. (Actually, historically, driving on the left makes more sense, but that's a tale for another day.) There was something about rambling to the audience without the crutch of notes that helped the story flow in a more natural, human way.

Mike Daisey is a modern genius when it comes to on-stage storytelling. He does use notes, which seem to be more of a transitional tool than a crutch. (Turning the page means there's a change in action.) I saw him live a year ago when he gave a talk on a topic I normally wouldn't go learn about for free, let alone pay good money for. The show was ostensibly about inventor Nicola Tesla and his battle with Thomas Edison over Alternating versus Direct Current. Mike weaved in stories of the invention and marketing of Monopoly, the arrival of Wal-Mart in his hometown, and the ways people in authority like to scare us. The performance was seamless and riveting.

I've been sketching out my own storytelling performance this week. In outlining it, I stole one of Daisey's techniques, segueing from topic to unrelated topic in a way that somehow flows.

My own, quasi-humorous performance will include: Emigration to America, modern travel stress, my little brother's blankie, driving on the left, Napoleon, "Short Man's Complex," teenage rites of passage in Norway, post traumatic stress disorder, punk rock, the Vietnam war, chicken penises, and more.

And yes, I know you are aching to hear what I have to say about chicken penises, but it's going to be a while before this is all ready for human consumption. (My performance, not chicken penises.) But the flow of it all is taking shape in my mind. Next steps: flesh out the stories, rehearse the stories, and find a performance space.

Stay tuned.

Re-Bonjour!

Most people in the English-speaking world know that "Bonjour" is the French word for "Hello." But did you know that in France, if you've already said bonjour to someone once that day, you can say "re-bonjour" when you see them a second time?

Speaking of saying hello again, I'm on a mission to jump-start this blog after many months of slothishness. I figured out a couple of months ago the reason I was blogging so little was that I got caught up in the whole "social networking" phenomenon on Facebook and Twitter. I've come to realize that "social networking" is often just a fancy word for "procrastination."

This became the topic of my August humor column, Back to Basics: How Social Networking Nearly Ruined My Perfectly Mediocre Writing Career. That was my first humor column in many months, and my attempt to start writing things of substance again. I followed it up in September with an article about an alleged homeopathic jet lag cure. 

One of the things about writing -- especially humor writing -- is you have to keep doing it or you get out of shape. It's just like playing a sport or a musical instrument, or speaking a foreign language. If you don't keep it up, your skills weaken... but... you can get them back into shape relatively quickly if you don't go for too long without practicing.

I was out last week with my friend, Solomon Davis, who is, among other things, a professional storyteller. (If you're in Seattle, check out his funny and poignant one-man show, Remember Being Born?, at Taproot Theatre, Friday nights through October 23.) I lamented to Solomon that now that my 14th season of European tour guiding is over, I'm finding myself deliberating over how to best spend my time.

A common problem among people afflicted with creative minds is we have a tendency to take on too many projects, and it takes us forever to finish any one of them. I told Solomon I've figured out I need to pick one project and fling myself into it whole-heartedly rather than skimming the surface of lots of stuff. But it's tough to choose between revisiting my first attempt at writing a novel, banging out a follow-up to my first book of travel humor essays, growing my travel journaling tour program, putting together a storytelling performance of my own, or curling into the fetal position under my desk with a bottle of whiskey and whimpering. They are all equally tempting, but I only have time for one or two of them. 

Solomon's advice to me: "You should start a blog and document all the things you're working on."

"A blog?" I thought. "A blog? Oh, that thing?" I think I already have one of those."

I learned a long time ago that I should not write about what I am going to write about, because invariably, things come up, and I need up not writing what I promised to write. But against my better judgment, I am officially announcing right now that I am going to try, try, try to start blogging more frequently than I have been these last few months... with a bit of a change in material. I'll still be posting my idiotic humor rants from time to time, but I'm also going to get a bit more (brace yourself) serious, and write more about the creative process, my own creative endeavors, and whatever else seems to fit. And I'm going to try to get back to blogging several times a week.

If you've read my blog in the past, thanks for sticking around. If you're new here, welcome. Feedback, questions, fan mail, and insults are always welcome at outbursts@davethefox.com.

Jet Lag Wonder Drugs? At Least the Hamsters are Happy.

I was about to delete the e-mail. "Dear Dave," it began. And everybody knows that these days, most e-mail that begins with "Dear Dave" is spam.

Like, this one time, my mother sent me an e-mail, and it started with, "Dear Dave."

I was all like, "How sweet. My mother is e-mailing me." But then her message continued:

"I am Miriam Mbuto Kfaswane, the beautiful and wholesome widow of Malcolm Herman Eugene Tiger Mbuto Humpenstein Kfaswane XII of Spamistan. And if you do not come home and clean your room and pick up your dirty underwear off the floor before dinner, you are not going to get the 64.8 quadzillion US dollars I have been instructed to deposit into your Swiss bank account."

I immediately picked up the telephone and called my mother. "Listen, Mom," I told her, "I am 40 years old. I do not live with you anymore. I will leave my dirty underwear on the floor if I want to. Besides, your name is not Miriam Mbuto Kfaswane!"

At this point, my mother reminded me that she doesn't really understand the Internet, or own a computer, and probably was not the person who sent me that e-mail.

(You can read the rest of this column on my mail website at davethefox.com.)

An Open Letter to the Stockholm Visitors' Board

[I've been meaning to write this e-mail for several years. I finally just sent it... to the Stockholm Visitors' Board and their press department. Stay tuned for a response. Or, go do something else.]

Dear Stockholm Visitors’ Board,

Hello!

My name is Dave Fox. I’m a travel and humor writer from the United States. I also work as a tour guide in Scandinavia every summer. I used to live in Norway and I speak Norwegian fluently, but don’t let that frighten you! Really! Over the years, I have come to really love Sweden as well, and I always tell my American tour groups very nice things about the Swedes when I take them around your country.

There’s just one thing I am curious about. A few years ago, your city’s slogan was, “Stockholm: Beauty on Water.” It was a nice slogan. You had a fun cartoon drawing of the city on all of the plastic bags you gave out at your tourist information office. Then, one summer, maybe five or six years ago, I arrived back in Sweden for another summer of tour guiding, and you had changed your slogan to “Stockholm: The capital of Scandinavia.”

Who came up with this new slogan? Did you consult with the Norwegians, or the Danes, or the Icelanders before you printed up all of those new plastic bags and put signs all over your airport? Didn’t Sweden sort of get in a few wars and things with Denmark when the Danes made similar claims a few centuries ago?

Just curious. Skriv gjerne tilbake på svensk om det er lettere. (Feel free to write back in Swedish if it's easier.)

Hugs,
Dave Fox

P.S. I agree wholeheartedly with the Swedes that King Christian II of Denmark was a pretty big jerk.

What They Don't Teach Norwegians in English Class

Oslo, Norway

More or less everyone in Norway speaks at least a little English. Kids here start learning it in first grade.

I've just wandered in from Akerbrygge, Oslo's lively harbor area, where it's a sunny evening and a swing dance demonstration is in full swing. People of all ages were dancing on the pier. Among others, a girl of around eight years old was dancing with her father to, "Time to get your drunk ass home."

Okay... so English class has its limits.

Everybody Panic! (Again!)

[We interrupt our ongoing bloggage from my recent trip to Vietnam in order to bring you this sneak preview....]

From the producers who brought you 1999 hysteria over world destruction from malfunctioning computer clocks ("Y2K"), and the 2003 panic from a new strain of Avian Flu that would destroy the human race ("Y2Chicken"), comes their greatest thriller yet: "Y2Pig: Swine Flu Unmasked!"

Starring Dr. Sanjay Gupta as the dashing journalist who ventures into the hot zone and risks his life to tell the story, co-starring the entire nation of Mexico as a bunch of dead people, "Y2Pig: Swine Flu Unmasked" will have you on the edge of your hospital bed, believing the hype until the very end!

But wait! There's more! Don't miss the great online extras! Here's what CNN had to say about Swine Flu on Twitter:

"Some observers say Twitter -- a micro-blogging site where users post 140-character messages -- has become a hotbed of unnecessary hype and misinformation about the outbreak...."

If you love hype, you won't want to miss "Y2Pig: Swine Flu Unmasked!" -- the movie so terrifying, you'll be too afraid to remove your mask and eat popcorn.

"Y2Pig: Swine Flu Unmasked!" -- coming soon to a television set near you.

(This movie has not yet been rated. If you are traveling with children, please secure your own mask before assisting with theirs.)

[...I'll get back to my Vietnam blogging soon if I live long enough to tell the tales.]

Squid Bike Barbecues

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

Looking for a late night snack in Vietnam to go with your beer? Flag down a squid bike.

These bikes are typical Vietnamese ingenuity, and while dried sea creatures aren't my favorite food, I can’t help but love the concept.

Many of the local beer joints don’t sell food, but Vietnamese friends tell me you never go out drinking here without something to snack on. The solution: Here comes the squid!

Special bicycles (and occasionally motorcycles) prowl the streets at night with tall racks of dried, pressed squid. For 20,000 dong (5,000 if you’re shrewd enough to negotiate the local price), the squid biker will run a squid through a hand-cranked press and flatten it out one last time, then warm it on a mini charcoal grill attatched to the side of his bike. The squid is chewy and served with a sweet-and-spicy chile sauce for dipping.

If you go out drinking in Vietnam, you have two types of bar to choose from. Some sell fruity cocktails to backpackers. Others are more authentically Vietnamese –- hole-in-the-wall joints offering pint bottles of Saigon Beer, or jugs of local tap beer for around 10,000 Vietnamese dong per liter. (There are 17,600 dong to the US dollar.) The local watering holes usually have outdoor seating at undersized plastic tables and chairs or stools. The seats are wobbly, and low to the ground, but fun once you get used to them.

The Quyen Thanh Hotel: Pet Geckos and Brilliant Balconies

Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), Vietnam

The Quyen Thanh is my favorite budget hotel in Saigon. Seventeen US dollars a night gets you a double room with a bathroom, air conditioning, and pet geckos. A soda from the minibar will set you back 35 cents. A full load of laundry runs about two bucks. Flip flops are recommended in the shower. The green faux-granite bathtubs are grimy, but otherwise, the place is clean.

I’m a night person, which makes staying at the Quyen Thanh awkward. They padlock the front door around 10 p.m. and two receptionists crash on cots in the small lobby. To get in after 10, you ring the doorbell and wait a couple of minutes. Then you ring he doorbell again because the guys in the lobby never wake up on the first ring. After that, you bang on the sliding metal gate that covers the front door. Then a person at the café next door tells you to try ringing the bell again. Eventually, someone wakes up and lets you in. Like I said, this is awkward, especially when you come in well past 10 on a nightly basis, but I’ve offered to move to another hotel so I won’t disturb them. They have graciously assured me they are happy to wake up.

The best thing about the Quyen Thanh is the balconies. The hotel has 14 rooms on four floors, all overlooking my favorite Saigon intersection. Each floor has a single, shared balcony that wraps around the corner for great views of the street below. I’ve sat for hours watching the cyclo riders, food vendors, streetside masseurs, cigarette hawkers, lost backpackers, drunk backpackers, friendly residents, and afternoon downpours. Then, there are the squid bike barbecues. (More on those soon.)

My favorite part of the view from my balcony at the Quyen Thanh is the motorbikes. I’ve already blogged about Saigon’s motorbike culture. What I hadn’t done up to this point was actually participate in it. The swarming traffic was risky enough on foot. Hopping on the back of a motorcycle seemed like a deathwish. But in the morning, my friend Phúc would meet me at my hotel. My belongings reduced to what would fit in a small overnight bag, we would ride 190 kilometers south, weaving through Saigon’s morning rush hour, then buzzing through the Mekong jungles to the city of Can Tho.

I felt nervous about the journey as I crawled into bed. I popped in my earplugs (recommended, as the street noise below lasts all night), crawled under the giant towel that served as my blanket, popped an Ambien to conquer my jet lag, and drifted to sleep.

...To be continued....