DIEN BIEN PHU

Welcome to Dien Bien Phu. Where the French got their creamy little asses handed to them in 1954. I'm sorry to take joy in that, but there is always a little bit of joy in revelling in one of France's many, many military failures. Here's what Wikipedia has to say:

"As a result of a series of blunders in the French decision making process, the French undertook to create an air-supplied base, at Dien Bien Phu, deep in the hills of Vietnam. Its purpose was to cut off Viet Minh supply lines into the neighboring French colony of Laos. Instead, the Viet Minh, under General Vo Nguyen Giap, were able to surround and besiege the French, who were ignorant of the Viet Minh's possession of heavy artillery and their ability to move such weapons to the mountain crests overlooking the French encampment. The Viet Minh occupied the highlands around Dien Bien Phu, and were able to fire down accurately onto French positions. Tenacious fighting on the ground ensued, reminiscent of the trench warfare of World War I. The French repeatedly repulsed Viet Minh assaults on their positions, occasionally air-dropping reinforcements. Ultimately, however, the Viet Minh overran the base and forced the French to surrender."

Anyway, I found it boring. There was absolutely nothing in the town, and I don't get off on military sites, old tanks and bunkers n' shit. Unlike my dad, who experienced a series of multiple "wargasms." We went as part of a school excursion with Jonah's University. The hotel was an oversized, underused, weirdo resort in the middle of nowhere with swan boats for paddling through the thoroughly toxic lake, billiard tables and ping-pong tables, and monkeys in cages which were apparently being prepared to be killed and cooked and eaten. We ate conventional vietnamese food which was all awful anyway.

Welcome to the fucking boonies of Viet Nam.

Our last night there all the college kids played Bierut with warn Ha Noi beer and I went to bed early. It turns out that Jonah's professor won the Beirut tournament.

This is what our young university minds go on semester abroad for it seems.

More interesting stuff to come.

It's my last day in Viet Nam, and all I want. . .

Is some fucking western food. A cheeseburger, a falafel or maybe. . . .

A Doner Kebab.

My first night in Ha Noi (will give full Ha Noi) update soon I stayed in a heavily touristy area and across the street was a Doner Kebab stand. Full lumps-of-turkey-on-a-spit, with frsh veggies and soft, fluffy bread. I knew at one point I wanted to try a Vietnamese take on Western or just some sort of international food.

But, with all the touring, and the ubiquitous Banh Mi's (sausage, pate and cucmber sandwiches) and Pho Bo (Beef Noodle Soup) and Cha Ca (Fish and scallions fried up in a pan right at your plate) and Spring Rolls, etc. etc. factoring in an opportunity to go back to that one Doner Kebab stand which I very vaguely remember where it was didn't make much sense.

Until today. It's my last day here and I vowed to myself that I would find that Doner Kebab stand. We spent the morning at Ha Noi's fine arts museum which was really nice. I dropped $70 on some artwork to put up in my new apt and don't regret a cent of it. By the end I had the choice of either continuing museum hopping or getting my Kebab. I didn't deliberate for long. I didn't know where I was going, all I knew was the name of the hotel from that night. I told the cyclo-driver: "Golden-Sun Hotel."

He responds: "Hal-hi-son Hotel?" Sure, sounded right. This is the country where if you pronouce one vowel slightly wrong, they have no fucking clue what you're talking about. He drops me at the Harrison Hotel where all the APEC deligates are statying.

Do I look like a fucking APEC deligate? My only choice is to go all the way out to my younger brother's University and meet up with him to look at a map. We haul ass out there and he's not in his room. I wander the streets, hungry, frowning on all the greasy Viet-food stands until I cross paths with a good friend of his from the dorms. We go to his dorm room and start scouring tour books and maps for this phantom Kebab stand. And then I see it:

A review for a bar called the Funky Monkey which was around the corner from the Golden Sun, which was on the same block. . .

My stomach gurgling, I write down the address and hail a cycl0 driver. We turn the corner and there he is: a little Vietnamese dude selling Turkish sandwhiches in Ha Noi.

I buy one with a beer. The bread's warm and fluffy, the veggies are crisp and fresh, the meat. . . a little fatty, but very tasty. I wolf it down and buy another. They're 10,000 VND each. that's 70 cents.

I spend the rest of the afternoon wandering through the district with a stuffed euphpric grin on my stupid American face. That was the most well-deserved, well-enjoyed Doner Kebab I've ever had.

HUE!

It's day. . . um. . . six I think? . . of the Levy familiy's incursion into the wild and fascination nation of Viet Nam!

After we finsihed getting our suits fitted and our shopping blitz concluded we got ourselves into a blissfully air conditioned van to drive us north the the city of Hue, home of the Imperial Palace. The drive was harrowing. At least thats what my dad told me, I slept the whole way. People use their horns here compulsively. It's just a way of announcing your presence. So, as the rain bucketted down on the highway, with ponchoed motorbicyclists on either side, it's amazing that there wasn't a crash of some sort.

The best way to describe the hotel in Hue was "faded glory". Like it was an elegant and fancy hotel one time and descended into seediness. There was a stuffed deer in the lobby and it seemed like we were the only ones there. We went out to a restaurant that had been featured in a number of guidebooks. There were a slew of other tourists there. The restaurant and the one right next door were owned by two deaf brothers and they had their gimmick down: They had their own homemade bottle openers: a plank of woodf with a bolt and nut separated far enough to lodge a bottlecap under. They had a whole wall of photos of tourists using the bottle-opener in their home country (under the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, etc.) We're going to get ours under the Statue of liberty.

Also, on the way to Hue we stopped at Marble Mountain, which was one of the most breathtaking sights of the trip. Five mountains that jut into the sky on an otherwise completely flat coastal plane. Really odd, almost mystical. There was a phenomenal cave inside the main mountain with sculptures of Buddha and the female Buddha (whose name escapes me.) Once again, there are photos to go with.

The Imperioal City was beautiful, kind of like the the Vietnamese Versailles, and HUGE. But by this point it was really hot and we were tired. Now, we're about to catch a flight up to Hanoi where we meet up with the fifth member of our crew, completing the Levy crew: JONAH!!

For those who were unaware, my younger brother Jonah has been studying in Vietnam for three months now, and that was what inspired this trip in the first place. We're very excited to see him.

See you all in a week!

-Gid

HOI AN!!

Well, I'm glad to be out of Saigon. It was fun, but any city that makes New York seem quiet and peaceful with easy to navigate traffic and fresh, clean, healthy air is not exactly a place I'd like to stay for vacation. One update I would like to include is about the War Remnants Museum, which was a heartbreaking look at the results of our incursion into this small, peaceful country.

There was an entire exhibit dedicated to all the photographers who died in the line of journalism, and those who were forced into trying to save soldiers lives when all they intended was to chronicle the war. Really intense, heartbreaking stuff, some of the best action photography I'd ever seen. (Alan, you'd love it.) There was a Vietnamese High School group waiting to go in who all stared at me in my 6'5" glory and cheered wildly when I smiled and waved at them. Hehehe

The Levy family also went out to some of the best eating we'd had so far. At each meal we'd just keep ordering more and more food until we were stuffed, and it'd always come out to less that $15 a person.

After three days in Saigon, we caught an early morning flight to Da Nang and then a cab ride to the city of Hoi An, which was much more what I was looking for in a vacation from NYC. Smaller, coastal town, where it's POURING on and off the whole time we're here.

The main reason we came to Hoi An is for the clothing. They have some of the best tailors in Viet Nam here, and I got not one, not two, but THREE hand-tailored three-piece suits and silk shirts for only about $70 apiece. For those of you who really know me, you know the next time we take a night on the town I'm going to be strutting about in all my pinstriped glory. Wé're getting them fitted later today, I can't wait. We also got handmade silk lanterns for $4 apiece. . . .

Some of you lucky ones may have one coming your way. . .

That night we went out to a really snazzy restaurant called the Mango Room which was a Vietnamese/Cuban/Argentine fusion restaurant with brightly colored walls, mellow Cuban music, and the comfiest chairs I'd ever sat in in a restuarant. 75% of the dishes had mango in them, plus a pureed mango daquiri that was just divine.

Right next door was the (as far as I could tell) only late-night cater-to-tourists pub in town where all the international tourists and exchange students went. There were maybe 50 or 75 people there at peak when the rest of the town was closed up for the night. On the walls were paitings of "SuperBono"(Bono with a superman suit and U2 on his chest instead of the Superman S), a Samurai soldier listening to an Ipod and a Warhol-esqe 3x4 collection of square portraits of influential writers, philosophers and world leaders including Ghandi, Stalin, Nietzche, Marx, and Marilyn Monroe. Go figure.

The nations represented at the bar were Australian, Ireland, Norway, Sweden, England, one French, Matt and I holding down the US and maybe some others.

Today, we're going to take a hike of Marble Mountain and then off to the city of Hue! (pronounced Hway)

Missing you kids, and remember! If you want a postcard, send me your address!

-Gideon

SAIGON!

It's amazing that we live in a time that you can go to the other side of the world in only 24 hours.

There's also the experience of being timeless. Being in one place means that you're subject to the 24 hour clock, sunrise is at 6(ish) so is sunset, and that's the way the day works. Then when you're on a plane around the world, the whole system is thrown out of whack.

Anyway, myself, my father Mark, his lady-love Alisa and my brother Matt arrive in Saigon at 10am Saigon time, 10pm New York time. I feel well-rested but jittery from the flight. We catch a cab to our respective hotels (Dad & Alisa at a fancy one, Matt and I at a moderately priced one) and are shocked by the swarms of mopeds that dominate the streets. Nobody obeys traffic laws and it astounds me that there aren't constantly wrecks everywhere. Half the riders wear masks on their faces, nobody wears helmets, and sometimes you see two, three, even four to a moped (ie: a mother and three young children.) The cars share this space and politely nudge their way in and out of traffic.

We check in to the hotel, change our money ($1 = 15,000 Dong. Most food/drinks cost less than $2) and go out to explore the town. Like most cities in developing nations, everyone wants to sell you something, but I notice that they're more polite here than in Mexico for example.

If you think jaywalking across the street in New York is an adventure, you a'int seen nothing.

We went out for our first meal at a touristy restaurant, which was okay, and then visited Reunification Palace, which is a modern architecture recreation of the palace the French built when they set up shop in 1858. It was then where, after we got the hell out in 1976, where the North and South Vietnamese Reunified as the Socialist Replublic of Viet Nam. Dad had what he refers to as a "Historgasm" It also reinforced the whole question of what the fuck were we doing there in the first place? (We meaning the US Army)

It's also fascinating to see how they hold no grudge. From the early days of the war, the Vietnamiese people were informed that it was the US Government to blame for the war, not the US people. Everything has been forgotten, and now Vietnam wants everything to do with the US market. this is considering that we killed 3 million Vietnamese. 10% of the nation, 90% of which were civilians. It's totally heartbreaking to think of the enormous fucking mistake of that war and how touching it is that the Vietnamese can move past it with such stoicism.

Compare that to the current conflict and the mindset of the radical Muslim culture and the horrendous fucking mistake we're making now.

Anyway, I was in bed and asleep by 6pm, woke up at 6am and went on our trip down to the Meekong Delta. What a beatiful and wild river! I couldn't get the images from Apocalypse Now out of my head. We saw some island villages, sat and ate local fruit (papaya, pineapple, persimmons and some really wild looking/tasting dragonfruit) while the locals played music and sang to us, then I went on a shopping spree at the local market (yes there will be gifts for you lucky ones!)

The most interesting item was a large bottle of snake wine. Pretty self-explanitory, a bottle of wine with a cobra and a scorpion inside. It allegedly helps with "Rheumatism, arthritis, mental senility, physical fortitude, premature ejaculation, improper erechtness (thats how it was spelled)" and another number of ailments. The man who sold it kept gripping my biceps, telling me it would make me strong. For those tough enough, there with be a ceremonial tasting of snake-wine when I return.

The rest of the Meekong trip was lovely, exploring the friendly local villagers, watching the coconut farmers, the brickmakers, etc. There will be pictures coming out soon enough.

After we returned and took a nap, we went out to a fancy restaurant ate tons of delicious seafood and the total came out to about $8 each. I swear, if it wasn't for the $1000 plane-ride to get here, I'd take a trip like this once a week.

After that I strolled through the streets, glancing at the expected tight-jeaned prostitutes with fatigue and only the very mildest of interest. (No, that's NOT on my to-do list for this trip, thank you!!) and ended up at a very classy Jazz club called Sax n' Art. There was a quintet of very skilled jazz musicians, I bought a CD and sipped some cognac, trying to feel very classy in my sandals and adidas exercise shorts.

Well, I'm off to bed, and then tomorrow is a guided tour of the city.

More to come soon!!

Gid

A Sunday across Bridges, Boroughs and Class Borders

Sunday is God's day. If you're a Christian of course. Im Jewish, which means it should be Friday night thru Saturday, and if you're a Jehovah's Witness, there are no holidays because every day is God's day, but that's not the point. Sunday is supposed to be a day off. And if you work freelance, like I do, actually having Sunday off is a special blessing, so I decided I was going to make this one count.

I was going to bike across a bridge I'd never biked before, and go to a museum I'd never been to. I met up with my friend Marin, who has become my defacto sunday biking buddy, as well as my closest friend in contrast to our height differences (6' 5" to 5' 2"! Whoa.) and after tea at her house in Greenpoint, we decided it was time to saunter across the North Pole of Brooklyn to the strange, alien land of Queens via the Pulaski Bridge. That was easy pickins. Then came the Queensboro.

The Queensboro bridge is a long freakin' bridge, and if you want to bike across, you have to enter from QB Plaza NORTH at about 27th ave. Plus side is, it's much less steep than the Williamsburg.

Anyway, once on the Manhattan side, it was a harrowing trek through traffic to get ourselves to 38th and Madison where in classy, high-brow New York fashion, locked our bikes up to a sign-post and finagled a free admission (I love having an NYC Sightseeing License) into the

J.P. MORGAN LIBRARY.

For those unaware, J.P. Morgan was the richest man in the world for much of the late 19th century, through the early 20th. Inflation adjusted, richer than Bill Gates. Hyberbole adjusted, richer than GOD. In 1873 he saved the United States from bankruptcy with one really, really big loan. He was also a fatty with a big, honkin' swollen red nose. Kind of like an evil capitalist Santa Claus with a big moustache and no beard.

He also travelled all over the world collecting rare and beautiful books and artifacts which he kept in his private library, which are now on display. Morgan believed in things like reincarnation and that the spirits of mighty Kings and Pharaohs inhabited modern-day men like himself, which I could understand. Looking at all the proles and plebians swarming every inch of the city, It made sense that he thought himself a God amongst men.

The library was beautiful, as well as his study, preserved in it's lush red-velvet and Baroque painted ceilings, but there's only so long you can stare at really old books and paintings before you get the point. The main lobby had been completely modernized with wood panelling and glass elevators and in the upstairs room was an exibit on Bob Dylan on loan from Seatlle's Experience Music Project. I don't exactly see Bob Dylan and J.P. Morgan sitting down for tea and a jam session, but the exhibit was nice.

Okay, we've satisfied our intellectual pursuits for the day. Where's the beer?

We biked ourselves down 2nd ave, and after a delicious and very healthy brunch at Kate's Joint (ave B and E 4th) Marin informed me of her woe at not making it to the very last show at CBGBs which was that very night.

Ugh. Enough with the CBGBs already. It was a landmark in music history that had it's time, made its mark, left its legacy and remained true to it's cause and substance, and now its OVER ALREADY!! The Bowery has transformed from Satan's Circus into the heart of BoHo chic and the fall of CBGBs in the face of all of those god-awful high-rise condos was an inevitability. There are other urban conservationists that claim that we should have landmarked it and turned it into a museum. This would have been a much greater travesty than seeing it shut down.

It's a punk-rock club, not the Morgan Library. The Morgan Library is where you go to look at old relics of history. CBGBs is where you go to drink and headbang yourself into blissfull oblivion, which is exactly where CBs is now.

So, after flagilating myself with my bike lock sarcastically, I went inside, had a beer and had one last photo taken of myself and Marin at the bar, giving the one fingered Punk-Rock salute.

J.P. Morgan is dead. Long live J.P. Morgan.
Punk-Rock is dead. Long live. . .ah, F%*# it.

The Umbilical Yo-Yo Act (Asheville, NC - Brooklyn, NY)

I'm in my bedroom getting dressed up. Favorite purple velvet jacket, a silk shirt and slacks, I'm not going out dancing, or drinking, or this month's party to end all blah blah blah, I'm taking myself out to dinner. At the new French-Farm bistro restaurant on Cortelyou where married couples with three kids go to feel romantic and elegant in Ditmas Park. And then I'm coming home.

I just came back from a three-day vacation in Asheville, North Carolina. The liberal haven of the South a slice of San Fran in the heart a' dixieland. I vaguely knew a couple people and found a host on Couchsurfing.com (a road-tripper's dream come true) and took an awful 19 hour bus ride + 5 hour mini-van ride with family to get there.

And it's quiet. It's peaceful. And then I get a phone call from one of my employers informing me that I forgot some important paperwork in my last shipment to them.

FUCK! And I thought I was on vacation. So I call home all frantic to get my dad and brother to track down the stuff which was right on my desk and send it for me and while we were chatting, he asked me to cover a tour for him on Saturday. Which means coming home Friday, which means cutting my 5 vacation down to 3 1/2.

I earned this vacation. I worked (and yes, partied) like a dog this summer, then moved out of a crappy apartment just to spend a nice few days in somewhere that was whole-heartedly NOT New York just to get yanked back by the. . . (Wait for it. . .)

UMBILICAL YO-YO!!

The firmest bedrock of my life is my endless gratitude for being raised in such a blessed family and household in such a rich, brilliant city.

But GOOD, GOD!!!! WHAAT THE FUCK DOES IT TAKE TO GET AWAY FROM YOU PEOPLE ONCE IN WHILE!!!!

There was Contra-Dancing! And pretty girls in country dresses who just wanted to DANCE! And crickets, and the most amazing dumpster-diving a budget scavenger could ever ask for, and I swear that the weekend had so much more to offer, but I had to cover. For my dad, because he didn't want to work on Rosh Hoshana.

Now I could make a big deal out of the "fair-weather Jew" phenomenom (his favorite food is shrimp) but that's not the point, the point is, when he needed me to cover for him, I did, regarsless of being 700 miles away because it's family. And in my case, you can only get away, until you feel the cord tugging.

There's another reason. I'm writing this from the big bedroom I graduated into when my older brother went to college. The bedroom I spent the latter part of my adolsence in, living back home. Rent free. Dad's house once again.

That apartment I mentioned before was number 2 of bad apartment choices I'd made in New York, each resulting in Dad taking me back in (always rent-free!) because, well, it's family. We're all in this together.

So tonight's the fancy dinner celebrating my successful vacation, which in total cost less than the money I'm going to make giving directions to a bus driver and chatting up adults from Where'zat?istan to various places throughout Queens for 6 hours.

It's a good life. Even if you have to escape it sometimes.

Coming next: An (abridged) review of Asheville, NC

Day of the Dust Cloud (republish)

This was the post I wrote a year ago. I'm sorry, I'm very blocked and can't seem to get anything down.

It's nice to reflect sometimes

It started like any other Sunday. Later than most of my other days, for which I was always grateful but still a day I had to work, the last day of my five day week: a sunny, yet breezy morning, probably pants today, not shorts. Then over breakfast, my housemate Sean, also a tour guide for Grey Line says to me:

"The first tower was hit four minutes ago." My first response was a flashback. Of someone in my campus dorm, up in Amherst, Massachusets saying something about a plane and a tower as I was brushing my teeth, still shaking the night's crust from my eyes. I then snapped back to today, my second reaction being just an instant of "Oh no, not again." By the third instant I had caught his meaning, and remembered. Today's The Day.

And to be honest, I have no personalized reason to comemorate The Day. I didn't know anybody in the towers, and knew nobody who lost someone. My greiving was the public greiving of acknowledging that my home and my city had been attacked, and in the collective sense, we were all sharing one large wound. I mourn my being removed from the scene. 200 miles away, going through the motions of class schedule and college routine for the next three days until I threw a handful of clothes into a pack and hitch-hiked my way down the I-495 until I was back in Brooklyn and could see The Dust Cloud personally, from across the Fulton Landing.

My life wasn't changed substantially, but the next three years being removed from my city made me feel like I couldn't experience how the city was dealing, adjusting, and preparing to move on. I remember on holidays home from school, walking around the financial district wondering if it was just a psychological block, or if I was just so removed from the experience that I couldn't find the border of the site. In saw the wreckage only once in it's still smashed, war-zone state before I started bringing student and senior groups to the spot so they could snap photos and I could give my memorized speech of facts, events, and praise of our Heroes.

I'm fifteen months out of college now, my first 9/11 feeling finally re-integrated into the rhytms of my city. Watching the rapidly gentrifying over-the-river spots of my beloved Brooklyn. I'm participating in the arts scene in Williamsburg, Greenpoint and the still-rebellous Lower East Side, which is desperately trying to scream away the encroaching Starbucks' and six-figure bankers. I'm laughing bitterly at the meager efforts of the democratic primary, wondering which clown is going to win the 4-runner rat race, just to crumble under Mayor Mike's billions in campaigning and pro-active approach to development and city improvement. Even if it is typical corporate-centric profiteering behind most of the public-works projects Mayor Mike is advocating, I have to say: one of the first things I look for in a mayor is compitence. And he exudes it a lot more than any of the Democrats.

New York City's evolution of the past 20 years has been astonishing, and the past four in particular have showed how powerfully the city has been reborn and continues to grow and evolve for the better. Except in that one sixteen acre depression between Church and West, Liberty and Vesey. A place that has remained for four years as a pit, both literally and ideologically. The tour bus drives past it one block removed on Broadway. Which is a lot less removed than I feel some time. I am a New Yorker, yet I personally have no say what will be there. And I, just like those who are actually making the choices that will change the city permanently, seem to have no idea what should be there either.