Today the lady who sells me tofu made me smile.

She was yelling or talking really loudly rather (this is hard to distinguish for Vietnamese people) about noodles. She was saying something about noodles being tossed to the side to the lady in the stall next to her and about her having to throw away those noodles at the end of the day. As my tofu lady, she sells much more than tofu. She sells noodles, any kind of "Banh" stuff that you need, from banh hoi to banh canh. She usually greets with me with a smile. Today was no different.

Yelling or talking loudly to the lady next to her.
What would you like honey?
I point to the fried tofu. She continues to yell/talk loudly.
How many again?
2
There you go honey. 4000.
Continues to yell/talk.

I love Vietnamese people. With so much going on things like that don't phase them. The other day I forgot that I was heating up my soup and left it on for a long time until all the liquid evaporated and what was left was charcoal black. The burnt stunk up the office but no one seemed to mind. In fact one staff member said "it smells like caramelized sugar!"  On the contrary however, Vietnamese people are not scared to "blow up" in public. It is not a pretty site. Luckily for me, I can stand and watch like it's a soap opera show with no shame.

In Vietnamese...
FUUUUUCCCK YOU!!!!!
WHAT HUH? YOU WANT TO HIT ME HUH?
RAAAWWWWRRR. #@$#^%$*^%!
HIT ME! HIIIIIIIT ME!
FUCK YOU!
SEE EVERYONE SEE!! MY OWN SON EVERYONE! HAHAHAHA!

Whoa. Yes that was pretty intense. I stood on my balcony for a long time watching this fight scene between a mother and her son. There was lot of pacing, shoes thrown around, and a motorbike on the ground and what seemed to be a stoic father.

Anyways, I went to the market with the accountant, Loan. She drove the motorbike and although it is really just a 2 minute walk from the market I was feeling really lazy myself. There is some sort of lethargy or sluggishness that has taken over my mind and tasks as of late. I am unsure way but I'm sure it has something to do with fear. Anyways we hit the market. Loan decided to by mouse. I am still not used to this mouse meat and almost threw up when I tried to watch the lady clean the insides of the mouse meat. What made me want to throw up was seeing an entire skinless mouse. But this is not your average "dirty" rat as locals tell me. It's like a prairie mouse that runs through the rice paddies so it's okay! I've lived here for a while, but I think I'll pass. I've tried it a few times and couldn't stomach it.

Blood, sweat, mud, and dirt is what I love about a Vietnamese market. The food is dirty. The food came straight from the ground that morning, the food was caught that morning, the food was killed that morning, the food is fresh, alive, raw and real. In America we're removed from our food. Placed in pristine packages, wrapped in plastic, hidden in boxes, strategically stacked on top of one another, organized in aisles, expiration date stamped, seal of approval met, distinguished as organic, on sale, frozen. Our food comes to us perfect. We are removed from our food we have no idea where it comes from, who touched it, or what it took to get to the grocery store that day.

I know that all the fish and seafood was caught either early that morning or the night before. The fishermen work hard and the women transport the soon to be dinner items to the market. They sell, clean the fish and bargain with you. They chit chat with one another, sleep in hammocks at noon, and have another go in the afternoon. They are the market vendors whose livelihood is encompassed in fresh vegetables, a pig or cow, or mangosteen.

Green onion and chili  is always given for free with your purchase. When I get green onion that still has a whole bunch of dirt clinging to its roots I'm always taken aback a bit. Oh yeah...this shit came from the ground, and someone had to pick it whoa.

I'm already feeling it. I'm going to have incredible withdrawals when I get home. I'm also scared that this sense of loneliness will come back to me. The kind I used to get in high school and college. Southern California is so painfully lonely. The California sun is just not warm enough. I'm not good enough. I'm fucking scared. I will be a lone wolf among the pack of people who are driven by the American dream. Fuck you google+. Cemented rigid dreams will envelop me, one that is shaped by the necessity of order, sanitation and materialism. I won't understand and they won't understand me. I know I will quickly be broken into routine.  I will be guided by sales at Ontario Mills. Forever 21 and H&M will rule my fashion sense. Ralphs and Whole Foods will tell me what to eat. I will go to 99 ranch and try to imagine myself in Asia. I will go to Westminster and speak Vietnamese. I will become acquainted with my pals, the 60, the 10, the 71, the 101, and the 405. I will get to know my family again. My southern California family and their dreams. I will be part of it again after 6 years. I will get to spend holidays such as Christmas and Thanksgiving with them. I will again, try to get all 20 something people in a picture together. I will drive. I will be scared to go over 75 mph. I will get to know my highschool BFF's once more. I will dance. I will go to shows. I will come back to my art drawer and do art. I will make cards for friends. I will overcome fears and not overcome them. I will be nervous. I will cry. I will laugh. And I suppose I'll figure out a way to be alive again.