Date: June 17, 2010
Significance: First Day of Summer Vacation!
5:30 a.m. – Sunlight pours through the curtains of the guest bedroom, where I had sought sanctuary from Tony’s snoring. A quick wave of grumpiness over the early hour immediately subsides when I realize we are leaving today to spend the summer with friends and family in Michigan. A big smiley stretch, and then I crawl out of bed and get to work: charging iPods, cameras and phones; transferring computer files on to my laptop; redistributing the stuff in our overpacked bags; and sending a few emails.
6:30 a.m. – I consider taking a shower but then realize my scheduled shopping excursion to the Morning Market will leave me coated with grime. Bathing can wait till later. I head downstairs to nag Tony. I had asked him to set out everything he wanted to take home so I could use my superpower packing skills to fit everything in our luggage. Days ago I had asked him to do that. And then again yesterday. Nagging commences, followed by a brief argument. He continues watching The Godfather on TV. (Later, when we were getting along again, he offered up a good packing suggestion: “Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.”)
7:30 a.m. – I am a multi-tasking packing genius. Toiletries in a Ziploc bag. Underwear and T-shirts rolled into tight little cigars and tucked in every nook and cranny. A couple Turkish carpets and other special souvenirs from our travels carefully rolled in plastic trash bags. Even a few cans of Beer Lao wrapped in newspaper and triple-bagged. Tony spots the beer and shakes with frustration.
“We go overweight every time,” he insists.
“No we don’t!” I lie. “I promise, if the bags are overweight, the beer will be the first thing to go.” I have no intention of parting with the beer. It’s an awesome gift.
8:30 a.m. – I want to buy presents from Laos for everyone I will see this summer in the States, but (a) we’re broke and (b) all the stuff for sale here is either cheap Chinese crap or expensive ethnic Lao handicrafts. I can’t seem to find anyone selling cheap beautiful local crafts. Nevertheless, I meet a few friends for breakfast, followed by a visit to the Morning Market. The market comprises a three-story mall and a labyrinth of smaller stalls selling knock-off iPhones, kitchen utensils, T-shirts, silk tapestries, Hmong textiles and just about anything else you could ever need. My neighbor, Julia, has hired a tuk-tuk driver who hauls us to the café and the market. He is very sweet and praises me incessantly for my brilliant Lao language skills (Good morning! Turn left. Turn right. Go market.)
9 a.m. – Julia and I meet up with our friend Whetu and two Lao teaching assistants from VIS, Lae and Addie, at my favorite breakfast spot – Kung’s Café. As we savor the sticky-rice pancakes with mango, French toast with banana, and thick iced coffees, the café’s owner, J.B, chats with us. He speaks five languages and worked for the American military as a translator in the 60s at the same time the CIA’s “Secret War” was blanketing Laos with clusterbombs. Some day, I want to interview him about that experience, if he’s willing to discuss it.
10 a.m. – I’m feeling a little apprehensive about our shopping trip. Our luggage is already bursting at the seams, and our 2 p.m. departure is creeping up on me. I had convinced Tony that the airline will let us take a few extra kilos, which nearly made him explode. I brush aside my doubts and encourage the girls to get going.
10:15 a.m. – Julia, Whetu and I are picking up gifts for people back home, but money is tight and the vendors are stubborn. Lae and Addie help us haggle over prices. As we browse through embroidered bags and silk scarves, perspiration rivers down my arms. My soaked T-shirt clings to my torso. I haven’t washed my hair in four days, so I pull it back in a greasy, stringy sweaty ponytail.
11:30 a.m. – We’re looking at traditional sinh skirts, and I suddenly remember the two skirts at the dressmaker’s shop in another part of town. I was supposed to pick them up yesterday. Panic sets in. I call Tony, who agrees to pick me up on the motorbike and take me to the dress shop. I wish my friends a happy summer and dash out of the market to meet Tony.
Noon – We pick up my skirts, and I climb on the back of the motorbike to head home. I mull over my market purchases. I had bought some cute little slippers for my nephew, Nico, and a matching stuffed elephant made from traditional fabrics. I had meant to buy another set for his little brother, Paul, but I ran out of time. I picture the two of them shuffling around in their silly slippers and making their elephants fight and kiss. Suddenly, I am determined to go back to the market to buy slippers and an elephant for Paul even though he’s too young to care. At the same time, I know Tony is ready to strangle me.
12:05 p.m. – Still on the back of the bike, I have a brainstorm. Tony has been begging for a new cell phone, which I think is a waste of money. However, desperate times call for desperate measures. “If you want to pop back to the Morning Market to look around, I think we have enough time,” I tell him. He makes a beeline for the electronics section and shows me the knock-off Blackberry he wants. I feign interest. He haggles over the price as he has done many times with this same vendor. He already knows the final price, but he does this for sport. Eventually I pull him away and drag him to the handicrafts section to buy Paul’s gifts. Feeling a bit anxious about our luggage allowance and the potential marital discord if we have to pay a penalty, I decide to take out an emotional insurance policy. “If you really want a new phone, I guess I don’t care if you buy it,” I say. “I really do want it,” says Tony. So we return to his phone lady, dicker a bit more, and finally score the Blackberry for $60.
1 p.m. – When we get home – with just an hour to go before our airport shuttle picks us up – Tony drops the bomb: “Oh bad news. The power’s out.” Annoying, but no big deal. This happens all the time, and it usually comes back on within five minutes. I peel off my sweat-soaked stinky clothes and stuff my new purchases in our already stuffed luggage.
1:30 p.m. – Still no power, which means no air conditioning and no water. Which means no bathing. Which is bad, bad news. I look and smell like I was dipped in sweat, battered in dust and deep fat fried. The thought of boarding a plane in this condition fills me with self-conscious dread. Tony suggests washing my hair with the garden hose, but by the time I dash upstairs for shampoo and a towel, he has used all the water to rinse his armpits.
1:45 p.m. – Down to the wire. I use up three packs of green tea-scented wet wipes to give myself a good scrubbing. Nothing I could do about my hair. Extra deodorant, clean clothes, and I’m fresh as a daisy. For about 30 seconds. And then I’m slick with sweat again.
2 p.m. – Mr. Det pulls up to our gate in a big white van. I want to be discrete about our departure. Many of our friends and colleagues have experienced break-ins during school vacations. We don’t want to alert the neighborhood that we’ll be gone for six weeks. I open the gate, wave in the van and shut the gate behind him. We load all our bags, lock up the house and open the gate again so Mr. Det can drive out. As I secure the padlock on the gate, all the tuk-tuk drivers gather around the van, look in the windows and jabber about what I can only assume is our obvious impending absence. I sigh. Our night guard, Beng, and cleaner, Daeng, have promised to keep an eye on the place. Fingers crossed.
And we’re off!
