Picking up the threads

Two weeks. Fifteen days. And innumerable novel experiences of a novice homemaker. Some things I have been keeping track of (the daily expenses, for one) and some things I let pass by me without thinking much about (that I spent 750000 VND on just a facial out of spite). You know how it is.

So you see, while I had written about the first week in Hanoi, and how it was to start making a home out of a house, I had skipped that bit about how in a pathetic attempt to be a good wife, I once actually served just an apple for breakfast to the husband, because there was nothing else in the house for the two first days! While I had written about crocodile meat being sold in Big C, I had skipped that bit about how I had nightmares long after I had seen an actual crocodile head being chopped off and displayed for show on a slab of ice, and how peeling the skin off and “dressing” the meat is “exhibited” as a form of art for a mesmerised audience. Sometimes we all do things like that. Not peel off crocodile skin, of course. Skip things we don’t want to talk about, I mean.

But in the last two weeks I have seen things I had never seen before, done things I hadn’t done before, and realized a few things I had never thought I would.

So while back at home, I had cooked from time to time, it was more of a hobby, not a compulsion. And now that I am actually running a kitchen, I am amazingly at ease with the whole concept of cooking three times in a day. Okay, two times. Lunch includes shoving containers of leftover dinner into the microwave and having it all by myself since the husband’s away. Like my sister never fails to add whenever people ask me if I cook, I used to cook just fancy stuff. Not the humble everyday meals. And I sincerely can not put into words the feeling I have after cooking something the way I had seen my Ma cook it, and then realizing with pride that it smells and tastes just like hers did! I plan meals with as much zeal as I used to plan eating out with friends. I am just as happy when the husband loves something I had cooked as I used to be when somebody told me I looked good. For the record, now that it is just me and the husband, this is not something I hear very often. But meh, whatever. It’s been quite some time that I have realized the dude is more expressive when it comes to food than he is about me.

Moving on. This must be the first time in my life when I have tasted four different cuisines in ten days’ time. From authentic Vietnamese to Mexican to Thai to French. I gushed over the crab spring rolls and bahn cuons and the typical Vietnamese green mango salad with shrimps, I fell in love with the Thai green curry served with rice, and the chicken soup with coconut milk that had a distinct lemon grass flavor, and I actually became poetic over my bacon flowers served on a bed of lotus seeds and caramelized pork. Once we both figured out how to go about eating it, of course. I mean, we didn’t even know what to do with those chunks of roll that they kept serving one at a time on a soup spoon until our starter arrived. But ah, my stomach is the last thing I have to worry about now that I am here. Oh, and I am married, which means I can afford to be a little complacent, at least for a few days (wicked smile)

But enough has been said about the food. I should probably talk about the silent haggling that I witnessed, much to my amusement, just last week. So just near Hoan Kiem is a huge shoe market where you can get all the fake Nikes and Adidas and Pumas that you had dreamt of, and more. The husband wanted a pair of slippers to wear at home, and when he picked one, the saleswoman, an elderly lady, promptly picked up the calculator and typed out the price. The husband raised his eyebrows as fast as he could, and typed out his price. I merely laughed, the supportive wife that I am. The lady shook her head, took the calculator from him and typed out her price again. After fifteen minutes of taking turns on the calculator, they finally agreed on a price, and I was amazed once again by how people have found ways around the entire language barrier. But then again, body language is universal. A nod will always mean a yes, and a shake will always mean a no. A smile will only be a smile everywhere, and a frown will only be a frown.

Between people coming and talking to me in Vietnamese and learning a little bit of it myself, between realizing that out here there are still places where they shape eyebrows with a blade (yes, a blade!) and between marveling over the most fresh, the choicest fruits and vegetables money can buy, I’ve also had a few Hanoi moments of my own. Like that impulsive dance move in the middle of the street my husband surprised me with as we walked hand in hand by the Hoan Kiem lake. Like seeing that cute kid with a proud mohawk (the rest of his hair was shaved) holding his brothers hand in the lift. Like listening to a Vietnamese song in the radio and realizing I could hum along with it because I had heard it once before.

Life, for the last two weeks has been different, has been difficult. But most of all, has taught me what life is really about. Making the best of what is thrown at you, and learning to be happy with what you have. Signing off before the homesickness gets to me yet again. Tam biet!

The little things

I had always known that it is the little things that work for me, from being happy to being upset. Friends tell me I hold on to the tiny things I shouldn’t be holding on to, and that times when I should actually be upset over something, I don’t even think it is worth being upset over. Even back in the university, all it had taken for me to be happy was a long walk, a cup of coffee and some feel-happy song playing full blast on repeat.

I had never known just how little it takes to make me go all sunshine-y and summer-y until I came here.

No, honest! So while the first two days we spent running around getting stuff for the kitchen from Big C, on the third day we decided to take our chances on the Vincom Tower (or to put it officially Hanoi Vincom Center) which is a business center with six levels used for commercial purposes, including a supermarket spanning across a whole level. The other 17 levels are used by the embassy and other international organisations. Even as I entered the brightly lit, welcoming place, there was a smile plastered on my face. Finally a mall where I could actually take a breath without gulping in someone else’s. Escalators with steps! And not those clumsy step-less ones where I can’t ever maintain my balance. Brands I actually had heard of before! Le’s Mart with awesome music being played in the background! It took all of my self-restraint not to dance a jig right in the middle of the store. Such was my relief to get a change from noisy crowded Big C.

The husband and I methodically scanned each aisle and each shelf for stuff we needed. Sugar, salt, and ketchup (Heinz!). Cornflakes (Kelloggs, another name I knew!) and biscuits (Oreo, my dear friend you!). The exclamations at the end are en exact depiction of my reaction, just in case you were wondering. But my favorite buy of that day had to be the perfect saucepan with a glass lid for making tea, and a wooden spatula with the flattest end possible to flip my omelettes, and oh, an egg beater just like the one we have back home in Mamma’s kitchen. Funny how “just like the one we have back home” seems to be the yardstick for the “good” now that I am this far away from home. And did I mention the humongous wooden rolling pin that we got? I mean, which self-respecting wife doesn’t have one both for self-defense and sometimes offense, eh? That I used it to make map shaped “lusis” the other day is just something that comes along with it, I guess. And just when I thought my shopping couldn’t get any better, I saw these warm cuddly bedroom slippers that made me feel like I was gliding on a cloud, and I had to pick them up. The wooden floor is starting to get colder as the days pass by, you see. Oh, look at me gush over saucepans and spatulas and bedroom slippers!

But even now, as I look at the sunshine somehow peeking through the fog, I realize once again it is always about the small things. The picture perfect golden yellow omelette that slides from the pan to the plate without me having to fumble over it. The yellow and red roses I bought dirt cheap from the flower shop just three minutes from my place. The fragrant pink lilies which make me take a deep breath each time I pass them by in my living room. Discovering a KFC and an Al’Fresco’s (a chain of restaurants which serve the most amazing steak and chips) at walking distance from where we live during our late night post-dinner walk yesterday. Being able to give instructions to the taxi driver in Vietnamese, and actually managing to reach my destination correctly. Standing on the top of a foot bridge and watching the busy evening traffic melt into a sea of red and yellow lights.

I don’t know if this is how things will be, for days to come as well. But I am enjoying it while it lasts. Someday, I will start worrying about jobs and salary and savings and taxes. But for now, it will be just about the pots and pans and flowers and slippers.

Hullo Hanoi; Hullo Home

Come tomorrow, I will complete all of one week in Hanoi. A standing ovation would be welcome here. So far, all I have managed to figure out is that Ga is chicken and Bo is beef and Heo is pork, so I at least know the kind of meat I am buying from the super mart which sells crocodile meat as a Sunday delicacy. I know Mo is one, and Hai is two and Ba is three, and that’s all I have managed when it comes to numbers. Not that it helps. I know Cam On Ba is thank you, but I haven’t been able to pronounce it in a way that my maid can understand. And well, I know not to ever buy five whole kilos of rice at the first go because now we are stuck with five kilos of amazingly sticky rice that doesn’t quite go well with Indian curry.

Hmm.

The husband and I landed in Hanoi last Tuesday sometime in the afternoon. Oh, just in the passing, I should probably mention that I got married. And next month on the 7th we complete a month. Another standing ovation, please? But I digress. I was talking about how in the airport itself, I got the taste of how things happen in Hanoi. I am saving my opinion about Ho Chi Minh City until when I actually visit it so I won’t talk about how things happen in Vietnam. But while all I had to do in Singapore to clear immigration was wait in a line for all of three minutes before being asked to approach a desk, in Hanoi, I had to huddle with a group of other people waiting for something, anything to happen. Twenty minutes later, I somehow happen to see my passport being held up and my name being called out (funny thing, even in my country people couldn’t pronounce my name, out here my name should just be “Unpronounceable”) and I try push my way to the counter to get my visa-on-arrival done. And once I have the visa, I say byes to the acquaintances I had made even while standing in that not-a-queue.

Once we are in the taxi on the way to our new apartment, I had my eyes glued to the road, and my first thought was that had it not been for the Vietnamese on the billboards, I would have thought myself to be in Delhi. After glitzy Singapore and beautiful Indonesia, Hanoi was a bit of a let down at first sight, but well, three hours of air travel, one hour of airport struggle and another hour in a taxi, and we were finally home. For some strange reason, I was smiling when I got off the taxi. I didn’t care that I was two thousand miles away from home. I didn’t care that all I had to hold on to was my brand new husband right next to me, and I didn’t care that I didn’t understand a single thing on the sign boards around me. This was to be my home. My first ever. And our house agent waiting for us with a basket of flowers on the table and chilled water in the refrigerator just made me smile a little more. It was love at first sight with the house. And what sealed it was the wooden floors and my very own bath tub.

Although normally it takes me about three days to recover from three hours of flying, all I could think of at that point of time was “I need stuff to put in this house!” and so, without waiting to change or even freshen up, off we went to the mart nearby, Big C. Big C is quite the Hanoi equivalent of our very own Big Bazaar. It is just as crowded, just as chaotic and just as loud. If someone had told me the shopping spree would continue for three whole days maybe I would have waited to take a breather before diving in head first. But well, you gotta do what you gotta do.

First came the pots and pans, although I took four days to find the perfect pretty ones. Our aim on the very first day was the “survival kit” and novices that we both are, we left out crucial stuff while we picked up trivial ones. So although we bought the pan to fry eggs, we didn’t find salt to cook it with. Although we had the strainer for tea, we couldn’t actually find the tea. I realized the importance of label graphics the moment I realized that they were all I could count on since all the labels were in Vietnamese.Two hours of running around trying to decipher labels and we were finally ready to give up for the day.

The next day being Diwali, I wanted to set up my prayer room. Yes, you heard right. My. Prayer. Room. Which has a Chinese style wooden temple and our “Kirtan Ghuxa” and “Goonamala” wrapped up in a “gamusa”, and the book of Borgeet on it. I actually found tamul-paan (betel nut and betel leaf) to offer on my “thapona” along with a bronze Singaporean dollar on an actual “kaahor bota”. You call it fusion, I call it management with limited resources. I even made a rangoli on our wooden floor, and lit up “diya”s and lights we had brought from India. We had a Vietnamese family over for dinner, and all in all, the first Diwali went pretty much the way I had imagined it would be.

It is with immense pride that I say that I now have a full fledged up and running kitchen, and I can whisk up almost anything from humble everyday meals to fancy gourmet ones. Just spare me the rice though. The husband and I will work it out in maybe another week’s time, and then I can serve you rice with pride. Until then, it has to be frozen roti pratas or over cooked and under cooked (at the same time, mind you) rice. And over dinner, we can talk about the amazingly cold weather and wedding photography (quite a hot thing out here, let me tell you) by the Hoan Kiem lake. Or we could just skip the dinner bit and go have coffee in the Highlands Coffee by the Opera House and stare at the backside of the Hilton. Or I could just sit right here and listen to my bamboo wind chimes and miss my people back in India some more.

Sigh.