Always the talk of cultural shock of first arriving in Indochina but now a days, for this old Asian hand, it's even more of a cultural shock arriving back to the United states.
Always, have problems adjusting when I first arrive back but this time my adjustment was a bigger deal than usual. Part of the problem was when last back, nine months ago, my focus was on finding relief from the pain of my leg injury and dealing with how it affected the overall use of my leg and hip. In other words walking was very difficult. The first two months back were spent hobbling around in relentless pursuit of getting fixed and getting my walk on again. Then once a medical solution to fix my hip was agreed on, I still had the pain and had limited mobility so my time was mostly feeling sorry for my self and complaining ability. Though to break the monotony there were the medical checks and tests to make sure my stent studded arteries were up to the major surgery required to fix things.
Meanwhile, as the tests wound down I started a campaign to wiggle my way up the surgery schedule of a two month wait to what ultimately became a wait of a little over a week. I was so focused on my medical issues at this point I could have been in Siberia, ya I know, too warm here for Siberia but anyway hope you get my point. All test results were go, which brought me up to the surgery of cutting out the old OEM hip and tapping in a newly minted metal and ceramic one. For a couple weeks after the surgery walking was only something of my dreams but with intense physical therapy and a unbreakable regime of exercise I got my rebuilt leg working. In total it was about four months to get back walking and at that it was with the help of my backup antique cane. I wasn't until six months after the surgery that I was going again, not running but well on my way to walking normally. So shortly thereafter I was winging my way back back across the pacific to Saigon.
At this point I need to share something about the rebuilding of joints, don't rush your recovery. While in California I had mastered walking the flat, well maintained parking lot in front of my apartment along with the smooth uncluttered sidewalks of my neighborhood and thought my recovery to be, while not really complete but well on the way. Which had me ill prepared for the unkempt and chaotic pathways of Saigon, riding pillion (passenger) on a motorbike, hustling in and out of taxi's, climbing stairs that impersonated ladders and doggedly, dodging traffic as I limped/stumbled across streets.
My original trip plan was to spend time in Saigon, a side trip to Cambodia and then on to Thailand, ending with a flight back to California from Bangkok. While I did make it to Phnom Penh my time there was mostly spent hanging out in my hotel room, leg and hip were too much of a problem, so I pulled the plug on the Angkor Wat leg (no pun intended) and headed back to Saigon. At this point I'd had enough, so decided to scratch Thailand and head straight back to California from Saigon. Cathay Pacific had other ideas, simply put - they wouldn't allow a ticket change from Bangkok to Saigon airports, even though in the past they had allowed this numerous times. So I limped on to Bangkok for a few days and then onward to the states.
About now you're probably wondering about what happened to the original California cultural shock thesis. Get ready, here it comes. As soon I crawled or more like stumbled out of my temporary airborne home I had inhabited for too many long hours, as we headed over the pacific from Hong Kong to San Francisco, things seemed very different as I entered the SFO. People of large girth and height strode across the expanses of terminal and into the lineup for immigration. Where the immigration official seemed to take a interested in me, and not in a "I want to bond" kind of way, all the while flipping through my passport and punching keys on his computer. Baggage on the luggage carousel, mostly sturdy looking suitcases and nari a cardboard box in sight, were pulled off as I headed toward customs with my magic marker marked immigration form in hand. While burly, very serious looking armed government agents give me that eye. You know the eye, the one that makes you want to confess and throw yourself at their mercy for just living and get it over with. I try to remember that this is first world stuff and you gotta be ever so vigilant unlike the third world shuffle where stuff just happens and people except it.
I'm through customs, just a couple comments by the customs official, unlike the x-ray machine at Saigon's Tan Son Nhat Airport where everything goes through but haven't ever seen anyone stopped. Outside immigrations, not the throng of waiting families like in Vietnam, no motorbikes or taxi guys trying to drum up business, just a few smokers and loads of cars rapidly driving by. It's chilly out, unlike the heat of Indochina but you see people in shorts and t-shirts. I wonder why, they must be cold, maybe they are poor. My ride finds me and we walk back into the terminal to an elevator that takes us up to his cars parking spot. Before I know it we're speeding along on the expressway at what feels like a 100 miles per hour. As I'm used to Saigon traffic, traveling by motorbike, taxi or bus where 35 miles an hour is traveling all out. We stop at McDonalds for lunch and I'm nervous, so many different nationalities milling about with no oversight. Where as in the new McDonalds in Saigon, ques are organized with people taking orders on electronic pads, all pretty much the same nationality and there is designated staff to assist you personally, even carry your tray if you want and all with a smile. Since arriving back, mentally I've been keeping a running total on costs and thinking that money spent during the morning for parking, gas and food would have had me blowing a weeks budget in Saigon. Looking around it seemed that no one else is aware of how much money they are spending, as there seems to be an infinite number of five and ten dollar bills on everyone and so no one complains about the cost.
Maybe the Vietnamese I've meet in Sa Gon are right, all American's are rich.
Now after a month and a half back in the states, I've started to adjust and can drive as fast and crazy as any native Californian and can flash my instant cash card like I wasn't overdrawn at the bank. Though the big grocery bills and self serve checkouts are still a problem for me, along with the $100.00 it takes to fill the gas tank of my old truck and having to drive my self everywhere seems strange. However, it is very quiet where I live, but I sometimes miss motorbikes racing by my window and the sound of their horns beeping in the middle of the night. So I'll be back to Indochina and once back I'll complain about how it's different than California, I'm just that kind of guy.
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