36 Hours- Hanoi

FLY:  Direct, via Singapore Airlines (so I can claim miles)/SilkAir (plane was a tad beat up, but service was even better than on SQ).

STAY:  Sofitel Legend Metropole Hanoi

Centrally located in the French Quarter, it's Hanoi's grand dame, her expression of what the Raffles Hotel is to Singapore, the Peninsular to Hong Kong. 

Initially I was unsure about its size (too many rooms) and the bathrooms tiled in red, when studying its pictures on-line.

Once we got there however, I was instantly relieved!  There was much attention paid to service, to ambience.  Relief!  Colonial charm at its very best.

The red used in the bathroom also turned out to be more attractive when encountered in the flesh.

Relief!  A well-dressed bathroom!

EAT:  Pho.  Hanoi is pho capital.

Quan Pho Thin, 13 Lo Duc, is supposedly the place to go for pho.  We didn't have that much time, so opted to just eat at the hotel/ordered room service.

DO:  (only if you enjoy the sort of things I do)

1.  Binh Minh Jazz Club, in the alley right behind the Opera (below)

Just cross the road- if you make it across in one piece, simply follow the music!

2.  Manzi Gallery, 14 Phan Huy Ich

Non-tourist spot!  "Restored" period crumbly housing a simple cafe and contemporary art.  My heart got thumping!

3.  St Joseph's Cathedral, Nha Tho Street/ Old Quarter

I watched a documentary where a young artist compared the streets behind this church to the Marais, so thought it would be a good starting point for walking and feeling. 

Quite frankly I didn't get the Marais feel, but the cathedral itself, called to mind, Bruno at Notre Dame, exactly a year ago, last March!

4.  Walk & Walk

I really love walking a city to feel its pulse and observe the world around me.

Woah.  Imaginative, urban dwellings.

Woah.  Spotted- one dog being walked along Hoan Kiam Lake.

Woah.  A group of young artists preparing for an exhibition of anarchistic work in an abandoned office.

***

Walking through the Old Quarter, I repeatedly heard Jon behind me, saying- No, No, thank you.  After successfully crossing the 3rd street, I turned around- Who's harassing you, Baby?

Some guy wanting to shine my shoes!  

Huh?!  Tell him to leave you alone! Never mind, I'll tell him for you!

Baby, walk beside me, it's safer that way...

***

5.  Tea/Drink Poolside at the Sofitel

Perfect reprieve from the bustle of the city, potential shoe-shiners/cobblers, and resting one's feet.

TAM'S TIPS:  1.  To cross any street, you are going to have to jay walk briskly with respect to the motorists, and with calm confidence.  The alternative sucks- you will either never get anywhere, rooted to one spot, or be knocked over, even while rooted at said spot.

2.  Carry American dollars (small notes).  Many street vendors/stores only accept payment in American dollars.

3.  When getting hair done at a local beauty parlour, remember that beauty can also be lost in translation.

"Please blow my hair curling the ends inwards, with some volume at the crown of my head", even when said with choreography, could easily be re-interpreted as "Please blow my hair out making it look as large as a wedding cake with tiers at its ends, thank you!"

4.  And when the eager stylist has spent the morning ripping hair away from scalp, forcing your naturally straight hair to yield and curl into bread roll-like shapes, remember to smile and nod, smile and nod, and tip.  In American dollars.

***

LAST THOUGHTS:  A gently seductive city, with a complex history echoed through its streets and walls, if only we care to listen.

Only Pho You

Pho 14, Ave de Choisy, 13e, Paris

Jon loves eating pho.

So when he asked if I'd like to do anything special on our last weekend together, I suggested, pho, for dinner.

But Baby, where would you like to eat, pho at?  He asked.

In Hanoi.

HANOI?!!!

Yup.  Hanoi, Vietnam.

After he recovered from my imaginative, impulsive, possibly irrational suggestion, we found ourselves on Friday night, dating, in Hanoi.

We walked around the French Quarter, holding hands.  I needed help balancing on my heels.  He needed help with jay walking.

We listened to jazz music at a wonderful hole-in wall, right behind the Opera.

(Jon also loves jazz.)

The music was like a magic carpet, lifting me higher.

It's the sort of date you don't ever want to put an ending to.  You laugh, you lean in close, you feel yourself glow in his presence.

At dinner, I wondered about the miracle of a man who will stand by me no matter, what.  A man who has spent the last 8 weeks massaging my arm, and flossing my teeth, nightly.

It was a good idea to come, he concedes.  Even though you did throw a tantrum!

Moi?  Throw a tantrum?  Sorry...Thank you for bringing us here!

Sure, Baby- you're happy right?  Having a good time?

Yes, Baby.  Very happy... How's the pho?

Excellent!

Baby, did you know that Hanoi is pho capital?

Really?  You did your research huh?

Only for you, Baby.  Only pho you.

Water Obsession

It's getting addictive- water.

photo credit- HOM

The swim on Saturday night gave me such a confidence boost.  Week 5, post-surgery, I can surely do, more!

So I went back to the pool in the morning,

warmed my arm up, sent Humpty Dumpty away.

Because I swam, I was able to engage both my arms to conquer housework.

I then got Angel to help me with strengthening/bending exercises.

Stroking:  bend-straighten-bend with my arm that used to scare, scare me.

In the evening, I could not resist, being lured back.

Baby?  Are you really wearing your shower cap to swim?

Yes.

(I know I can frustrate Jon.  But most often, I make him laugh.)

In the water, I think of, Gaspard de la Nuit.  It's a gorgeous piece of music composed by Ravel for solo piano.  I once made a dance to it.  The dance was called, Rain.

I think Ondine is the first movement in the piece.  The music sounds like water rippling. If I'm remembering correctly, there is heartbreak; but if you listen carefully, there is also hope.

It's crazy difficult trying to swim in a co-ordinated fashion.  Most of the time, for now, I am really trying to not drown.  I am trying to move the arm within the frame of a correct breaststroke.  I think of my therapist's shaking his head two days ago, because although he can force my arm to bend beyond 90 degrees now, I still can't no matter how hard I try, increase that necessary flexion on my own.

I like to think, there is something poetic, even in the wounded.  I think I understand Ravel so much better than when I first encountered him.  

I think the physical struggle is an expression of XYZ.  There has been encouragement/response from readers, from friends.  For everyone who has patiently followed my blog, thank you for your time.  I hope that my journey inspires you to celebrate human folly and courage.  I like to think that if we dare allow ourselves to be honestly vulnerable, we just might discover that in the darkest of waters, that broken self also holds the heroism needed, to surge afloat.

Swimming

Tonight, I was supposed to be hanging out with SF at a fund-raising ball in aid of cancer research and horse welfare in London.  Instead, I've given our tickets away, and as night approached, I felt myself drawn towards water.

I think there are 5 stages of grief.  I'm not sure what they are exactly.  But I think pain and fear are all tossed in that same bowl.

I waited for darkness. 

 I would prefer solitude for facing the new challenge I have given myself.

Initial obstacles of slipping my arm into long sleeves and being strung up in my swimsuit were thankfully overcome! 

My objective is to introduce water for strength and resistance training, because I need to spice up the recovery process.  During Wednesday's review, my doctor showed me "fluffy bits" on his computer screen.  Those fluffy bits are evidence of new bone growing in an unexpected region.

"For now, we will just monitor it... it doesn't seem to be growing within the elbow joints, which is a good thing.  But, it could prevent a full extension of the arm".

*Disclaimer- Please note that neither my doctors nor my therapist recommended what I am about to do next.  I take full responsibility for my over-active imagination and all action.  Please also note that I document my injury so that I can chart progress/lack of, and because writing calms me.  And while I hope my stories shared may inspire, please do not emulate my antics- I am drawn to adrenaline and the untested, and I come from years of serious dance training.  Thank you, and kindly read on at your own discretion.

Long before I began to dance, the water was like a best friend.  Slicing my arms through the cold before sunrise at the Singapore Chinese Swimming Club, was my paltry attempt at some conversation with my father.  My father would pick me up from Popo's house, and proudly wait with soya bean milk by the side of the adult pool, as my coach yelled, Sharper, Faster, Again, Again, Another Lap!

In the beginning, I would always feel a sharpness down the side of my belly.  But I hid it because my father was so proud of me, and my coach relentless.  Later the pain ceased, but at that point, I started to dance, and then I became a teenager and my father was left without a task.  And then I became a woman, and my father became simply bewildered, of her, of me.

Tonight however, the water frightened me.  

I stepped into the pool, and felt the immediate sensation of losing my balance.  The memory of my arm dislodging away, my legs curled up, my head so heavy and the mud pressed close, came rushing back.  I wondered about the reality of drowning.  I could not trust my arms to support me now.  I didn't dare push off my feet.

 I was still determined to do something, anything.  So I did what I could.

With my good arm, I clung onto the edge of the pool, and then balancing on the tips of my toes, simply tip-toed along, holding onto core for added support.  As I inched along, I focused on breathing, and forcing my broken arm to stretch as much forward, pull back at an angle, and stretch again.

Baby, are you ok?  I'll go get you a drink ok?

I can't swim!  I'm just bouree-ing along!  I'm fighting to stay balanced!

Ok, never mind, just do what you can and I will be right back.

I tell myself, just walk or bouree about, working the arm in some semblance of a breast stroke, at least five times around the pool.

How's your arm?  Does it hurt?

Yes!

Ok, never mind, you are doing great!  Here's your drink; I've bought you some banana bread as well.  Just come up and eat, ok?  I'm going to lie down...

The water is dark.  The water has weight.  

Each time I push against it, I think I am working through, heartache.  Popo, please go.

 Each tiny step I make, I think, I am recovering, recovering myself.  Popo, I'm going to be ok.

Some things don't come naturally.  Healing takes time, and effort.  Sometimes the only way forward is by determined force.  On my 5th lap, I kick off my feet, throw my good arm forward.  My bad arm flaps about, my strokes are without grace, but I am kicking hard. 

I'm swimming!

I swim the perimeter of the pool, float towards the finishing line.

  Finally I am being my physical self, with my arm in tow!  

Tonight was hard, tomorrow my arm might swell, and on Monday my therapist might question my sanity.

But.  

I can't quite shake off the exhilaration I feel.  Because tonight, I know, I know- that when Life throws me in the deep end, I'm swimming.

My Grand Mother

Sometimes, I struggle.  I can't quite understand, why my daughter loves me so much.

It rained today, it made me think of you, I am in your heart- she tells me.

Sitting with Cousin B, listening to her detail tirelessly the care-giving she now provides for Popo, Popo asleep in the adjacent room, I suddenly comprehend better.

Perhaps the love for a mother has a tenacity and simplicity, when the mother has been present all through the years, doing the grunge work.  The daughter clings, fights for, cares for without complaint, because it was the mother who first, selflessly loved.

Summie has a triumphant day in the UK, on the very same evening I visit my sleeping grandmother here in Singapore.  In that one moment, I learn what it is like to experience both uplifting joy, as well as debilitating sorrow.

If Summie gets into medical school, Jon says, it is all because of you.  

He also says, Yes, lets go for dinner.  We must celebrate her good news and Popo's amazing life.

Sorrow keeps me awake.  What did Popo do that was so amazing to me?

Her hands, sifting through my hair, in a darkened kitchen, every morning, before I left for school.  Her writing, neat and her grammar faultless, as she penned every single letter of excuse to explain an absent day.

7-years old, panicking, and in tears, asking Popo to please come and help me find my report card that I had so carefully hidden so as to not misplace it, but in my care, had succeeded in losing that which I was so proud of.  Popo coming immediately, marching down Siglap Road, and then along Marine Parade Road to save me.

The same walk, but in the opposite direction this time, her hand clasping mine, her umbrella shielding us from the scorching sun.  In the distance, a man is crying, a woman is crying, but they are muted and faraway, because in my heart, the sound of breaking is immediate and so much louder.

Her voice pleading-  Don't make Tammy cry, Don't make Tammy cry.  My tears falling into the dinner plate.  My brother running away.  Don't make Tammy cry.

Grown up, and still seeking her.  I am scared, Popo.

It's ok.  You don't have to marry him.  You don't have to get married.  Girls your generation can do other things now.

Another man, another fear.  Popo again- If you keep saying you are scared, who will you ever marry?

But I don't want to get married.

 If you don't try, how will you ever know?

All through the years-  Don't work so hard!

At pivotal moments- Your daughter needs you.  I know you raised her to be so independent, but try and work less, don't leave her alone at home all the time.  She's going to be a teenager.

And then she is a teenager.

Don't work anymore.  Stay home for her.  Be with her, now.  

 Popo?  I am scared.  I know you are safe and not in any pain.  I want for you to go gently into the night.  But I can't stop the weeping.  No one, no one has ever comforted me, the way you have.  I tell Jon to leave me alone, he can't ease this sorrow.  Because you are no longer here.  Jon is a wonderful man, and Summie is going to get there because I did as you said.  I listened to you.  I only listen to you, my grand mother.

New Words

29 Days Post-Op, and I'm learning new words.

1.  KS
Monday begins with my therapist electrocuting me.  He explains that the electric currents will serve to remind my muscles to contract.  Without they ability to recover this memory, I will never be able to straighten my arm, nor flex it past 90 degrees.

I get strapped up.

We do a test...

He adds heating pads wrapped in towels and begins the pushing and pulling work.

Then he instructs me to contract my muscles each time the current reverberates through me.

Therapist- So we are adding four elements; heat, force, muscle contraction, and electricity!  KS, ok?! 

Huh?

Therapist- KS!  Kia Su!  Do everything at once!  The Singapore way!

(Oh.  Work Harder.)

2.  Orizuru

In Japanese Class, Sensei concludes the afternoon with an origami exercise.

Sensei-  Ja, watch carefully ne, follow me.  Fold into half... E-to... Tammy-san... maybe I have to help you...

Orizuru-  folded crane.  

Sensei's Orizuru is so magical when you tug at its tail, it can flap its wings!

3.  Mushi

Sorry, Sensei.  Gomenasai.  I am simply terrible at following instructions to a T.  You know, I really like independent thought, and play, and imagination, and breaking rules.

Sorry Sensei!  Orizuru wa mushi-mitai!

Mushi-  Insect.

(My crane looks like an insect!)