Decidedly urban couple who quit their jobs and successfully backpacked their way through Asia for a year. They met Buddha, drank baijiu and learned to master the squat toilet. Now appearing in a new life as ex-pats in Singapore.

The hills are alive with the sound of....

The hills are alive with the sound of….

“Buy from me! No! Not the same as one you already have. Same-same but different!”

Sapa is a small town so high in the mountains that the streets are perpetually covered in a sheen of mist and cloud. The entire region, when you can see through the clouds, is simply stunning. Miles of soaring mountains surround small villages where local hill people tend to the scaffolded rice terraces that were created by their ancestors over 2,000 years ago. It’s magical.

Beautiful Sapa!

Rice terraces in Sapa

Sapa is also a huge tourist magnet and the local people have learned exactly how to rid you of your American dollar.

From the minute you step into town, local H’Mong and Red Zdao women try their best to coerce you to buy their handicrafts. They follow you down the street, escorting you to a restaurant as they pitch their story, “I get married at 15! I have three babies!” The ladies compete with each other, shoving earrings and bracelets towards you shouting, “Buy from meeeeee!” They run after tour buses and stand in doorways, waiting for unsuspecting visitors to exit before attacking them with embroidered pillowcases and purses. These gorgeous women are rapacious!

While many people take a tour bus to the villages, we headed off to explore the countryside on our own. Suddenly it wasn’t just the two of us – we had attracted the attention of three local woman and they began quietly following in our footsteps. The silence was broken when women began to talk, asking the same questions over and over and over.

“Where you from!? How old are you! You no look so old! How many babies you have!”

It was clear that the H’Mong women were going to stick with us for the entire day, hoping to sell some handicrafts at the end. Our own private sherpas…

Our Sherpas!

The women led us down the mountain, easily maneuvering the wet landscape in flimsy jelly shoes while carrying huge bamboo baskets of handicrafts. It was only slightly embarrassing to see local people nimbly run past us as we slipped and fell through into huge puddles of standing water. It became obvious that I was not in peak physical condition when tiny woman with a child on her back pushed me up a steep, rocky hill.

Don't Fall!

After several hours of hiking we reached the village where we introduced to relatives, visited wood homes and negotiated a fair price for the handmade goods that we were destined to purchase.

Our H'Mong guides

The same thing happened every day as we explored the surrounding villages. Each time we would set off on our own, and suddenly a flock of women would surround us, asking us the same questions, showing off the same handmade goods, inviting us into their homes. The local people may come from different tribes, but they all have the same sales method!

Grandma and her grandchildren

Warming up by the fire in Ta Phin Village

We came to Sapa hoping to visit the hill people and instead found ourselves on private tours – personally escorted by from village to village by entrepreneurial women whose beauty rivaled that of the Sapa hillside . We visited the homes of local people, met their children and petted their pigs. How could we not spend a little money in exchange for such an experience?

Hopefully my loved ones won’t mind the matching blue purses and exact same “hand embroidered” pillowcases that I plan to offload on them.

Red Zdao woman in the Ta Phin Village

RANT: Planes, Trains and Sleeper Buses

RANT: Planes, Trains and Sleeper Buses

We’ve been traveling for over six months.  At this point we have slept in over 75 beds in 57 different cities and have taken 11 planes, 12 trains and 35 buses. We can now emphatically state that public transportation is gross.

Being cooped up with several hundred people for hours at a time is never a pleasant experience, but it’s particularly unpleasant when your social norms are at odds with those around you. Our most recent train ride proved too much to handle.  Now it is time for a rant.

Vinnie and our 24th bus ride (through Brunei)

Social Norm #1: Keep the stink to yourself

The 8+ hour train ride began with a stench worse than death. Our impeccably dressed seatmate had placed a 15 pound bag of human excrement above our heads – except instead of human stank, the bag was filled with a massive fruit called Durian that is disallowed in every hotel because of it’s long lasting, highly offensive odor.  The smell penetrates your every pore, leaving behind a stench fouler than rotten eggs and vomit even after it’s gone.

Every jolt of the train brought a fresh waif of creamy, nutty, baby shit in a bag. Puking in the bathroom wasn’t an option, given the predictable state of the train toilet.

No Durians. No live Chickens.

Social Norm #2: Headphones

And during that same odorous train ride a few old men decided to whip out their ancient cellphones to play each and every single ringtone at full volume. Adding to the cell phone cacophony, several teenagers decided to pump out Asia’s top ten from their shiny new Android phones. There is nothing worse than a 24 megahertz rendition of the Black Eyed Pea’s ‘Tonight’s gonna be a good night’ – now the most overplayed song in America AND Asia.

Cell phone nonsense

Social Norm #3: Throw your trash away

For some reason people in many places of Asia think it’s perfectly acceptable to chuck their trash right on the ground.  Not just out the window or onto the street or in the river but directly on the floor beneath their feet. The term “don’t shit where you sleep” doesn’t seem to resonate with people at all. Instead it’s perfectly normal to both throw shit and sleep in the same place – that place being a fucking train filled with a hundred other people.

I shouldn’t have been surprised to wake up to a train full of cigarette butts and banana leaves (but I was).

Floor of our train

Sleeping after throwing remains of meal on the ground

This doesn’t even come close to being our worst experience with public transportation, just the most recent. And none of this is really that bad on it’s own, but given a perfect storm of sensory overload, I lose my shit.

Asia can be one stinky, loud, dirty place, but somehow her charms get you in the end. As we got off the bus and wound up at our final destination, this was the view waiting for us –
totally worth an eight hour train from hell.

Foggy, Hazy, Gorgeous Sapa Vietnam

H'Mong people near the Lao Chai Village

Attack of the Commie Zombies

Attack of the Commie Zombies

A Mausoleum is not the same thing as a Museum, a fact that Vinnie didn’t know when he ventured into Mao’s final resting place last November.

A Commie-style tomb

Those commies keep Mao on lock down.  You can’t get into the Mausoleum if you have a phone, a camera or any method of recording what you see inside those four walls. Vinnie and I were running late for our visit with the Chairman, arriving just 30 minutes before he was due for his 12:00 nap.

After standing in line and being frisked by the police, we found out that only one of us could enter the Mausoleum, the other had to wait outside with all of our electronic devices (of which there were three).

That’s how I ended up waiting outside the exit, watching a maniacal Vinnie run past hundreds of Chinese patriots. From yards away he began shouting:

V: “Do you KNOW what’s IN THERE!”

K: “Mao?”

V: “YES!  There is a dead body in there!!”

K: “How’d he look?”

V: “I didn’t know that I was going to see a DEAD BODY! I thought you were saying MUSEUM. I walked in and thought, man, this feels like a funeral home and all at a sudden there was a dead body! Mao’s dead body is inside there!”

K: “MAUSOLEUM. Dead bodies. So! How’s he look?”

V: “Ummm…. He’s wearing a lot of make-up.”

And he is. But you know who’s not? Ho Chi Minh.

The Uncle Ho’s Mausoleum is decidedly less grand than the Chairman’s. It’s hard to compete with the Chinese when it comes to massive showings of Communist strength. Tiananmen Square is the king daddy in display of state power.  A sea of pavement stretches from the Forbidden City to the Zhengyangmen, the front gate of Beijing’s ancient city, and right in the center of it all sits Mao’s cavernous final resting place. Your every move is observed by the watchful eyes of Chairman Mao whose oversized painting looks over the plaza (along with the thousands of strategically placed video cameras).

This way, Comrade!

Outside the gate of the Mao mausoleum a line of Chinese tourists sporting matching neon orange baseball caps wait impatiently, occasionally running, pushing and jumping the queue when space opens between people.  It’s highly controled chaos.

But the Vietnamese also know how to paint a grand post-mordem scene. The squat marble Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum overlooks the large square where the Vietnamese declared their independence. The grass and the nearby colonial-style Presidential palace gives the entire complex a genteel and inviting, rather than imposing, presence.

Vin and Uncle Ho

Uncle Ho’s mausoleum is smaller, more intimate.  The entire complex is approachable. The line is short. The guards quickly dispatch your camera without much hassle or confusion. Inside the Mausoleum there is no towering marble statue greeting you at the front door. The air is chilly. You walk up a short flight of stairs and suddenly a very pale, very dead Ho Chi Minh is lying just feet away.

Mao and Ho were embalmed by the same Soviet embalmers who first worked on Lenin. Along the way they learned some tips from Cher’s makeup team.

Everything in the Mao mausoleum is imposing, except Mao himself. Inside his crystal coffin, a halo of light beams down on Mao’s waxy, overy-rouged face. His hair is perfectly oiled in place, his fleshy pink cheeks are still plump and his body is shrouded under a wrinkle free blanket.  It’s entirely possible that Mao is just a head. A brightly lit floating head.

Mao and his security detail (a postcard)

Ho’s Mausoleum may be less grand but he certainly looks more dead.  The dim light does nothing to put Ho on display. Everything about the man is white – his face is devoid of any coloring, his white hair clings to his head and his colorless goatee flows down the front of his white outfit. Ho’s decrepit hands rest on top of his stomach and they’re clearly attached to decaying white arms.

Obviously, the Soviet’s hadn’t yet mastered Rouge 101 in 1969.

Someone took a sneaky shot! (Stolen from the interweb)

Mao and Ho are quietly resting inside elevated crystal tombs, their head’s positioned as if they’re staring down on the passing visitors. As you walk past the Chairman, you’re only able to peer in from one side before you’re hurried out the door. Mao gazes down at the four guards that are standing watch over his dead body, but Ho!

Ho lies there inviting his guests to view his body from every angle. As you circle around  the base of his coffin his elevated head lies facing you straight on, like he could wake up at any minute and declare, “American! Get out! The imperialist aggressors can never enslave the heroic Vietnamese people!”

And it’s creepy.

Kris and a lifesized Uncle Ho

The Chairman wins the prize for the most fake looking Commie – Madame Tussauds could do a better job! As for Uncle Ho, he simply looks dead.  Which is how a man whose last breath was more than 40 years ago should look (though you know that takes a lot of cash to keep them looking fresh-ish).

Now that we’ve visited Mao and Ho, we ‘re on a mission to meet the remaining two Commie Zombies.  It’s now a life goal to visit the the Eternal President of North Korean, Kim Il Sung and the founder of the USSR, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.

We’re taking bets to see if Fidel will follow his fellow commies to a final resting place filled with glycerol and potassium acetate.

Our next dead Commie, Lenin!





If not Sriracha, then what?!? Also, I love beer.

If not Sriracha, then what?!? Also, I love beer.

Sriacha in Vietnam

In Vietnam every meal is accompanied with Chili sauce but it is certainly not the Chili sauce that so many of us have come to love. Though if you search hard enough, you can spot some Sriracha imitators!

Vinnie with his Pho and Chili Sauce

The chili sauce in Vietnam is mild with less garlic and heat. You can heap tablespoon upon tablespoon into your soup without burning off your remaining taste buds. That’s because each steaming dish of Pho comes with the real thing – super spicy chilis that make your eyes tear and your nose run.

I’m in heaven!

Pho and all it's delicious, spicy accompaniments

It’s absolutely sacrilegious to even consider mentioning mouth-wateringly delicious Pho without pairing it with that other Vietnamese liquid treat, Bia Hoi. Fresh Beer! Bia Hoi has no preservatives, no additives and no alcohol.  Or at least very little alcohol. And even less taste. We found this out the hard way – five hours of serious drinking rendered us completely sober.

Pouring out Bia Hoi

But we refused to give up! Hanoi is the tops for Bia Hoi and Vinnie tried his best to drink his way to sobriety. We sat at tiny children’s tables and drank fresh beer poured out by a middle aged momma with bare feet. I opted for the more delicious Bia Hanoi.

The night ended well.

Bia Hoi vs. Bia Hanoi

Urban Hikers in Urban Traffic

Monkey v. Chicken

Monkey v. Chicken

Some days are stranger than others. The strangest days usually involve some form of public transportation and/or farm animal.

I thought having a rooster for a seatmate on a public bus was the height of absurdity. It wasn’t. Yesterday in MuiNe, we reached new levels of the bizarre and unusual.

This chicken didn't need to cross the road, he took the bus

We rode an Ostrich.

Ride 'em cowboy!

We watched a monkey get his ass handed to him by a grown chicken.

We surfed giant sand dunes.

Surfing the dunes

White dunes

We discovered why they’re called ‘gas pumps’ and were embroiled in a nasty traffic jam.

Our gas station

Traffic Jam

And finally made it back to enjoy some $0.75 Beer Saigon

I love beer

It was a good day.


I think I CanTho

I think I CanTho

People had warned us that Vietnam had gone the way of Thailand: that is to say overrun with tourists, notably backpackers of the white and dreadlocked variety. This did not sound cool.

There is a huge tourist scene in Vietnam but avoiding that crowd is unbelievably easy. Don’t get on a tour bus. Yes, it’s that ridiculously simple. Just rent your own transport and suddenly you’re in the ‘real’ Vietnam with nary a dreadlock in sight.

Off the tourist trail

According to the map there are highways in Vietnam. The map is wrong. There are one lane roads that run through small towns and over the Mekong canals. It’s the perfect scene for an epic scooter ride. Along the way you can hold snakes! Head to floating markets! Crash your bike! Get pulled over!

I did all of the above.

The Accidental Tour

I booked a one way ticket to MyTho from a local tour company.  No one bothered to tell the driver that I wasn’t booked for the actual tour. Instead of being dropped off in MyTho at the beginning of the day, I was taken down the Mekong river in a boat, rode a horse and visited a bee farm. I also met Serge, a massive Russian man who proposed marriage. Together we held snakes, dined on freshly caught river fish and sang Vietnamese folk songs. I finally escaped the packaged tour madness but not before Serge bought me a coconut  and took my photo several hundred times.

A Mekong Cruise Ship

My Russian stalker

Boat in the mangrove


The Crash

The ‘highway’ from MyTho to Vihn Long runs through dozens of idyllic, water-soaked villages. Cafes line the street and houses are built on fragile pieces of land surrounded by canals and rice fields. The scenery was gorgeous, but even more interesting to me was the insane amount of shit that village people manage to carry on the back of their scooters. SUV be damned, all you really need is 2 wheels and a 50cc motor. Perhaps, given the scenery and the crazy motorists, I can be forgiven for taking a ton of pictures.  And if, when taking a picture, I accidentally drove my bike into the subject, I could also be forgiven?

After a day of scooting I hadn’t yet managed the gas and break basics.  I drove my scooter into a coconut farmer and broke the front lights.

Barbed wire Bicycle

I spy a cow

Typical highway scene - a bus, a bike and scooter hauling tons of crap

This crappy picture cost me 12 bucks

Kris and a rice field

No need to actually ride the bike

Mekong Delta


CanTho and the Floating Market

When you rent a bike in Vietnam you’re meant to have a Vietnamese drivers license. You also need insurance and proof that the bike is yours.  Unfortunately I didn’t have any of that. I didn’t even have a valid US drivers license – it expired in January.  In order to rent a scooter I had to hand over my passport and I wanted it back, so I decided to get the scooter repaired on my own.  Mechanics in Asia operate pretty loosely, they’re usual just a doorway filled with spare parts and a man smoking a cig. I stopped by every ‘repair shop’ I could find, until someone could fix my bike. $15 bucks later it was good as new!

Me and my mechanics

CanTho is most well known for it’s floating market.  Keeping along the ‘I hate tour groups’ theme, I refused to take a tour boat to the market.  Instead I booked the slowest, most labor intensive row boat, manned by a woman with no teeth.  Most people head to the market and are back in 2 hours.  It took us 3 and a half hours. Along the way we broke down four times.

Floating Market

Care for a gourd?

CanTho Floating Market

Kris at the floating market

It ended up being pretty cool since she let me row the boat.


Rowing my way home

Scooting back

Perhaps I got a little cocky with my bike.  Sure I had crashed it once and fell over several times while attempting to make sharp turns, but I had learned how to drive in Vietnam – which is saying a lot.  In Vietnam the highways are moderately paved roads full of potholes.  In Vietnam you only pay attention to what’s going on in front of you because it’s perfectly acceptable for oncoming traffic to veer into your ‘lane’. These are some extreme driving conditions.

Extreme driving conditions!

So with all that well earned confidence, I began to travel a little faster.  And a little faster still. Until I was blaring my horn, letting everyone know that I was passing each and every car on the road. Silly girl.

I was totally caught by a gaggle of cops and their radar gun.

To reiterate: I had no license, no passport, no insurance, and no proof of ownership. I did what any sensible girl would do. I cried.

The cops didn’t speak English, and they certainly didn’t know what to do with me.  On one hand they had complete authority to confiscate my bike and charge me a ton of money to get it back. On the other hand, they had to communicate that to me. It looked like just too much work and after some minor discussion they let me go. God bless the Vietnamese.

Me and my scooter

Those are DOGS on board

Sleeping Buddha

Back to the beginning

The End

I think the trip was a success. I got to see the country without dealing with many tourists. I didn’t kill myself. I even managed to return the bike and retrieve my passport from the scooter lady.

And now I have something to remember my trip to Vietnam.  My new Vietnamese friends tell me that with this exhaust pipe burn, I’m officially Vietnamese.

This hurt so incredibly bad

My souvenir from Vietnam



Mekong it on my own

Mekong it on my own

Traveling as a couple has it’s advantages – you tend to have less harassment from touts, there is always someone to share in the inevitable travel frustrations and it’s cheaper to stay in your own room rather than a disgusting communal dorm. But there is one serious hardship – you are NEVER ALONE.

Vin and I had spent 170 nearly-consequatiive days together – that’s over 4,080 hours of constant companionship. That broke our previous record by 3,192 hours. And frankly that’s too, too, too much time spent with anyone. Even your husband.

Possibly insane at the time of this photo

Another 24 hours together would have put us into the dangerous ‘teetering on the edge of sanity and divorce’ territory. And with no prenup, neither of us wanted to risk our fragile financial future on divorce lawyers.

So we agreed to split up for a few days.

But as soon as we booked the flights, fear started to creep in. I realized that I was essentially headed to a country that I have never been to, where I knew no one and didn’t have a place to stay. I was totally unplugged – I didn’t have a phone, I didn’t have a computer, I didn’t even have a jacket with geolocation so the authorities could find my body in case I died. As the day of my flight approached I began to really regret my rash decision to jet off to Vietnam. Suddenly being on my own didn’t sound so fun.

But it was!

A tour through the Mekong Delta is not complete without this picture

I met fabulous locals who took me out for great food and partied until the wee hours of the Saigon morning. I went to museums and discovered the history of the Vietnam war. I drank a $1 Beer Saigon, indulged in delicious strong coffee and ate at least a dozen Bahn Mi.

Some bún chả giò - I'll take more please!

Real Bread! Real Coffee! Vietnam is my Asian Heaven!

I'm more of a 'Make love, not war' kind of person

This is my "I'm totally claustrophobic" face in the CuChi tunnels


I even rented a scooter and took a do-it-yourself tour of the Mekong Delta.  And that’s when I came to love Vietnam and I have to say, Vietnam loved me right back.

My Scooter

Mekong Delta

As a single white woman scooting down the delta by herself, you cut an interesting figure and everyone wants to know what the hell you’re up to.

I sat alone at cafes in tiny off-the-beaten-path cities, and old people would sidle up to ask where I was from, why am I here and would I please meet their friends just down the street? The street food ladies would serve my meal, proudly presenting each dish and encouraging me to try new food. Even people at the hotels wanted to baby me, making sure my purse was carried properly and warning me about thieves.

The open road

As I scooted into CanTho, a fairly large city, I must have looked incredibly lost. Yet in all that crazy traffic a man motored up to me and asked, “Where are you going! To a cheap hotel? Follow me!” and he directed me to exactly the correct location, parting with the warning to “Protect yourself. Protect your money and protect your moto. Call me if you need help!”

Lost in CanTho

As I headed off on my own I felt vulnerable and more than a little scared. But instead of being killed and left for dead, person after person welcomed me to their small town and told me that they could help if I needed it. It felt like the world was looking out for me.

And I can happily say that after 264 hours apart, Vinnie and I regained our sanity and remember why we’re so happy to be traveling together.

Together again

Volunteering at a Saigon Orphanage

Volunteering at a Saigon Orphanage

J’adore the children at Thien Phu’oc orphanage in Saigon.

I was hesitant, dare I say nervous, to volunteer at an orphanage in Vietnam.  Not only had I never worked with children with disabilities but I was uncertain about how to volunteer exactly. Should I just call and show up?  Is it ok to barge in and hang out?

Absolutely!  I called Thien Phu’oc orphanage and was told to stop by at anytime. And so I did.

children at saigon orphanage

Tien & her partner in crime Tai

The first day wasn’t easy. It’s hard to face human suffering and on the surface the children appear to be in pain. Many of the children at Thien Phu’oc can not walk, some can not talk and some are impacted by Agent Orange. Upstairs were 16 smaller children who have more severe mental and physical disabilities; they’re not mobile and spend most of the day laying on their bed.

I was so uncertain what I should do, and if my silly back rubs and attempts to smile and chat with the kids were doing any good.

Volunteering at a Saigon Orphanage

Her face lights up when you sit down for a chat

But as I walked downstairs to spend time with the more advanced kids, something really unexpected happened.  One of the older kids piped up, “Hello! Where are you from!”

I was shocked!  The sisters who work at Thien Phu’oc don’t speak much English and here was this kid in a wheelchair speaking perfect English with an American accent! The boy’s name was An and he is AWESOME.

An at orphanage in Vietnam

An is amazing

This small interaction helped to remind me of the advice given to me by my best friend (who is a school psychologist): Try to talk like you would to any kid their “true” age. Their receptive skills are probably much better than you suspect- they understand a lot more than they can verbally communicate.

Talking just happens to be one of my strong suites.

If An can teach himself English then who knows what the other kids can understand! After this I was able to relax and enjoy spending time at the orphanage. Some days we spent time doing physical therapy and other days I read, played ball and just spent time hanging out.

Kris and Nguyen working it out

The kids are utterly fantastic and are absolutely thrilled to spend time with you. And after a few hours I realized that An may be the only person that speaks English, but all the children communicate in their own way: pointing, smiling, motioning with their heads. Even the smaller children upstairs will follow you with their eyes and give you a big smile or nod their head when you sit down. Not only do they communicate with you, they care about and look after each other.

Tai, Phuong, Nguyen and Kris

I was surprised to find myself looking forward to returning. It wasn’t hard to fall in love with some of these smiling faces.

Loving the children at a Saigon orphanage

I have big LOVE for Bac

I highly recommend spending several afternoons at the Thien Phu’oc Orphanage.  Here are the details – just give them a call and head to district 12 on a xe om. It takes 30 minutes to get there and roundtrip cost is about 7 bucks. Free time is from 8am-11:30 and 2:00-4:30 pm.

If Sister Kim Chi isn’t around, you have to ask where the toys are stored (unfortunately they’re not just lying around). They toys are kept in the very front room on the right – just point to the door and someone will give you the key.

Sister Kim Chi at Thien Phu’oc Orphanage
156 / 1, An Phu Dong Ward, District 12,
Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). Vietnam
Tel / Fax: (84-8) 7195997  0903 949 981  0918 207 660

Hello Moto!

Hello Moto!

As a college freshman there are few things more important, or more fragile, than the reputation that you create for yourself during those first few weeks at school. At Kent State the freshman are banned to the lowliest housing – the dorms furtherest away from any of the classrooms AND all of the bars.

The walk to class wasn’t so bad in the summer but when the lake effect hits and snow begins to fall, the ‘Small World’ dorms are a nightmare. That’s when the public bus becomes very, VERY important.

But more even more important is who is going to be at the bus stop!!

Babies on Board

My girlfriends and I would concoct special outfits and spy out the window waiting for a cute boy to head to the bus stop. We would book it out of the dorm and run to the bus stop, trying to casually stand beside him or get a seat next to him on the bus. We planned our day around what could, would, and did happen at the bus stop. We were little bus stop hussies.

I had a stellar bus stop reputation until the day I was hit by a car in front of everyone I was trying so hard to impress. More accurately, I hit the car, the car did not hit me.

The entire freshman dorm watched as I impatiently crossed the street, miscalculating how fast a moving car was going and instead of walking through traffic, I walked into it. In front of everyone, I walked into a moving fucking vehicle.


Luckily all I got was a hugely bruised knee and a reputation as the girl who was hit by a car in front of everyone. Not exactly what I was going for.

Now I can finally say that this little lesson on depth perception has come in quite handy: Saigon traffic is insane and never stops. The city has six million people and ONE HUNDRED MILLION motorbikes. Instead of waiting for the endless succession of scooter to cease, you have to simply walk through them.

This particular scooter was easy to avoid

I just want to tell the world, and especially Mark Lions who I had a huge freshman year crush on for 5 months and who saw me get hit by a car, that I am seriously capable of crossing the street these days. Check it:

And not only can I walk through traffic, but I can ride through it as well!  Take that freshman year bus stop people!

Xe om through Saigon!