Strange Rabbits & A Flower Market

 The Vietnamese and Chinese New Year begins the evening of February 2nd. Before leaving the US, I made sure I knew exactly what year on the animal wheel it would be so that I wouldn’t appear stupid. I found out that it would be the Year of the Rabbit.

The Lunar New Year is the biggest event of the year in Vietnam, and the city has been gearing up since before I arrived. Main streets in the central district are bedecked with ornamental lighting. Huge flower/plant markets are set up in all districts of the city and most likely throughout the country. Red and gold decorations depicting the animal year and traditional tokens of luck, such as pineapples and coins, are sold on street corners, supermarkets, and most shops.

Soon after arriving I started to look for a funky Rabbit Year talisman. I couldn’t seem to find any. I clearly remember buying gold plastic little horses and pigs when it was there year. So where were the rabbits? I looked at all the posters and door decorations on both houses and stores and the only animal I saw was a very strange rabbit with short ears. And I kept seeing variations of these critters. Perhaps Vietnamese rabbits were different from the ones I knew.

Several days ago I wondered by Nguyen Hue Street where they were busy constructing that temporary flower park. At the top of the street, at the main entrance, where they always have a large display of the current animal, I again noticed to the short-eared rabbits. Then I noticed the long tails. OK, so what I had been seeing wasn’t a mutant rabbit but a cat. That would make sense except that I had been certain we were going into a rabbit year. Maybe it was now rabbit and we were transitioning into cat.

While in the lobby of a hotel, waiting for a friend, I asked the receptionist what year it was going to be. Cat, she said. I explained my confusion about thinking it was rabbit and asked if we were just ending rabbit and going into cat? She finally set the record straight; this year in Vietnam will be the Cat, but in China it will be Year of the Rabbit. All of the other lunar animal years correspond exactly to the Chinese ones except for this year. This actually was a fact I had known but forgotten. Now I can go out and get some cat ornaments.

Before doing that, however, I made a trip to one of the flower markets, this one located in downtown HCMC. This particular park runs between Pham Ngu lao and Le Lai Streets. It’s at least a block wide and at least five blocks long. Always a pleasant place to stroll, rather than on its bordering streets of insane traffic and noise, it’s truly exceptional before Tet when growers bring in their flowers and plants to sell for the New Year celebrations.

Pots of chrysanthemums and sunflowers and many others I can’t put a name to, are packed into sections. A salesperson or two sits in their midst. There are sections devoted to the flowering “Tet trees”, just days away from blossoming, and alcoves of stunning orchids in all shapes, sizes and colours.

Many people are there to purchase the plants, but many more are there to inhale the splendor and take pictures of their friends and family amongst the foliage. Kids pose in front of tall sunflowers; others kneel in the middle of a patch of tall, blooming beauties.

Butterflies flit form plant to plant seemingly unaware that they are actually in an urban jungle and not the countryside. Everyone is as happy as can be, including me.

I may not know all the names of the plants, but I had seen them all before except, that is, for one; the plant of the dragon fruit. What a total shock to find out that it was some sort of succulent or cactus. It was like I had discovered a long lost secret of the universe that other people had known about but somehow I had missed. I usually know from whence my fruit comes, but not this time. It was like the first time I saw a banana tree and was totally dumbfounded to find out that the fruit grows up, and not down, as I had always pictured. These little bits of new knowledge make one realize just how remarkable the world can be.

Dragon Fruit

Kate                                                                                             

Changes



Jan 2011

There are always changes when one returns to a place after several years. Judging from the changes I had seen in just the three years I had lived in Ho Chi Minh City, (2005-2008), I thought I would be ready for the difference between 2008 and 2011. I wasn’t. Or maybe I was but still find it rather shocking.

The traffic was insane when I left and now I find I am without adjectives to describe what it has become. The shuttle bus in from where I live to the center used to take about 20-25 minutes. A few days ago it took nearly 40 minutes. It’s just one big parking lot on all the streets. When last here, it was mostly motorbikes, (Vespa’s), trucks and taxis, and not that many private cars. The motorbikes seem to have multiplied like bunnies and a lot more people are driving cars. If streets were jam-packed three years ago, and are super jam-packed now, what will happen in five years time? I don’t think I will stick around to find out.

2006



The quiet neighborhood where I used to live and where I am now in a hotel, still boggles the mind with its massive change. I was having trouble figuring out where all the traffic on the main road was coming from and where it was going to. True, there are numerous, massive, new apartment buildings here, but the people traveling through this area do not live here. I finally found out that this road/highway has been extended in both directions and bridges have been built connecting outer sections of the city. Even though it is always busy, traffic does move along and has enabled people to get from point A to point B much more efficiently.

The problem with the main intersection is that there are about 6 lanes in each direction; some for motorbikes, some for cars, and some for trucks. This means that if you are in the motorbike lane and want to turn left, you must cross in front of the car and truck lanes that are going straight ahead. And if you are a pedestrian trying to cross you have to continuously look left and right and then back over your left shoulder and right shoulder because no one cares that you are crossing the street. Just when you think you might be OK, a motor bike appears, going in the wrong direction, trying to cut in around cars and trucks. It’s a veritable minefield.

2007/2008

I used to love taking weekend and evening walks up by the river; so quiet and peaceful and green. That is no longer possible. At the time, they had just completed this spectacular garden walkway where you could stroll along a landscaped path and listen to the chug-chug of the boats on the river just a little bit away. They have now built giant, ugly apartment blocks on both sides of the garden path. The ground floors are all shops giving it a strip-mall look. I tried walking there last night and none of the positive energy of the garden has survived.

Jan 2011

I suppose progress is inevitable and that entrepreneurs will open new businesses in a new area. But as I walked past new restaurant after new restaurant, with either no one inside or possibly two customers, I wondered just how long any of these will be open.

Having said all that, there are lots and lots of beautiful, quiet streets out here. I love walking along them, saying hi to construction workers on a coffee break, or waving to the ladies sweeping the streets, or stopping to admire a baby sitting with his granny on the front steps of a house. The people remain lovely and friendly. If they can seemingly ignore the clamor and clutter around them, maybe I can too. 

Kate

2007/8



A Museum & Artists

The combination of Colonial French Architecture, cool interiors, and marvelous artwork makes the Ho Chi Minh City Museum of Fine Arts a lovely retreat from the chaos that surrounds it. I had heard that it had originally been a commercial building, but their website says that it was used to board the daughters of the French Colonial rulers. No wonder I always feel like I could take up residence inside the museum.

My friend and I arrived the day they were having some sort of ceremony, possibly an art contest finale as several of the works had prize rankings attached to them. Lots of people and lots of floral arrangements graced the main entrance. However, the rest of the art filled rooms, covering three floors, were quite empty.

We strolled through the wide corridors with open windows on our left and into rooms on the right with examples of art ranging from the 1930’s to the present. There were oils and lacquer works, sculpture and acrylics. Several areas showcased ancient ethnic artwork. We walked up the wide staircases glowing with color from stained-glass windows that looked out onto the courtyard below.

It always amazes me that these old buildings, with no air conditioning, are never hot and usually have a nice breeze running through them. Perfect tropical architecture. In some of the museum rooms there were small fans, but they weren’t on and at the time we were there and were not needed.

The Fine Arts Museum really is the best place in town to cool down, relax, and feel revitalized.

                                            **************************************************

Walking back from the backpackers’ area on Pham Ngu Lau St., I passed a small group of people in a tiny shop that opened onto the street. I could see that an older woman was instructing two young men who were working on an oil painting. Two other men and a young woman sat on small, folding chairs out front, and a few others were inside the small space. I stopped to watch their work and caught the eye of one of the guy’s who was inside. What with the noise of traffic and my limited Vietnamese, I did hand signals to indicate that I was watching the artists work and that I liked what they were doing. A look of surprise came over the young man’s face and he started to use sign language to reply.

Years and years ago, I took several semesters of American Sign Language and since that time, whenever I am overseas, I tend to use signs that are clear to anyone. It has gotten to the point that I assume I am using Universal Gestures, and some of the time I possibly am, but this time I was actually using ASL.

I know from my last trip to Vietnam, when I had a similar experience, that ASL is quite similar to VNSL. I assume that is because ASL is based on French Sign Language and that the French brought Sign Language to Vietnam.

Next thing I knew, I was sitting with the group chatting. This consisted of Sign Language and Vietnamese and English. Some was written down in English, and some was translated by the Vietnamese teacher, who was hearing but spoke limited English, and some by the young deaf man who had spent fifteen years in Australia. We were all so excited that we could communicate together.

They were part of the SHI, (Saigon Hearing Impairment), Fine Arts Club. They gave me a brochure of an exhibition going on just down the road, and pointed out their works pictured in the brochure.


This was really the first time since arriving that I remembered why I go off to other parts of the world; it’s for these truly magical moments that simply don’t happen when one knows one’s surroundings and the people that populate it.


For about thirty minutes we talked about where I was from, what I did, and a little about their lives. I learned that ASL has a far larger vocabulary than VNSL. The young man I first spoke with told me that his friend was studying at the California School for the Deaf in Fremont, CA. Excitement reigned when I told him that it was very close to where I was from in California.


When it was time for me to dash off so that I could catch the little shuttle bus back to my hotel, (rather than pay for a taxi), I promised to go by their exhibition and to come by again. I plan to go the see their work tomorrow and go back to talk sometime next week.

Kate

Back in HCMC

Yesterday I finally had to use the internet to figure out that it was actually Saturday and not Friday. This is one of the minor hassles of losing a day when you fly half-way around the world. Not only am I now on the right time and the right hour, my body is also starting to recognize the change.

I never can sleep on a plane but since I was flying EVA airlines and had upgraded to Economy Deluxe, I wasn’t overly concerned. When I last flew back from Vietnam, nearly three years ago, the price difference between Economy and Eco Deluxe was only $100 each way. Totally worth it when you get wide seats with plenty of leg room and your own personal movies-on-demand screen. Unfortunately, that price has now doubled. More unfortunately, I flew on one of their more shabby planes.

It wasn’t until I had spoken to a travel agent, (and after I had already bought the ticket), that I found out that EVA uses well-worn 747’s three days a week and brand-spanking-new 777’s on other days. Prior to knowing this I had been mesmerized by the beautiful look of the “New Eco Deluxe” seats that EVA kept emailing to me.

Yes, the seats on the 747 are far wider and more comfortable than in economy, but the movie screens are old school. You do get your own private screen but you are at the mercy of whatever is currently playing; no pause, no rewind, not options other than channel 1, 2, or 3.

On one of my frequent strolls around the plane, a woman asked what was wrong with my knee. (your basic middle-aged joint problem). Then she kneeled down and started working on the knee, massaging and probing and hitting all the right spots. She told me she was a Thai masseuse, going home to visit family. She worked absolute wonders on my knee and then again gave me a treatment shortly before we landed in Taipei.


At least the three hour flight from Taipei to Ho Chi Minh City was on one of those new 777’s; shear luxury. When I fly back, I will make sure I get on a 777 for those 14 hours back to California.

Pure euphoria is how I would describe my emotional state as I walked out of the airport and into a taxi, headed for a hotel in the neighborhood where I used to live. I could not stop grinning and trying to talk to the driver. I was warm, it was chaotic, it was Vietnam. It wasn’t quite the feeling one often gets when returning home after many years, but very close. I was just so happy to be on a new adventure.

I mentioned “trying” to converse to the taxi driver because I had forgotten all my very basic Vietnamese while in California. I had big plans of taking out my language books so that I could at least try to refresh my market/restaurant/taxi vocabulary, but just never got around to it. But the most amazing thing has happened; it is all coming back. I’ll be walking down the street and a phrase will just pop into my head. Or I’ll be at the supermarket and turn to a clerk to ask a question and the words just fly out. We’re not talking anything other than basic survival language, but it is still there. The mind truly is amazing.

The first thing I did when I got to my hotel was to take a shower, unpack a few things, then went out to run errands. Water was the first priority. I drink copious amounts and the cheapest way to get a large, clean water supply is to have a 19 liter/5 gallon bottle delivered to your house. I walked a few short blocks to the little shop that had been my supplier in the past. Right away all the delivery guys recognized me and even remembered my apt/street address, which I had forgotten. I paid and arranged for the water to be delivered in an hour.

Next I went to my old apartment building in hopes of seeing a favorite neighbor. I wasn’t sure if he was even alive as he had been in his mid-80’s and getting a bit frail when I’d last seen him. Much to my great pleasure, not only was he alive and kicking but in better health than 3 years ago. We had a lovely chat before I went back to the hotel to wait for the water.

4pm is the witching hour for me when I have crossed too many time zones and datelines. It’s like someone has shot me with morphine although it doesn’t really feel anywhere near that pleasant. In fact not pleasant at all. I can’t move, can’t keep my eyes open and finally just lie down. The hours are all a big mess to me, but I think I got up at 3am and left the hotel at 6am looking for food.


When I moved to this part of town in 2005, it was quite deserted. A lot of apartment complexes had gone up, and there was construction on every block, but that was about it. One supermarket existed and it was rather dismal. A few tiny eateries, that I would never dine in were scattered here and there, and I don’t think there was one hotel. What I did like is that there was very little traffic, even on the main highway that ran through the middle of this new part of town. Oh my gosh; things have change.

Restaurants and supermarkets and hotels abound. That has its advantages. But the traffic is unbelievable. I have no idea where all these people are coming from or going to. It’s not like downtown Ho Chi Minh City, but one does have to be extremely cautious when crossing a street.

I’ve spent the past few days visiting friends and have been into town twice. Today I am staying in. I do have a mini-fridge in the room which is nice except you have to remember that the electricity cuts off when you leave the room, so what you store has to be limited to non-very-perishables. I was able to find regular light bulbs to replace the florescent bedside lights. (this only took two days and about 5 hours of walking around the entire city to find.)


I’ve managed to get over my initial fear of using my costly, brand new, DSLR camera. I’m still having a bit of trouble figuring out where I have stored the photos on my computer. I’m still questioning if lugging around a high-dollar camera was a smart move. I can’t just whip it out of my bag and throw it back in. I haven’t yet figured out exactly how to walk around town with it. Do I keep it in my shoulder bag which is really not comfortable or do I put it in a back pack which is really not as safe? Did I spend a fortune on an impractical piece of equipment, or is it really the apparatus that I have been dreaming about owning for years? I’m hoping it is the latter.


Kate

Betting on the Ponies

I’ve only ever been to a race track twice before in my life and that was eons ago. I grew up within spitting distance of Golden Gate Fields but somehow managed to not become a horse racing enthusiast. Sure, I try to watch the Kentucky Derby every year when I am in the US, but never thought much about the track just down the road. One reason is that this tracks location can often be a rather chilly place.
.
But then, just when I think that the non-summer we’ve had will turn into a freezing cold fall, we get hit with record temperatures. And for some reason I became aware of an ad announcing Dollar Sundays at the track; $1 parking, $1 entrance, $1 beer, and $1 hotdogs. Where else was I to go on such a beautiful day but down to the edge of the San Francisco Bay where I knew it would be perfect weather and a new experience.
.
Getting my bearings was the first order of the afternoon upon entering the grounds. Even though there seemed to be a fair amount of people milling about, the place is so huge it felt deserted. I strolled around exploring the venue and the patrons. I had a preconceived notion that it would be filled with scruffy, die-hard gamblers, sipping beer and checking their racing forms. The only part of that that I got right was the racing forms.

I was surprised to see groups of college kids and families with strollers and just a regular crowd one would find anywhere. In fact I only saw a few people who could fill in as Hollywood extra racing-bums.

.
A spectacular, manicured, green oasis covers the area inside the track; little lakes with fountains and ornamental flower beds. At one point I asked one of the women in the gift shop if the area was ever used. Apparently, it isn’t. A friend told me she thinks it is a bird sanctuary which would make sense considering that on the other side is a massive, dirty freeway.
.
Finished with getting the lay of the land, I decided it was time to get down to the task of placing a few bets. Down in the paddock, (one of the many new racing vocabulary terms I picked up that day), horses were being led around while studious folks glanced back and forth between their racing forms and the horses. I wasn’t exactly sure the way this whole thing worked so I asked a man next to me. He also knew nothing about it. That was something I would find throughout the day; lots of newcomers like me who didn’t have a clue.
.
At least I did know that I should pick a horse and place a bet. The last time I went to a track I was with a friend who would look at the parade of critters, point to one, place a bet, and win. And win almost every time. I studied the horses and decided that number two looked awfully cute so I scurried off to place a bet.

A whole line of self-service betting booths were available but I needed to talk to someone. I stood in line and was helped by a lovely gentleman who explained that the cheapest bet was $2. I was very proud that by the end of the day I could walk up to a window and, like a real pro, say $2 to win on number 7.
.
The fist horse I bet on came in dead last, and in two other races I also didn’t fare very well. I soon realized that I should quite picking the pretty ponies and look for something a bit more significant, if only I could figure out what that was supposed to be.
.
I paid close attention to whoever was leading the horses around the paddock and how they related to their animal. I loved the guy who whispered sweetly to his charge and the other guy who was massaging his horses tongue. I figured a good connection in the paddock just had to result in a winner. I was very impressed by the women who lead around her hose, simply because she was the only gal down there. I saw that the trainer for this horse was also a woman and then found out the jockey was a woman.
.
Kayla, from what the ladies next to me said, is Australian and had been racing in the US for a few years. Obviously, the sisterhood thing meant I had to bet on her. She didn’t win, but did come in third.
.
Realizing that I had already lost $10, I decided it was time to go up into the grandstands and check out the high dollar betting and dining areas further up. You have to pay $2 to get up there but the door person said she would refund the money since I was just going up for a quick look.
.
The dining area is glassed in and each table has its own little TV so you don’t even have to look at the track. I wandered into another area and this is where the place really started to get bizarre. There are several rooms of varying sizes, filled with large and small screens and a bar. Inside each, where there is no view of the track, people placed their bets and sipped on martinis. I didn’t get it; it was such a glorious day and they wanted to stay inside and look at a TV?

One of the rooms had a view that was not of the track but yet quite sensational. You could see almost from one end of the bay to the other, the Golden Gate Bridge smack dab in the middle. (Which is why they call it Golden Gate Fields, I presume.) Having been out of the sunshine for too long I headed back down stairs, down an escalator, collected my $2, and went back to the track.
.
I did like standing right at the edge next to the track even if it did scare the hootie-patooties out of me. I like horses from a distance and cannot imagine why anyone would want to ride one, let alone be aboard a ton of solid muscle running hell-bent, shoulder to shoulder, around a track. Being that close just confirmed my belief.
.
It was also quite sobering to see that in every race, the riders are followed around the track by a speeding ambulance and pick-up truck. I learned that this is a race track law. Unfortunately, just a few weeks ago those emergency vehicles were needed. A young jockey, Michael Martinez was seriously injured in a spill. I was glad to see that donations were being collected at the track and that the whole racing community is supporting him.
.
I kept discovering other parts to explore. It turned out you could walk right up to where the jockeys sit before their race begins, although there is a security guard to keep people out. I asked the guard if I could ask the jockeys if I could take their picture.
.
One of the jockeys waved me over. He pointed to another rider and said, “Take his picture. He’s the famous one. He’s a model”. I said something about all of them looking good. He replied, “You should see me with my clothes off”. A magnificent day and a flirting jockey; what more could a gal ask for?

I’m already planning my next trip to the track. October 2nd is Secretariat Day with a free cap giveaway. Providing the weather holds, I’ll be there.

Kate

Mare Island Naval Shipyard

Mare Island sits on the east side of the San Francisco Bay. Growing up, it was the place my father spent occasional weekends as a reservist with the US Navy. Which is probably why no one I was acquainted with ever knew much about it; the general public doesn’t get entry to military bases. Up until recently, If someone had asked me about the Island I might have said that it was a naval base or maybe it had been closed. The Mare Island Naval Shipyard was officially closed in 1996.
.
A few weeks ago when my friend asked if I wanted to take a trip to the island as she had a college class she was attending. Huh? A private college on a closed naval shipyard? I was up for it.
.
Just driving through what had once been a guard station at the entrance to the island was a bit bizarre; but it was nothing compared to the rest of the experience. I’d entered a surreal world of abandoned buildings and roads. Sort of a military base ghost town.

.
















It was more than a bit freaky driving down long, palm tree lined, wide streets with barely a soul or car in sight. Brick buildings dating back to late 1800’s, empty deep water docks, scores of sprawling buildings whose past usage I could only guess about. It felt as though I were on a Hollywood back lot. And, it turns out, there have been films shot there.

.
















A few places, like the Officers Club, still had their original signs up and some had been converted to student housing for the previously mentioned college. Others only displayed their building numbers. If I hadn’t been by myself, I might have tried to gain entrance to a few; curiosity was at an all time high.

.










One massive block long building, that was nearly as tall, clearly was some sort of assembly plant as the inside was an empty shell. I know this because I got out of the car to peer in the windows. (there may have been a sign or two warning to steer clear because of hazardous PCB’s or something along that line.) Just as I put my camera up to the glass fronted entry doors to get a few interior shots, a giant wind came up rattling what felt like the entire building. I was then sure that it was a ghost town.

.
















I drove on and on, no traffic and no people. I would stop in the middle of a street, get out, take a few pictures, and continue on my way. Somewhere along the way I realized what I was doing and took to pulling off the road before getting out. And the more I explored the more I wished my dad was still around so that he could tell me what everything had once been.

I didn’t have a map so relied on the few posted signs. One led up the hill to the golf course; once the exclusive turf of officers and now open to all. I don’t play the game, but the views of the San Francisco Bay may be a reason to take it up.

.



Going back down the hill I noticed an area with massive eucalyptus trees and what seemed to be housing. I headed towards it.

.

St Peter’s Chapel was the first stop. Built in 1901, it is filled with real Tiffany stained glass windows. Worth more than a small fortune, it is only open on certain days for tours. This looked like somewhere I would come back to but what really caught my eye was just around the bend.




I’d stumbled upon Officer’s Row; massive mansions lined a wide boulevard, each sitting on large lawn surrounded by giant trees. I froze. Never had I seen anything so magnificent. I’m a traveler; houses interest me but don’t compel me to move in. This time I was smitten. I wanted one of those babies and from the look of it, they were empty and just waiting for me.

Strolling up to the first one I saw a sign saying “available” and a number to call. I walked up the stairs to the large front porch and then to the glass windows. Inside was even more mouth-watering house; paneled walls, hardwood floors, built in window seats, and a splendid fireplace. I was literally drooling thinking about living here..

Looking down the street were at least another ten of these beauties. I later found out that the biggest one, the Captains House, is furnished and set up for tours. I still haven’t found out if the others are for sale, rent, or just a big tease.
.
I eventually realized that as much as I loved the officer’s mansions, they would be just a taste too big for one person. I started to look for smaller houses. It seemed that many of the big ones had more properly sized out houses, some of which appeared to be occupied. On the street behind these were your basic 1950’s military housing. Not at all tasteful but possibly affordable and I was beginning to get quite attached to Mare Island.

.
Eventually it was time to head back, off island surrealism and back into the here and now. The Mare Island Historic Park Foundation does tours and I plan to get there in the near future. http://www.mareislandhpf.org/
.
Kate

Ghana x USA, San Leandro, CA

When I saw Robert Reid’s article listing Ricky’s Bar in San Leandro, CA as one of the Top Ten places to watch the World Cup my first reaction was huh? Ricky’s Bar is still around? But since I had yet to find much of anywhere to watch the Cup, and seeing as the US was playing in the second round, I decided to give it a go.
.
When searching for places to get your groove on in the San Francisco Bay Area, the city of San Leandro is not at the top of anyone’s list. Possibly not even on any list at all. True, Ricky’s is not that far from where the Oakland Raiders play ball, and it did have a rep for the place players hung out, but I thought that was all in the past. The last time I had been in there was to apply for a bartending job at a time when very few bars, no matter the extent of your skills, were hiring women to mix cocktails and pull beer. I vaguely remember being laughed at and swearing I would never set foot in there again. I broke that vow today and stepped back in time.
.
Ricky’s is your basic ‘70’s sports bar; dark wood paneling, dark lighting, framed/signed players shirts and pictures, neon signs, and not a window to be found. Since cigs have been outlawed in California bars, it did not have that familiar, homey, stench of tobacco mixed with beer, but otherwise you’d think it was 1975. That is were it not for the TV screens of which there were probably about one hundred, lining the walls, running along the sides of the three big screens, and sitting on the bar. Not to mention the 3D TV area.
.
With thirty minutes before game time, the place was nearly filled to capacity. I found a little niche to sit in where I got a good view of one of the big screens and at least thirty TV’s. I wasn’t quite sure where to look.
.
This was a different crowd than the last time I’d watched the US play and I wasn’t sure what the reaction would be to anything. For a minute there I was scared that they might all stand up when they played the Star Spangled Banner. They didn’t, but they did applaud at the end.
.
With the game under way I began to notice that although everyone seemed to be watching, they didn’t seem to be involved. They kind of acted like people watching a tennis match. When Ghana scored at 5 minutes I was just about to jump out of my seat when I noticed that no one else in the entire place was moving and quickly reigned in my enthusiasm.
.
Yes, I am American and yes, I was rooting for Ghana. I like it when these countries that have precious little prevail in sporting events, especially when their entire country is backing their team.
.
The first half was enough for me at Ricky’s and I was off to another place just down the road, this one an English Pub. It was sheer heaven to get out into the hot, sunny mid-day weather. One does not take sunshine for granted in this part of the world. Just two days before it had been 50F/10C and the sun never did break through the fog.
.
I was just pulling into the parking lot of The Englander Sports Pub when I heard an eruption of screams from patrons sitting in the outdoor areas. Team USA must have scored. When I got inside I saw that the score was still 1x0 Ghana, but that the fans here were hooting and hollering at every touch, pass, kick, and foul.
.
People lined up five deep in front of the bar watching the line of TV screens above all those taps of beers and booze. Two rooms branched off either side with more rows of TV’s. It looked as if one room led into yet another, but about all I could see were bodies. There was no chance of finding a seat but I didn’t care; it was simply so wonderful to be amongst the football enlightened. The place virtually shook when the US scored.
.
Being kind of short and starting to get a bit mashed by bodies, I went back to the entrance and peered into the two outer viewing areas. I turned my head when I thought I heard people chanting for Ghana and quickly made a beeline in the direction of the small group standing outside and at the back of another room with a big screen. I had found the Kenyan contingent who were rooting for the last African team still alive in the Cup. I was home.
.
It has been said, called out one of the self-appointed leaders,
.It has been said, replied the group of about twenty,
It has been said,
.It has been said,
That David beat Goliath,
.That David beat Goliath
...
As soon as one chant finished, another would start; There is a story…..
Or more simply a call and reply of Eh, eh, Ah, ah,……
.
Someone arrived with a vuvuleza and immediately a chant started with
Vuvuleza, ah, Vuvuleza, oh….
.
All this was accompanied by dance steps, shoulder shrugs, and laughter. Everyone was super friendly and was pleased I had joined their small band. When I told one woman I was from the area she asked “but from what country originally?” Said I was American but always pulled for the small countries. Three young women from Venezuela cheered and chanted like they were born in Ghana.
.
Every now and then a USA,USA,USA chant would go up in friendly defiance of all the Ghana noise, and would always end with smiles. I was pleased to see that even the most ardent US fans were truly enjoying the rhythms and singing of the Ghanaian supporters.
.
All of this continued throughout the entire second half, overtime, and after the match had finished. I didn’t really want to leave all the fun of my adopted friends, and told them I’d be back for the next match. They thanked me for supporting Ghana; I thanked them for letting me join in. We shook hands, hugged and the lady I had spoken to at the beginning said, “Thank you for supporting the small countries”.
.
This is definitely the way the World Cup should be watched.
Kate

World Cup 2010, Berkeley, CA USA

Here’s the deal; if you are American and have never experienced the World Cup outside of the US, you just have no idea what you’re missing. Conversely, if you have watched the World Cup in any other place in the known universe, you simply cannot imagine how low-key it is here.
.
I can’t say that I watch much football at all during a year, or even during three years. But every four years I turn into a football maniac and watch as many of the World Cup games as work schedule and time zone permits.
.
I’ve reveled in World Cup fervor in South America, South East Asia, and in the Middle East. But this year, unfortunately, I’m in California and know darn well that I’m missing out on all the camaraderie and universal joy that is going on in every other corner of the world. So as not to get overly depressed I have made it my mission to seek out like-minded fans and take part in whatever bit of World Cup insanity that I can find.
.

Growing up in the US at a time when the term soccer mom had yet to be invented, I knew very little about the game. It was all baseball and football and girls weren’t even allowed to play. But then I spent two years in Brazil as a Peace Corps Volunteer and I was turned. Never again was I much of an American football fan with its slow pace and constant stop of action.

.

It was tough when I first returned to the US back in the day before cable, not that football/soccer had much of a following here. One could only watch the World Cup on the Spanish station, with its grainy picture and poor reception, and that was only if you lived in someplace like California. It has been a long hard road, but we have now arrived at the point where ESPN not only has full coverage and analysis but tons of promos for the 2010 Cup.

My viewing preference in the US, however, remains with Univision, the Spanish language network of choice. Their announcers call the play at a million words a minute, as compared to ESPN/US broadcasters who talk about the weather and their fishing trips rather than give play by play commentary. Even if you don’t understand Spanish, just hearing the excitement and enthusiasm of the announcer adds so much to the game. There are those who watch the game in English and then switch to Spanish when a goal is scored. No one can outdo a Latin American yelling Gooooooooooooool!!!!!!!!

.

Now that the US has sorted the coverage problem, the next obstacle is to find those fans. Sure, I can watch in the comfort of my own home on a nice, big, HD TV, but it just doesn’t satisfy the soul. I watched the first hour of game one before I had to head off for work where I found that no one was even aware that the World Cup had begun. I felt so alone and disconnected.

.

Today, I headed out to Brennan’s restaurant/bar to catch the 7am match between Argentina and Nigeria. This in itself, places opening early to show the games, would have been unheard of not that long ago. And after seeing the measly crowd of about six people who’d shown up, I’m wondering if they will continue this for the entire month. I knew the 11:30am game would be crowded as it was USA vs. England, but was off to another part of town to see what was on offer.

I’d found out about several restaurant/bars near the University that were going to be World Cup headquarters. The first one I walked into had no seats available, although it was not that crowded. I walked down the street to choice number two that lacked any type of fun atmosphere. I ended up in a place called Raleigh’s on Telegraph Ave., just a few blocks from UC Berkeley.

.

The place was jumping; tons of mostly university students, two big screens, and lots of TV’s. It took a bit of doing, but I was able to snag a chair and park myself in good viewing distance of one of the TV’s.

.

I was sitting with people who had grown up playing soccer, understood and loved the game. I had never before been with a group of Americans watching the World Cup and was thrilled at their screams and yells and boos. When team USA scored the place exploded; people jumped up sloping beer and high-fiving each other. An impromptu chant of USA!, USA!, USA!, ensued. It warmed my heart. I would never have believed it possible that a group of Americans could love the beautiful game as much as the rest of the world.

.

California may not be my dream destination for watching the World Cup 2010, but it just may not be as dismal as I had expected.

Kate