Dying For Culture

[Vung Tau, 7/5/26]

Three days straight, I allowed myself a large bottle of Tsingtao, a decent Chinese lager, in an alley. Twice, I noticed a fly floating in my brew, so fished him out with my fingers. This reminded me of a joke. First time you see a fly in your noodle soup in Vietnam, you call the waiter. Second time, you get rid of this garbage and dog shit loving insect yourself. Third time, you just eat the fly. Last night, I spotted a black dot in my amber drink, but there’s nothing upon closer inspection, so I kept guzzling, until, you guess it, I felt something squishy between my tongue and hard palate. Instead of availing myself of some free protein, I spat him out.

In that alley, I was twice greeted in Vietnamese by a white man, “Chào chú” [“Hello, uncle”]. He turned out to be 55-year-old Grant, from Louisiana. From age 18 to 35, he lived in Shreveport, mostly, but also New Orleans. Grant has visited many US cities, including Philadelphia. Laughing, we talked about how New Orleans and Philly has but a tiny picturesque section for the tourists, with much of the rest a near lethal shit hole. Grant has even seen Camden.

“It’s worse than Detroit,” I said. “Each time I went there, I asked myself, ‘What the fuck am I doing here? My death wish must be very strong.’”

Shreveport is bad enough, Grant informed me. Competing LA gangs have moved in. Interstate 20 connects them to Dallas. I-10 delivers them to LA. Bullets sometimes fly across I-20.