Black coffee, please

 

Above is a photo of what the waitress brought me this morning at the Ho Chi Minh City coffeehouse where I was having breakfast. I thought I had carefully explained that I simply wanted a cup of back coffee - no cream, no sugar, Americano. i pointed to a picture of a cup of black coffee. I said "Cafe de" which I was told means "no ice." The polite waitress nodded in understanding and brought me dripping coffee and a glass of ice. Along with cream and sugar.

In a coffee shop earlier that morning, after all my exhortations, I was served a cup of creamy, sugary lukewarm soup that may or may not have had coffee in it. Finally after a walk, I went back to where I am staying and made instant coffee. Close as I could get.

This is important. I have been a coffee drinker all my life, starting each day with several cups of strong, black coffee. I am not a connoisseur of roast beans, will not pay a high price at Starbucks, and buy ground roast that is on sale when home. But I need my coffee.

My material grandmother was the original caffeine pusher in my life. As a toddler, she would fill my tiny white and blue Hop-a-Long Cassidy mug half full of sweetened condensed milk, add plenty of sugar, and then pour in a bit coffee. I loved the warm, sweet drink.

I stopped taking sugar in my coffee in high school. Perhaps because my dad didn't use it. But it was not until my first year teaching that stopped with the cream(er). The teachers' lounge only had powdered creamer, and I discovered that powdered cream gave me gas. A lot of gas. Uncontrollable flatulence is not a good thing for a first-year teacher trying to establish some credibility with students only a few years younger than himself. So I've taken it black for 44 years.

Ironically, Vietnam is a coffee-lover's paradise. Famous coffees have long been grown here (including that harvested from the poop of civit cats). Coffee shops are more densely situated (along with street coffee vendors) than any place I've ever been.

But plain old hot black coffee. It remains an elusive.

Happy Holidays

However you celebrate, happy holidays to my candle-lighting readers!

The small voice from the beach

"We weesh you a meddy Chreestmus, we weesh you a meddy Chreestmus, and a happy new year."

The song wafted from the darkened beach as I sat drinking a beer and reading a book on the hotel's second floor balcony last evening. I peered over the railing and saw a small boy, his face barely visible, looking up as he serenaded me in his quiet voice. He didn't put a hand out or say anything else, but softly began to sing "Silent Night." He hoped for some small change in return for his performance. I turned back to my beer and my book.

Over the past weeks I've written about my travels here in the Philippines, the hikes, the bus riding, the accommodations. But I've said little about the poverty in this lovely country that has less than 20% of the GDP per person than the United States. In Manila, poverty slaps you in the face with streets lined with sleeping women and children on pieces of cardboard. In the mountains, the aura of farming and simplicity made the area not seem poor, but traditionally rural. But here on the coast near Subic there is a stark contrast between the affluent tourists - Philippino, Brit, Aussie, and German, primarily - and the poorest of those who live here.

Hawkers of old coins, toys, and Viagra are already on the beach at dawn, carrying their store of goods in shoulder slung baskets. Old women sit outside their homes with a day's worth of fresh fish, hoping for a buyer. Old white men are often accompanied by brown women young enough to be their daughters if not granddaughters. Homes and small business are constructed of crumbling concrete, old wood, and metal roofing sheets - all seemingly held together with baling wire. Small children sing in the dark for change.

I've never really known how to react to panhandlers in the U.S. Mostly I ignore them, thinking of well-intentioned advice that direct monetary gifts may be spent on drugs or alcohol and keep the street-people from getting help from shelters and welfare agencies. A friend gives energy bars and socks to road-side beggars. If I give money to the little singer, will he get a better meal, or will that change go to buy drugs for a parent or to a Fagin-like character who organizes such demonstrations?

I don't know what to do about poverty in Minnesota, let alone in Subic Bay. Education, I have always believed, was the best escape to a middle class life. Yet I know "white privilege," colors my perspective on this issue having never faced barriers to vocational success and therefore a good standard of living. I vote for politicians who acknowledge the problems of poverty. I give to charitable organizations who help the poor. I volunteer for non-profits serving impoverished seniors. My Rotary service club aids in digging wells in Central America and fighting disease in Africa. And I keep advocating for doing a better job giving an education to all children as I can. But about international poverty, I have no idea what to do.

But if the boy returns this evening, I'm giving him some money. I'll never hear "Silent Night" again without seeing him down on the dark beach.

(PS. He came back the evening I wrote this, bringing a brother. I gave them some money.)