Drip, drip, drip

I wish I could say that is the sound of our water running in our house. But, no. It is the sound of my sweat dripping. I have never thought of myself as having much cleavage, but in this humid climate, I appear to be well endowed - at least the sweat thinks so. I find myself wanting to stop Vietnamese women on the street and ask them what they are wearing under their shirts. I'm not sure, but I don't think this falls in the category of culturally appropriate conversation.

Clean Laundry - by Elia

We have been promised, "by three independent sources" as Andrew likes to say, that the water will be back on in our apartment by tonight. Though I have been here since 1:00 pm and jumping up every 30 minutes or so to alternately peek out the window (where I might expect to see water workers) or to try the tap, there is nothing. HA, I say. "TIV" (for This Is Vietnam) say the teachers at Andrew's school.

Since I last wrote, our refrigerator has also stopped working, discovered by arriving home from the hotel on Saturday to the overwhelming stench of rotten food. On the bright side, the cabbage was well on its way to sauerkraut and the milk miraculously was cheese. The kids' nintendo and my Kindle have also acquired some mysterious malady - neither working and for no immediately discernible reason. And our renters back home are having difficulty making their first rent payment.

We are working very hard, and harder every day, to not see this as some great sign from the Universe that we are supposed to be someplace else.