Strange things can put me in a panic. For most people it is public speaking or interviewing for a new job. For me it is eating with chopsticks. For me it is a symbol of cultural inadequacy and ignorance. I know that’s taking things a bit far, but for some reason when I’m trying to use chopsticks I start sweating, from the nerves not the spices. When I order food here they almost always bring me chopsticks, no fork, maybe a spoon. Then I’m supposed to consume my meal as smoothly as possible without sitting there the remainder of the day. It is pure torture. I feel all eyes are on me. I’m a slurping sloppy mess when I’m eating with chopsticks. This afternoon I ordered a bowl of Pho Bo, rice noodles with beef in a delicious mildly spicy broth. I had an hour before catching my bus to Hoi An. I knew it was serious. If I wanted to get at least half of it in my stomach I had to focus intently at the task at hand. Don’t look at the cute guys across the table, or the motorbikes zooming by. Don’t gawk at the fake Ray Ban sunglasses sold on the corner of the street. Focus on this simple task, eating. But it’s not so simple. Within minutes broth had splattered on my light blue tank top, I was constantly using my napkin to dab at the juice running down my chin. I’m sure the refined French girl sitting two tables beside me must of thought I was representing the USA quite well.

If I could just eat with chopsticks, I would feel like I’ve made it in life. That I’ve joined the masses of noodle and rice eating people who can master eating with two wooden sticks. I would be the queen of the world. It’s all I really want at the moment. And I will conquer the chopsticks, just you wait.