DEAR GOBO: R.I.P Peter Nguyen

Steven and I were heading to the gym around 9:30 on Saturday morning, explaining to our friend and current house guest, Meghan, that the gym was part of a Country Club, although it wasn't like what you would think when you hear the term "Country Club," when we noticed a covered table set for twelve positioned right outside our door.

"That looks more like a country club," Steven remarked, as we all gathered closer to the gate to see what was developing in the alley.

The table in front of our gate was one of three lined up along the alley, all covered in white table cloths and set with full place settings for twelve people each. Guessing that perhaps someone was getting married, we noticed a fire blazing to the right, just feet from our door, and immediately revised our presumption - someone had died.

In Viet Nam, when people die, it is common to provide them with items that they may need in the afterlife through the burning of paper and cardboard representations of the desired items. As we watched, the deceased was given a few paper outfits, a paper house filled with fake paper money, a tray of cardboard food, a selection of cardboard accessories, including sunglasses, shoes, cigarettes, a belt, and a razor, and my favorite, a cardboard BMW.

Not wanting to miss the festivities, but also intent on getting in a workout and some quality relaxation poolside at the Lan An, Steven and I left as soon as the fire was out and it was safe to squeeze our motorbike out the door.

When we returned later that day, we found the party in full swing. The first two tables were empty, but the one outside of our house, was filled with 'mourners,' all men, singing along to the acoustic strumming of one of the group. The floor under and around the table was littered with crushed beer cans, evidence that the party had been in full swing for some time. The table top, covered with plates of fruit and desserts, and a full glass of beer in front of every man, suggested that the party was still going strong.

As soon as we pulled up, the men pulled out two extra plastic stools and gestured for us to sit down. I hesitated for a moment, walked inside to place our bag on the porch and returned to join the party. In the moment I had been gone, a full glass of beer had materialized in front of Steven and the empty chair that was now mine. Steven happily raised his glass, while I politely declined, figuring from the amount of cans on the ground, that I wouldn't be offered just one and I wasn't ready to call it a day at 2 in the afternoon.

Not long after, we were introduced to the Vietnamese concept of "Tram Phan Tram" or 100%, in which one man holds up his glass, clinks his glass with yours and announces, "Tram Phan Tram," indicating that you will both now chug the entire contents of your glass. Sitting back, happy with myself for getting off the train before it turned into a mass of casualties strewn around the floor of our alley, I watched as man after man raised his glass with Steven, "Tram Phan Tram!" Four glasses in less than ten minutes. We were soon joined by Meghan who had been watching the revelry from afar, but decided to join once we'd settled in, and the cycle of "Tram Phan Tram!" began again.

Throughout the hours that we sat at the table, we were treated to rounds of beer and coke and various songs, of whose words we could not understand, but whose melodies and infectiousness we could appreciate. Between songs, the one man among them who spoke some English, most of them we had by now recognized as our neighbors, asked us about what we did and told us a little about why they were there - their friend, Peter Nguyen, 49 had died recently due to complications with alcohol - a fact that Meghan remarked upon later that evening as somewhat understandable given the state of all of his friends at his wake.

Finally, as the sun began to set, and various revelers had come and gone, I decided it was time for some sustenance other than grapes and coke and beer, and set out to make dinner. Around 8:30, the men having dispersed one-by-one to their respective houses as the day wore on, the party finally ended and Peter Nguyen's memory was laid to rest, at least for the day.