Warm weather, sunny skies, T-shirts and sandals. After all of these made a debut last weekend, only one possible conclusion can be reached: The weather is about to turn to, well, a word that rhymes with "spit."
Ahh, springtime in the Rockies. It's like a dysfunctional relationship in which you keep getting back together thinking things will be perfect this time, only to realize within the first week that she's still sleeping with the Italian fashion designer she left you for in the first place. And no, that never happened to me.
But despite its tempestuous nature, the oncoming inclement weather actually provides little reason for the residents of the Wood River Valley to complain. For we know that the turbulent times will pass quickly, like Lindsay Lohan's acting career, quickly forgotten with the onset of something much, much better.
Unlike the East Coast, the valley does not experience hail that gives way in a matter of weeks to the kind of oppressive humidity that requires a spare shirt for even the briefest of trips outdoors. Nor does the temperature ever climb like a squirrel wearing golf spikes, causing the residents of Southern states to drive around for hours just to park their cars under any manner of shade, even if it's only a tall weed covering a single wheel well.
Best of all, however, is that while the occasional rainfall might darken the skies and dampen spirits, the word "deluge" is never part of the weather forecast.
The same cannot be said for Vietnam. Of course, in Southeast Asia, this is a mixed blessing.
After nearly a month in Thailand and Cambodia, time spent mostly in close proximity to a beach or jungle, the atmosphere of a bustling city was comparatively stifling. Then again, perhaps bustle isn't the right word to describe Ho Chi Minh City, formerly, and, in large part, still known as Saigon.
If a single element of the city were used to embody the spirit of the city, it would have to be a roundabout. With seemingly no traffic laws to obey, drivers circle in whatever direction suits them best, like a school of salmon that can't come to consensus on which way is upstream. Adding to the absolute chaos is the fact that a high proportion of the vehicles on the road are small motorcycles or scooters, often carrying every member of a large family and a sizable household appliance.
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Now apply this to an entire city of 7 million people and you get the idea.
Needless to say, for summertime visitors this scene can be intoxicating, confusing and sometimes downright unpleasant, largely because of the combination of heat and exhaust.
Thus, I was immensely relieved, albeit slightly startled, when the skies, without warning, let loose a torrential downpour, the likes of which I had never seen before.
The locals, accustomed to this form of precipitation, ducked for cover, the more courageous of them donning ponchos and continuing on their way. I thought this would be a perfect way to cool down and simultaneously bathe.
Walking down a side street, I placed my foot on a piece of scrap wood, a common feature of Saigon streets. The folly of my ways was quickly revealed, as the wood turned out to be serving a municipal purpose as a drain cover.
Before I could think tetanus, gangrene or hepatitis, I found my left leg submerged to above the knee in a viscous dark fluid, roiling with the addition of 30 minutes that was more than a year's worth of rain in Idaho.
Immediately, I noticed a scrape along my leg. I nearly retched, because I could only imagine that whatever substance I was in intimate contact with at the moment contained every disease known to mankind and perhaps a few yet to be discovered.
The situation only got worse. In my haste to extricate my contaminated extremity, my flip-flop fell victim to the suctional forces of the muck, pulling it below the surface. In a stroke of good luck, it floated back to the top, and I was able to retrieve it in the manner akin to that of a person who has dropped their glasses into an unflushed toilet.
While I had the consolation of not having to hobble over to the nearby shoemonger to haggle over a pair of knockoff Air Jordans, my humiliation lingered as I entered my guesthouse like someone returning from Mexico with a cold.
Five years later, my leg has yet to turn black and I'm feeling pretty invincible. So, where's that pork sandwich?
Jon Duval is a staff writer for the Idaho Mountain Express.
