Slices of Nepal

“Deracinated is a beautiful word said the Hoi Polloi to the unwashed dog.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Kathmandu, 10/16/25

Peak Self-Indulgence — Oct 17, 2025.

Before arriving, I reread this astounding passage from Pico Iyer’s Video Night in Kathmandu, “Nepal’s prodigious versatility was most apparent, however, in the smorgasbord of its menus, which could easily have put the United Nations cafeteria to shame. Every one of them, so it seemed, offered everything from borscht to quiche and sukiyaki to soyburgers […] Everything of every nationality was available here—except things Nepalese.” Sounds amazing, except it’s sheer nonsense. Not every Nepalese menu offers everything but Nepalese dishes. Even around Freak and Dharmapath, where Iyer hung out, there had to be many humble eateries serving locals their familiar food.

Even seasoned travelers tend to congregate among foreigners in deracinated venues. In Vung Tau, I almost never see a white face at the cafés I frequent. They prefer air conditioned rooms with plate glass windows to shield them from the hoi polloi, with their weird or maddening ways, just outside.

That said, there’s much to learn about how tacos or cheesesteaks are prepared in Alexandria or Timbuktu. When I wrote about pizzas in Vung Tau, some dimwit commented that no one goes to Vietnam to eat pizzas. Another said something similar when I wrote about phở in Brisbane.

Kathmandu, 10/16/25

The migration of dishes, often with a background history of struggles or tragedies, deserves volumes of meditation.

Six decades ago, Võ Phiến wrote about the delightful appearance of bún bò Huế in Saigon, but war has pushed refugees south. With them came their dishes. At Heathrow Airport 15 years ago, I had a bowl of beef noodles at Wagamama, the British chain, that was clearly inspired by bún bò Huế. The boat people exodus after the Fall of Saigon has introduced much of the world to phở, bánh mì, broken rice with pork chop and iced coffee with or without condensed milk, etc. I’ve had phở in Cape Town, Belgrade, Seoul, Phnom Penh and, just now, in Kathmandu. Walking into Phở Vietnam Thamel, I saw a woman who looked Vietnamese enough, so I started to speak Vietnamese, but she turned out to be Nepalese. Though my broth and beef were pretty good, my phở was still off, as expected. There was only a suggestion of raw leaves, for one, and there’s no fish sauce at the table.

Also absent were toothpicks, but to pick away at the table after a meal is a Vietnamese practice most foreigners find appalling. Musing on this, the excellent Nguyễn Vĩnh Nguyên says one reason is proof you’ve eaten. To walk around with a toothpick sticking from your mouth means you’re not starving. There’s an old joke about a man who always does this, though he hasn’t eaten for days. Finally swallowing a bunch of toothpicks to sate his hunger, he dies. Of course, Charlie Chaplin ate with a fork and knife a leather sole, with its nails sticking up, for Thanksgiving dinner.

In Phnom Penh, I had Ethiopian, Lebanese, Tex-Mex, Japanese and even chicken fried steak with fried okras, the last truly awful. The best pad thai I ever had was in Edinburgh, of all places, but the version in Ajaccio, Corsica was pretty good too. Marrying men of all races, Thai women export their excellent cuisine. One of the best restaurants in Windhoek, Namibia is Thai.

There are also hybrid dishes like the Okinawan taco rice, excellent, or curry wurst, awful, or the proliferation of spam in Hawaii, South Korea and the Philippines. In Ubon Ratchathani, I couldn’t find American fried rice. That fabled dish is gone. Through his wars and occupations, Uncle Sam is the champion at breeding weird or even bizarre offerings around the world. If you’re not blown to bits by his bombs or missiles, you can enjoy spam as a semi prestigious food. It’s imported from paradise.

Again at ATM Burger, I’ve become super popular with unwashed dogs. Two have come to sit by me, to be scratched or just feel kinship. On the way here, I walked past five or six prostitutes, all quite slim and young. My friend Jonathan is giving me shit for staying in Thamel, backpacker central, but I just got here, man. Recent upheaval that claimed over 70 lives has chased many tourists away.

Kathmandu (L): 10/16/25 ; (R): tiny eatery across alley from Hotel Pristine on 10/17/25

The best restaurant in Pakse is Italian. Its gay owner, Coredo, may have come to Laos for some loving, but he’s genuinely at home there. I remember him eating Vietnamese noodles with a BeerLao just after dawn. Phonsavan high up in the mountains also had a much praised trattoria Italiana. As Jonathan observes, “In Italy, the only way to avoid the African purse vendors and fat RyanAir peasants is to go places that the trains do not reach […] The cities with train stations are mostly lost.” With their country disfigured, Italians flee, but I, for one, don’t believe it’s too late.

Bet you didn’t know Portugal only has 11 million people, and the Netherlands, 18 million. Global powers can shrink in no time.

“Tiny” Nepal has 30 million souls, but they’re very divided. Long time resident Thomas Bell observed in 2016, “There were about 100 castes, linguistic and ethnic groups in Nepal, most with further subdivisions among them, all living together in Kathmandu and regarding one another with a mixture of tolerance, anxiety, mild bemusement, indifference, and contempt.”

At least they’re not trying to kill each other. On the taxi ride from the airport, I said to the driver, “There’s also a lot corruption in Vietnam, like everywhere, but the police there is very strong, so no protests!”

The most openly corrupt nation must be the USA. As more of his people run out of food and become homeless, Trump is enriching himself and his buddies, and building monuments to his greatness. That golden Arc de Trump will make L’Arco de Tito and L’arc de triomphe look like outhouses. Only the Arch of Triumph in Pyongyang will be greater. Why should Trump tolerate such an insult? Come on, Donald, dream biggest!

With famines ahead, even flecks of spam would be heavenly. Now, I will go get a decent breakfast.

Wagamama means self-indulgent, by the way. We’re living through its last days.

tiny eatery across alley from Hotel Pristine on 10/17/2

Hide and Seek at a Dhunge Dhara — Oct 17, 2025.

To prove my point, I pigged out at the tiny eatery across the narrow alley from Hotel Pristine. A tomato omelet, ten momos and two chais cost me just 340 rupees, or $2.43. Over two days, I’ve only seen Nepalese there. Foreigners would rather dine at the elegant Lazy Monk, just feet away, with its Chinese, Indian, Mexican and European offerings. For coffee, they can chill at Rise and Grind. Craving a micro brew, they can perch on tall stools at A Tiny Pub, not a minute away. Walking there, they won’t likely notice the iron bells and butter lamps at the base of a tree not even that impressive. Still, spirits live there. All those paper talismans with their seven headed snakes at shop doors will be seen, if at all, as decorative.

After Philly poet Gil Ott died, his wife, Julia, became convinced he was dwelling inside a tree at the back of their house. Despite all our modern distractions, ancient, universal beliefs persist.

Gil published my first poetry chapbook, Drunkard Boxing. This happened almost by accident. Housepainting near UPenn, I ran into Gil, who remembered my readings from a decade earlier. I had been a drunken star, of sort, at the Bacchanal. You know, a bush league sensation. “Let’s do a book,” Gil suggested. Shortly after it came out in 1998, I moved to Vietnam, on my first attempt to flee the USA.

For lunch, I returned to that eatery, so met two Tamang men. I had never even heard of this ethnic group which counts nearly two million people. They’re mostly Buddhists. The older man, let’s call him Buddhi, thought I was Japanese, and he had actually worked in Japan for four years, in a Toyota factory. Though he made good money, everything was so expensive, and he, like nearly everyone there, was overworked and had almost no social life.

“In the subway, no one talks. They have, ah…” He put his fingers to his ears to indicate headphones. “They work, drink, go play pachinko.”

“So stupid!”

“Yes, so stupid, the women too, they play pachinko.”

I can’t think of a more pointless way to waste money. “Japan is very nice to visit, but to live there, hmm… I was only in Tokyo, Osaka and Kawasaki.”

“Kawasaki! Kawasaki is great, for sex!”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“Girls from China, the Philippines, Vietnam, India. Kawasaki is good for sex. I went there twice.”

“Expensive?”

“Yes, $150, maybe $200 for one hour.”

“Wow!”

“For Japan girls, more. Three hundred dollars!”

“I’d ask for five minutes,” I joked. “All I need is five minutes.” Then, more seriously, “Japanese have money, but they’re not happy. They’re very lonely. Are people happier in Nepal?”

“Yes, they’re happier here.”

How do you quantify that, though? Wandering around pre dawn, I see people picking through trash for anything sellable. Some wear miner’s lights.

After my last article, rich commented, “I see there’s people still wearing masks… the virus myth has become a worldwide psyop.” It is astounding to see anyone still walking around with one. In Kathmandu, these morons number less than 5%.

Also weird is this headline in The Himalayan, “Bipin Joshi was murdered during first month of Hamas captivity, claims IDF.” After slaughtering maybe a hundred thousand civilians in Gaza, Jews are now accusing Palestinians of murdering one Chosen Schmuck? Didn’t they butcher many of their own on 10/7/23, as an excuse to surge into Gaza? Razing it, they may have killed Bipin Joshi. Israel itself is the most obscene psyop ever. Why should Nepal, a nation of mostly tribal peoples, be subjected to Jewish bullshit?

Mountainous people tend to have a more intact culture, as testified by their dress, for example. Even in Kathmandu, I can see quite a variety. With the cellphone, though, no place can be too isolated. Nepal’s recent ban on social media was a response to the spread of political dissent and subversion, as instigated and coordinated, it charged, by outsiders. I give you one guess! In 2024, it had already banned all porn sites. Of course, there are always more.

Kathmandu, 10/17/25

Like all countries, Nepal is in transition. It’s still a long way, though, from becoming like Germany, France, the UK or, God forbid, the USA. There’s still composure and reverence here. You can see it in their serene faces, so often beautiful.

Nepal has a system of stone faucets, known as dhunge dharas, that dates to the 5^th century. Seeing my first one yesterday, I was amazed by how gorgeous was this functional piece of architecture. Most charmingly, though, were three girls, with the oldest maybe seven, apparently playing hide and seek on it. Nearby were sheets hung to dry. Everything was so casual and integrated into daily life.

As I finish this at KTM Burger, that dirty black dog is dozing, as usual. An old guy in a baseball cap is singing while bowing his sarangi. Some masked idiot with his nose sticking out just walked by. A white geezer in a cowboy hat needs trekking poles to hobble down Thabahi Road. What’s his next challenge? Lunch today was excellent but too spicy. Awake since 2AM, I must go back to nap. Up Mount Everest I will climb until I reach the 5^th floor. Maybe I’ll try a Kathmandu burrito tomorrow. Chinese noodles with buffalo meat sounds good too. Filthy kids are begging. I already gave to two women today. One carried a dismal looking baby. More masked people just marched past.

Kathmandu, 10/18/25

One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest in Kathmandu — Oct 18, 2025.

Just a two minute walk from my room, already so settled, is Four Square Coffee with breakfast burritos on its menu! All over Kathmandu are businesses with “paradise” or “heaven” in their name, but I’ve reached the highest and most blissful one possible. At 6:55AM, I await my egg, cheese and bacon bundle of love, just ordered. Across the street is a Hindu god, one of 33 million, with peda and banana slices smeared against his mouth, so he must be Vishnu. A bicycle rickshaw driver is ringing his bell. That’s a sound you hear all day long here, for gods are everywhere.

Up since 1AM, I’ve wandered around plenty. At KTM Burger, there’s a flyer advertising One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, as directed by Sajag Rana. A professor of English and communication at the Kathmandu College of Management, Rana has also directed Edward Albee’s The Zoo Story, so he clearly has a very dark take on American society.

One Flew must have been one of the first TV movies I saw in the States. In Saigon, I had seen Planet of the Apes and The Poseidon Adventure. These three flicks prefigured today’s USA. In Poseidon, you have all these white people caught in a capsized ship. Frantically, they must claw their way to the bottom, just to reach sea level!

Why they bother is anyone’s guess, for there’s no guarantee they’d ever be rescued. Their odds of survival are less than one in a zillion. This excellent drama deserves the highest rating, obviously.

Kathmandu, 10/17/25

After KTM Burger, I wandered down Bhagawatisthan. Since it was Friday night, the entire area was swarming with young people, with couples clearly happier than bands of prowling males, for their chances of getting any pussy was nearly nil, this night or next week. Those who could afford it chilled in hip bars. One was called Worth It Junction. A sign on its wall, “IN CASE OF ACCIDENT, MY BLOOD TYPE IS BOBA.” If you had to look up boba, you certainly belong on the Poseidon. LOD NEPAL was advertised as “44^th BEST CLUB IN THE WORLD—2025.” Those who couldn’t afford such happening spots sat in the semi dark on sidewalks to nurse a glass of chai or a can of beer. Street vendors also sold skewered meat or innards, shabhaleps and even grilled chicken quarters.

Returning to KTM Burger to type, I sat next to a table of seven. Two of the three men were super drunk. Hanging on to each other, they wandered off. When they returned, everyone started singing, with their heads slightly bowed. It sounded hymnal. Across the street was a multi-story night club, Devils and Angels, with its thumping music. Even when young, I thought such places were hells.

My burrito turned out to be a wrap, complete with lettuce, tomato, cucumber, mayonnaise and even tiny slivers of carrot. Though serving this in San Antonio or El Paso would get your place burnt the fuck down, it was still very good. I’m happy.

Am I not an American, like you? After two disasters, my Mariners won, but I also care about Shohei Ohtani, for I’m Oriental. The greatest of all time has just hit three home runs, and he’s pitched six shut out innings! Sitting in Kathmandu, I shouldn’t fuss over baseball games, but I’m also sick, like you.

Before leaving, I chatted briefly with Vimal, the owner and cook. From him I learnt cows were wandering through Kathmandu until a decade ago, so they messed up this city also. With streets so narrow, they caused many accidents.

Learning I was Vietnamese, Vimal said he almost went to Vietnam, but a last minute complication prevented it. He did take his 84-year-old grandma to China, for she had always dreamt of seeing the Great Wall.

Kathmandu on 10/18/25 (L): 4:33AM

Indifferent to highlights, I’m delighted by tiny, goofy details. On this very street is the Hermann Hesse Studien Zentrum. It only sounds impressive. Most delightful was a young woman’s beaming face beneath a large sign advertising fast food. Catching her made my morning. She was just happy, not drunk.

Hell, though, is never far away. Curious about the street walkers here, I found this info online, “Trafficking of women and girls to India is a long-standing problem in Nepal […] It is estimated that 10,000 to 15,000 Nepali women and girls are trafficked to India each year, while 7,500 children are trafficked domestically for commercial sexual exploitation. Moreover, there are an estimated 200 000 women and girls missing in Nepal—believed to have been trafficked to India after being sold by their teachers, neighbours, or families or lured by the false promise of good, legitimate jobs.”

From Evidence to Action, I also learnt about the Badi, or Hill Dalit. For generations, these untouchables sang, danced and played musical instruments at weddings and festivals. They also performed manual labor, fished and sold their bodies. If you’re horny enough, nothing is untouchable. With electronic entertainment, these Badi can’t even sing and dance, so sex work is an increasingly unavoidable option.

At 10AM, it’s sunny and warm. Today, I will walk South. It’s almost too exciting, but I must man up and do it. Gods, demons and angels await. Wish me luck!

Kathmandu, 10/18/25

Tribal Days, Nights and Future — Oct 19, 2025.

At KTM Burger, I begin a new article at 3:35AM, so about the same time I would do so in Vung Tau. It’s cool here, though, so there are even people in jackets. On the way, I noticed a sidewalk vendor of chai, instant coffee and snacks who had a girl, no older than 3, with him. The cleaners at Hotel Pristine also show up for work with small children, but at least those don’t have to sit outside at 3 in the morning. In Vietnam, you also see similar situations. Female construction workers would take toddlers to building sites. Itinerant sellers of lottery tickets push ragged strollers around. Those who can’t even afford such carry babies.

Today at KTM Burger, there’s a new dog. These strays just wander in for refuge. No one bothers them. Girls in long dresses or even mini skirts wander by. An overly drunk one nearly swayed into an SUV. Two tastefully dressed couples just entered. One woman, in a long black dress, has tattoos on both arms. She wears matching teal scrunchies on her hair and wrist. They’re speaking English. She has that lilting accent common to Indians, so she’s definitely not a traveling American. This is already obvious by how she’s dressed, and by her striking thinness.

During China’s recent military parade, there were all these slim female soldiers marching, which led one commenter to joke, “No Western country can do this, since there aren’t enough thin women in any of them.”

Her boyfriend is Oriental. He’s too sturdy to be a typical Chinese, however. Even when short, mountainous Orientals are solid, but this one is also tallish. Now, he has his hands between his legs, so he’s shy. His girl is much more touchy-feely. Perhaps they have just met at Devils and Angels? Eating his sausage on a stick, he looks positively morose. Something is wrong with this guy. I should get the fuck up, kick this pussy off his chair and grab his lovely chick. Carrying her on my shoulder, I will run a mile back to Hotel Pristine, then up five flights to the peak of Mount Everest. Not even breathing heavily, I will bore her to death with a poem.

Yeats:

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loves the pilgrim soul in you,
And loves the sorrows of your changing face.

If I missed a word or two, don’t shoot me. That passage I memorized four decades ago. Sums up everything. Don’t ever forget you’re a pilgrim soul.

With beauty so fleeting, even a handsome stud like me is an illusion, believe it or not. Pilgrim souls my ass! I’m flexing.

Such flexing helped to trigger the deadly chaos in Nepal. Children of the elites flaunted their wealth with Instagram photos or TikTok videos of themselves wearing designer clothes, fine dining, driving cars costing more than most houses or traveling to exotic countries like the USA, Canada or Switzerland. All are whiter than the folks swarming around me.

Some drunk Brit was loudly arguing with a laughing local, which led a tiny cop to wander over. Middle aged with a pony tail, he’s a second generation hippie. Weaving away, he still seemed angry.

Kathmandu, 10/18/25

Yesterday on Swa Charpu, families were out to shop, eat or just be among their own. It’s very festive. To just mingle is pleasurable enough. On my first evening in Kukes, Albania several years ago, I was suddenly surrounded by strolling locals, with so many laughing children. That’s all you need. Today, a record number of Americans are flooding their streets, but only to protest. Who knows what will come of it. Their rogue government has only shown contempt for Joe and Jane Sixpacks.

Kukes has a London Café, Bar Britania, Bar Berlin, Bar Kaffee Munchen and, most curiously, Amerika Hotel, with its ample display of US symbols, including, of course, many Statues of Liberty. Presenting a model of his Arch de Trump, the always condescending moron told his patrons, “That’s Lady Liberty. Did you ever hear of Lady Liberty? On top? So, the sizes would be very different. And it is lengthy.” Those Albanians are better off in Kukes, Peshkopi, Shkoder, Gjirokastër or Elbasan. More enterprising Americans are trying to get out. Their elites already have second homelands. With contempt and amusement, they’re deliberating capsizing the Poseidon.

Two cars have driven by with rap booming. A woman over 50 is energetically sweeping the street. By her dress alone, her ethnicity and caste are evident, but only to locals. Getting up, that old black dog spun twice before plopping down again. He’s just waiting for the end.

As a gateway to Everest and with Kathmandu so gorgeous, you’d expect more tourists here, but Nepal ranks way below other Asian countries. Kathmandu’s airport is charmingly, almost comically, old fashioned. Upon landing, I was taken back to the 50’s.

Though globalists have promised us a transnational future, with everyone living in futuristic cities, working little and flying around in cars, I suspect increasing isolation everywhere, and doing with less, too.

When two African men showed up with Nepalese women, a local yelled out, “Where are you from?”

Hearing this way too often, and not appreciating the slightly challenging tone, one black man answered, “Nepal!”

Turning to this drunken local, the African’s girl gave him an earful. She was ready to kick his ass.

Leaving, a chubby chick just fell down. Another had her ass popping out so teasingly from beneath her mini skirt. Her boyfriend sported an American football jersey with “GYMSHARK” on his back. Carrying two thermos, for hot water and hot milk, plus a basket of cheap snacks, a middle aged tribal woman looks in wearily. No less tribal, I will go look for some tribal breakfast, whether Nepalese, Chinese or Tex-Mex. Just a football field away, they’re digging through trash.

Kathmandu, 10/19/25

Nepal’s Very First Nurse — Oct 19, 2025.

Numbering only 13,000 even today, the Teli Gangauta of Southeastern Nepal were known for pressing oil, primarily mustard. Chandala Devi Manandhar’s parents were palace musicians, however, so she became a servant there. When his Royal Highness went to India to study medicines, she accompanied him. In her free time, she read his medical books. Four years later, she returned to Kathmandu with enough knowledge to treat her neighbors, including those much lower than her in caste. She’s likely Nepal’s very first nurse!

Of like mind, her eventual husband opened the capital’s first free clinic, which I, by chance, walked by yesterday. For her selfless work over decades, she’s awarded a bunch of jangling medals. Worn over her mannish jacket, she smiles serenely. That photo is inches from my head as I sit in 4 Square.

Dreaming bigly, her offspring decided to emigrate to the Mother of All Dreams. On Long Island, her daughter and son-in-law operated two stores, with the first, quite modest, at an underground train station. Her grandson, Vimal, studied business administration at Northeastern University. After his dad died of cancer, Vimal decided, quite wisely, his mom would be much happier back in Kathmandu. Back home, she said, “Now that you’ve brought me back here, you must come back to take care of me,” so he did, after 14 years in America.

Kathmandu, 10/19/25

“You didn’t like it?” I asked him just now.

“No, there’s so much racism, and so much anger. If your eyes are too small, they don’t like you. If you’re too brown, they don’t like you. Bus drivers argued with passengers, everybody was arguing with everybody.”

“It’s only gotten worse!” We laughed. “Just two days ago, I talked to a man who spent four years in Japan. Japanese, too, are unhappy and isolated. Here, people are smiling and laughing.”

“We still have communities here, and families.”

Despite the obvious poverty and mostly bad government, Nepalese are more serene and saner than, say, all my friends and acquaintances in Philadelphia, and don’t you give me shit about that being the lowest bar.

Having experienced the USA, Vimal tries to warn others but, of course, most don’t believe him. It’s the same with me in Vietnam.

At 8:49AM, I’m the only customer at 4 Square. An eight-year-old boy in an embroidered dhaka topi and a long burgundy tunic, a kurta, is sitting at a nearby table. Propping up with a small hand his pensive, ponderous head, he stares up towards the heavens or the television. Since he showed up at the same time as Sumitra, the daytime barista, he must be her son. I swear, man, Nepalese women have the brightest and most relaxed smiles. Sumitra granted me one when, just now, I asked for “buff momos.” Craving red meat yet avoiding beef, Nepalese settle for buffalo.

Kathmandu, 10/19/25

Squeezed between two behemoths, China and India, Nepal has a hard time developing industries or even farming at scale. Too many of its people must go to Dubai, Qatar or Saudi Arabia to slave away. Without their remittances, the folks back home would be much thinner, with fewer cellphones. Remote villages are mostly populated by the old, but that’s true of Japan, Italy, Spain and France also. Even in the US, pregnant women must drive for hours to give birth by the side of the road. Rural hospitals are closing. With the cost of daycare impossible, only the richest or dumbest and most irresponsible can afford to have children. Idiocracy has many more subbasements, each darker, danker and stinkier than the last.

After too many cappuccinos, I’m buzzing, but my momos are here. They come with a sauce, achar, that’s quite complicated, with cumin, Kashmiri powder, Sichuan pepper, coriander and turmeric among the ingredients. Often, cilantro too. There must be juice when you bite into a momo.

That sprucely dressed boy is off to school. Sumitra is mopping. There are bird sounds, but recorded! Now, I must eat before my food gets cold.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

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