Baby Get Squeezed - by Tre

In many of my previous blog posts I have attempted to create a comprehensive history or scientific outline through hours of research and writing. But, as one can imagine, that is extremely tiring, and I feel that we have strayed from our initial idea of a "travel blog." So I have decided to follow the wise words of the one Rachel Barber, and just write about some of our funny stories.

Ignore the fact that my parents have told me to do this same thing countless times—it didn't sound as smart coming from them.

So I'm going to go all the way back to Vietnam. There, surrounded by people the same height as Quill, she and I were both "baby." And they sure loved their babies! 

Everywhere we went, people would cross the street to ask if they could get their picture taken with Quill. All the little old ladies just wanted to cuddle her and pinch her cheeks. They absolutely loved her—the cutest possible girl in the eyes of the Vietnamese, with her pale skin, blond hair, and strong arms. Quill was very patient with it, much more than I would've expected. Perhaps it was that they also went out of their way to make her as comfortable as possible, offering up their seats on the trains, carrying her bags for her, and giving her sweets.

As for me...they weren't really sure what to think of me. They could tell I was a child (unless they go around calling adults baby, too), but I was also offered rice wine and beer everywhere we went. But don't worry, I was still "baby," despite being at least six inches taller than the majority of them.

We were first confronted with "baby" when we flew to Vietnam. I had just lost my phone so we were all grumpy already, and by the time we reached the front of the ridiculously long immigration line we just wanted to go to our hotel and collapse on some hard asian beds. The border officer motioned for us to approach so we did, but then he scowled and started shooing us away, flicking two fingers at us and glowering.

Utterly confused, we retreated to the front of the line, looking around to see if we were doing something wrong. The grumpy border officer started jabbering in Vietnamese to his coworkers and talking on his radio, all the while never taking his eyes off us. We were still intimidated by the idea of entering a communist country, so all this was near terrifying. Eventually a border agent with better English came over and pointed at the immigration booth, telling my father in a voice so serious and gruff that I nearly shrank back: "You and one baby."

We were perplexed, but eventually figured out that by "baby" he was referring to Quill and I. Mom had already made it through another immigration booth so Dad took Quill through, leaving me on my own. Luckily, it all went fine and from then on we found the other Vietnamese to be much more friendly than their immigration officers. 

Throughout our whole time in Vietnam Quill was squeezed, pinched, and was all in all the most popular member of the traveling Petersons. "Big Baby" as I was known as, was also quite appreciated. Waitresses would often stand behind me and pet my hair as we ordered. 

The Vietnamese street hawkers also took a liking to "baby." Wherever we went people would sneak up behind Quill and place traditional hats on her head (I don't think they could reach mine). Men walking through the streets would offer us tourist posters, saying "buy some art?" When we turned them down they would hold the posters out to Quill and ask "art for baby?" Little old ladies selling sesame donut holes out of converted baby strollers would always through in a few extra for "baby," under the condition that they could get their pictures taken with her. 

On a semi-related note, we had our most brutally honest thing said to us by another street hawker on the hot, muggy streets of Hoi An. We were all grumpy, tired, and soaked with sweat when a street hawker selling water yelled at us from across the street "Water, hot family?"

As we continued on through our travels "baby" has followed us, although it has never been quite as ubiquitous as it was in Vietnam. In Sri Lanka, both "big baby" and "little baby" were given free massages (the Ayurvedic oils gave my mom an acid burn). In Montenegro, where we are now, cheesemongers love to offer "cheese sample for baby?" On my part, I haven't been offered any rice wine since Vietnam. Perhaps it's just a Vietnamese thing.

I'm ashamed to say that I'm a bit excited to be back in a place where waitresses don't randomly pet my hair, but Quillian often says that she'll miss being "baby" when we're back in the U.S. I bet that if, upon our glorious return home, you greet her as baby you'll get a huge smile out of her.