Monkey Business

By Adam Brownstein

Son, I’ve made a life out of readin’ people’s faces,

Knowin’ what the cards were by the way they held their eyes.

So if you don’t mind my sayin’, I can see you’re out of aces.

For a taste of your whiskey, I’ll give you some advice.

The Gambler

Due to a little bit of luck and a ton of persistence, On the Edge has become this summer’s must read for the beach cabana, the Poconos Adirondack chair and the cramped flight delay in seat .  Penned by the affably contrarian statistician, Nate Silver, it explores the quirks, charms and methodologies of modern day riverboat gamblers.  Featured in its pages are crypto titans, card sharks, politicos, software moguls and hedge fund attack hamsters.  

These people of the “River” focus on expected value (EV) and are able to dispassionately de-couple different factors in order to make smart bets on markets and high stakes tables.  They are an independently minded, swashbuckling lot, who lie in contrast to another small but influential tribe in society called The Village.  Folks in the Village like to play it safe, moving towards consensus whenever possible.  The Villagers value credentials and have not visited many fly-over states.

Yet, curiously, leaders of both the River and Village movements both possess one indefatigable trait; they know how to read the room.  Doyle Brunson, author of the poker player’s bible “Super/System” could read the room.  Rizzy Presidents and PMs can read the room.  Taylor Swift can read the room, even if the room is a mega arena with 70,000 adoring fans.  

For our annual summer vacation, I veered notably from my typically boring planning patterns because of reading the room.  Seeking a sunny beach holiday with only faint touches of jetlag, my wife, daughter and I collectively decided on Danang, Vietnam.  We had frequented Danang during our time living in Singapore, and the lure of swaying palm trees, fresh banh mi sandwiches and eye-spinning iced coffee made booking the short four-and-half hour flight from Narita a no-brainer.

The great debate came later when we moved on to lodging. I was a bit taken aback by the suggestion of a fashionable resort that my wife and daughter had fawned over on Instagram.  Being a quintessential Gen X’er, I cross referenced their so-called “research” by inspecting the property on both Google Maps and my alma-mater, Booking.com.  It seemed high falutin and fabulously overpriced, but I was operating sans effet de levier against the might of the once and future matriarchs of my brood.

“It’s so boring how you plan these things,” my daughter parried.  “Look at these absolutely amazing photos on Instagram!  Look at the VIBE, Dad!!!”

“‘Vibe’, my dear daughter, does not provide a cost-benefit analysis,” I dodged. “That is why I seek verified reviews from a broad cross section of traveling families.”

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t really hear what you just said, given it put me into a deep and restful sleep, Dad,” she quipped.  “This is why you are evolving into an irrelevant curmudgeon!”

“Touche,” I demurred.  “And for the record, I prefer the term ‘charming curmudgeon’.’”

My daughter deftly tagged out, leaving my wife to deliver the coup de grace.

“Honey,” my wife noted.  “Did you see?  They also have family villas!”

“Indeed they do,” I conferred.  “But how much time do we even spend in the room anyway?  From a cost-benefit point of view over time, the rooms I’ve selected are the better value.”

I had decided that my daughter and wife would be set up in a swanky king room with ocean vistas and a soaking tub.  The boys and I, known affectionately as the “vilde chaya faction” of our family, would take comfort in a ground level single room with a splendid view of local Macaque monkeys throwing poo and one and other. 

“I can see why our daughter finds your logic to be a mild form of sedative, honey,” my wife arraigned.  “These core family holidays are few and far between.  Our babies are growing up fast, and soon they’ll be out in the world. Sooooo, just think about what it would mean to all be together and to upgrade . . . just . . . a . . . bit.”

That night, sleep did not come easily.  My wife had discharged a cannonball of Jewish guilt across my psychic bow, and it preyed upon me. After a fitful hour, I had a small and comforting epiphany.  What if I could employ the gambler’s craft of decoupling my frugal instinct from the potential benefit of delighting my wife?  The downside of picking the tried-and-true average resort was well known. But the UPSIDE of a villa at a swanky place-of-the-moment?  Well that was worth a look!

My wife had offered an important tell.  She had spoken with nostalgic bliss about one family holiday during her childhood that involved some kind of kingpin’s suite in Bali.  Though the trip was ages ago, she still smiled about it to this day.  A surprise upgrade had, I reckoned, a high probability of “extreme happiness” upside with my wife.  

And then there were the kids!  Our teenage daughter would be moody two days out of five wherever we stayed, but the upside EV on the other three days would also be high. The optimism was now tilting me just a bit.I rationalized only a 10% probability that our five-year-old son would be a fussy, hot mess (downside), and our easy going 11-year-old son would be a push.  So the total probability of amazing success EV was looking pretty fantastic.  

The next morning I rose with an air of confidence, having read the room of my family.  I went for my satisfyingly slow jog, labored through my AMRAP series (ouch!), brewed a pot of coffee and loaded up the villa in the reservation engine. 

“Two tears in a bucket, mother fuck it!!!!” I quipped, quoting my wise friend, Pete. 

I then hit the bit on the upside bet, beginning the anticipation to see if it would pay off.

Travel day came, and it got off to a shaky start.  Sleep deprived by our early flight to Danang, we touched down a bit grumpy.  But then the chips began to come in, starting with the ride to the resort.  Immediately after our exit out of customs, a smiling member of the resort staff greeted us warmly, insisting to take all of our bags.  I had requested a modest sedan to take us to the hotel, but we boarded instead a party van better suited to carry BTS then the schleppy Kimoto-Brownstein brood. 

“Dad!  These chairs have a MASSAGE feature!” our eldest son chortled.  “It’s massaging my butt right now! My butt is wiggling, dad!!! This is amazing!”

The kind party bus driver afforded us chilled water and cold face towels scented with lemongrass.  Riding in style, my family issued compliments about my planning ability, generosity and overall quality as a human.  The game was running in my favor, and the momentum compounded when we arrived at the property. 

We were ushered into a room which I later learned was a “reception salon”.  It was as ornate and somehow cheeky, too.  I expect it was the the first and last time I will ever step foot in one.  I took comfort at the rare sight of all three of my children getting along with each other as plates of macaroons and exotic fruits were set down before them.  They even shared!  Glancing at my wife I observed a curious new feature on her mug . . . a radiant and genuine smile. 

We were led out of the salon (yes, I had to reference that word again!) by an affable block with close cropped hair, Elvis Costello spectacles and a designer resort outfit.  He went by the name “Mochii”.  It was, we would come to learn later, an affectation from his deep passion for manga in his youth. Mochii was, wait for it, our family butler for the balance of our stay.  My eldest son quickly admonished Mochii with the title of MVB for “Most Valuable Butler”.  I found this curious, given we lacked any basis for comparison.

The next five days in Fantasy Island afforded us a litany of episodes both comic and sentimental.  These included a competitive round of Jewish Resort Pentathlon with my son consisting of tennis, snorkeling, several rounds of low stakes poker, beach matkot and napping. Further, we celebrated our family’s inaugural mother-daughter spa therapy held in an ornate palapa by the sea.  I was later informed that the whole session was ironically stress inducing due to a coughing episode by my daughter. Each morning we indulged in pastries complimented by Vietnamese iced coffee.  Each evening, we drifted off to sleep ensconced in the memories of snorkling, giggling and wolfing down bahn mi sandwiches.

Not all of our experiences were so cheerful.  One morning while my sons and I were lounging by the pool a curious Macaque monkey came to bid us good morrow.  We rejoined by saying hello to our new and simian friend, who immediately read a tell of us as any easy target.  The monkey, whom we shall refer to henceforth as Mordechai, began to stalk us in a mildly aggressive fashion, at one point trying to escape into the jungle with my Tumi backpack.  I immediately imagined the scene on the jetbridge for Singapore Air Flight 613 from Danang to Changi with Mordechai the Monkey impersonating a mid-level B2B executive.  Afterall, I had, in typical idiodic fashion, left my passport and particulars in the backpack.

The scene escalated rather quickly with Mordechai and me engaging in a spirited round of tug-of-war for the rucksack.  In the end I got the better of the monkey, seizing hold of the bag.  Bwahaha!  Unfortunately, Mordechai had the last laugh.  He had used the whole backpack thing as a bait-and-switch to divert my dimwitted attention away from the open door to our villa.  With me distracted, Mordechai sprang into the foyer of the villa, seizing a particularly succulent mango from the coffee table.  In an act of tempered tikun olam, Mordechai elected to savor the good fruit on the veranda by the pool rather than taking up residence with us inside.  

A few days later, we waited to board the bus that Usher had loaned temporarily to the resort for the ride to the airport. As a small army of porters loaded our grips unto the sprinter one of the more charming maitres d’hotel offered words both humbling and inspiring. I had confessed to her how sad my wife, children and I were to be leaving Vietnam.

“No time for tears, sir!” she exclaimed. “Now you can go back to work so you can earn enough money to take your family back here again later this year!”

As the redeye flight back to Narita lifted off, I dozed into a dream state with Mordechai, Mochii and the maitres d’hotel bidding me bon voyage.