Hanoi: the Great Salad Bowl

I've heard the US likened not to a melting pot but a salad bowl, the idea being that different cultures are all tossed together, but they never really mix. That's great for cultural identity, but not so great for cultural exchange. The same could be said about Hanoi. The expats sit around together and talk about how hard it is to meet Vietnamese.

It's not surprising. Culture, and especially language, are powerful unifying forces. Even at our housewarming party (attended predominantly by expats), the Italians stood at one end, the Vietnamese at another, and the rest of us squeezed in the middle chattering in English. While I've been here, I've met New Zealanders, Aussies, Italians, Germans, Irish, Scotsmen, Englishmen, Canadians, one or two other Americans ... and no Vietnamese.

I mean, I've spoken with the locals, but I haven't been befriended by one. The closest I've come is the 15 year old boy who works at the pho place I like. He jokes around with me and likes to exercise his high-school English. In rapid fire, I got "What's your name?", "Where are you from?", "How old are you?" When I asked him if he was studying English in school, he giggled and ran off.

Another time, he pointed at me, tapped the top of his head, and flexed his bicep, which I took to mean, "You American. Big. Strong." (Either that or, "You American. Bald. Think you're hot stuff.") Until this exchange, I didn't have a clue what kind of an impression I made. Looking around, I realized I was the only foreigner in the place.

Seasoned expats here have casually told me that I'll never be more than a foreigner to the local Vietnamese, even if I spoke the language. Getting an invitation to dinner from a Vietnamese person is a Big Deal, and when it happens, it's likely so you can be shown off as your host's "foreigner friend". Ugh. I don't know what I was expecting, but that's not it.

Hanoi Rock City

Some friends and I stopped by a new club, "Hanoi Rock City", for some live music, cheap beer, and some steamy, hot bonfire action. The dim light was a bit much for my little camera. These are some of the least blurry pictures. Note the absence of Vietnamese faces.



Hippie drum circles and expats go together like flies and you-know-what.



Play that funky music, white boy.

Cute girls! Don't get thrown by the Asian one---she's from Montreal, as is her friend. As hard as it is being a Westerner in Vietnam, it's apparently harder if you're a Westerner of Asian descent, because the locals expect more of you.

There actually were Vietnamese people at Hanoi Rock City, and the owners are young Vietnamese who traveled extensively in Europe and decided Hanoi needs music venues. They're trying to bring everyone together through music (and alcohol). It might just work.

Why I Like CouchSurfing.org

You probably could have guessed that I wouldn't be a homeless homebody for too long. The good folks at CouchSurfing wouldn't let me.

Yesterday, I got a random CS message from a Kiwi girl trying to get folks together for drinks in Hanoi. Still in hermit mode, my lame response was that I was going to check out a bar in Ho Tay called Le Pub and that she was free to meet me there. That, I felt, pretty much guaranteed that I would be left alone to read. Not so. Her response was immediate: "I'm in Le Pub right now!" Really?!

Sure enough, there she was surrounded by a klatsch of couchsurfers drinking and trading travel stories and tips. I couldn't get away from these people if I wanted to! And I don't. They dragged me out of my funk and made me excited about traveling again. Oh yeah, I love this.

Note to self: travel is a passion, and passion is meant for sharing.

Homeless Homebody

I'm alone in my room in Hanoi. Out there is new stuff, real stuff, exciting stuff to explore and experience. But sometimes I get a bit overwhelmed by all the newness and realness. It can be exhausting.

When I lived in Seattle, there were so few sunny days that there was pressure to make the most of the few that you got. "What did you do with the sunny day?" we'd all ask each other, as if reading a book or watching a movie on a sunny day were some sort of misdemeanor.

As a nomad, I sometimes feel pressure to make the most of my time in a new place. Bars! Restaurants! Parties! Museums! Culture! And always an endless stream of new faces. Um, 'scuse me while I crawl into my hole and read my book.

Don't get me wrong. I consider myself very, very fortunate to be able to have new and exciting experiences. But they can't be as comforting as the old, familiar ones. And there's nothing wrong with that, but it's easy to forget.

Some people tell me they're jealous of my trip. I definitely want it to live up to everybody's expectations, my own included. But "to thine own self be true." And the truth is, as a nomad, sometimes I crave a little piece of home.

Now if only I knew where home was...

Hanoi in Pictures

Today, I hitched a ride on the back of a scooter to the city center -- the Old Quarter around Hoan Kiem Lake -- and took my camera. The lake was lovely, as was the Ngoc Son Temple in the middle and the lake-side cafe where I drank Vietnamese coffee and read my book, but like usual I found the people and the street life more interesting.



I had no idea Vietnam was so big!



Old women. Rice paddy hats. Overloaded bicycles. Asian kitsch. (How much is the doggy in the ... mat? ... blanket? ... tatami? WTF?)



Snails, anyone? Eeew.



Get. In. My. Belly.

Hanoi: Seconds

Pictures! Here is my alley. It doesn't even show up on maps. Can you see why my poor taxi driver got his car stuck here?



And here is my first bowl of real Vietnamese pho.



That bowl left me unsatisfied, so today I tried a different place. Like that first one, this was a mom-and-pop-lean-to-with-a-corrugated-tin-roof-and-plastic-lawn-furniture kinda place. I ducked in (literally -- low ceiling). A boy said "pho bo". I said "pho ga" ("Beef soup?" "No, chicken soup.") and took a seat. The lawn furniture in this place was made for 6 year olds. When I sat on the chair, my knees were so high I couldn't get them under the table. Can you picture it? Hilarious. But the pho! Died and gone to heaven. I was thorougly pho-filled. Ha! I slay me.

Last night my old friend Tamara from Seattle picked me up on her scooter and we plunged into the chaos that is Hanoi's street traffic. (Yes mom, I wore a helmet.) It seemed less life-threatening this time. I credit Tamara's skills (and sanity). We drove downtown to Tamara's favorite Vietnamese restaurant and met up with a couple of her friends. The catfish spring rolls were every bit as good as Tamara promised.

Some locals seated next to us wanted to know where we were from and what we were doing in Hanoi. I told them about my trip and about New York. They told us about growing up in Hanoi and in Saigon (not Ho Chi Minh City, huh). A pitcher of dubious-looking yellow fluid arrived at our table. Our neighbors smiled and raised their glasses -- a gift! The drink was cool and refreshing, made from sweet corn. Really, a very pleasant dinner. Afterwards, Tamara drove me back and we talked a bit about life in Hanoi. "Either you'll hate it or you'll never leave," she told me. "It's addictive." I don't hate it. Should I be worried?

I wandered around some today taking in the scene and mulling over what I've experienced so far. Mostly, I walked in the street because either there are no sidewalks or else they're occupied by people selling fruit or sitting on lawn chairs eating and drinking. I never felt threatened by the traffic whizzing around me. There's a natural flow, and I was part of it. I thought about that flow. There is no road rage here. People just toot their horns and go around obstacles. I thought about the locals I had met the night before. Friendly and open without a hint of animosity toward their former enemy, the Americans. Maybe the war was just another obstacle for them to go around. No rage. Just go with the flow.

And I thought about the contradictions these people live with effortlessly: the traditional and the modern, the clean and the dirty, the rich and the poor. Nobody notices or cares. Even the patchwork construction and the crazy power lines going everywhere ... it all seems very organic. Just going with the flow and not worrying about it. I could get used to it.

Hanoi: First Impressions

I'm taking my first sips of an Americano in a very Western coffee shop called "Highlands Coffee" on Xuan Dieu in Hanoi. I have a backlog of work, but I MUST get my first impressions of Hanoi down before they're lost forever.

It's overcast here. In part, it's the weather. It's also haze from moto exhaust and the countless roadside fires smoldering here and there for no apparent reason. The scooters are innumerable and jockey for position on Xuan Dieu alongside taxis, bicycles and carts peddled by old women wearing those rice paddy hats you see in movies. People avoid breathing in the haze by wearing scarves and face masks, but then take them off to breathe in cigarette smoke.

I rode a taxi from the airport last night. After haggling with the driver halfheartedly, we took off like a shot. This driver would give Italians pause. He leaned on his horn and flashed his high beams the whole way, laughing and talking and thumping his steering wheel in time to the American dance music pounding out of his speakers, weaving around trucks and scooters and even driving head-long into oncoming traffic at times. It was like having Jason Bourne for a cabbie. I discreetly reach for the seat belt. By the time we made it to my new neighborhood, I was ready to have a coronary. Then he slowed and got serious, studying the address I gave him and the street signs we passed. When he found my alley, he whooped and pointed and pounded my arm like we were old buddies. He then made a terrible mistake, misjudging the width of the alley and of his car, getting it stuck, scraping both doors and mangling his bumper. The poor guy was bereft. I gave him some extra money for his troubles, and shook hands with my new roommate, Luca, who was waiting for me at the door. I collapsed on my bed and -- after the adrenaline from the cab ride wore off -- fell into a deep sleep.

The coffee shop I'm sitting in is in a big new mall that wouldn't look out of place in the US. Christmas music blares from the speakers. Right next door is the "restaurant" where I had breakfast: my first real bowl of pho. I say "restaurant" because I almost didn't recognize it as such. It was really just a sort of lean-to built out of this and that with a corrugated tin roof and a sign out front that chirps "Cafe 29". Traffic whizzes by just outside. Under this flimsy shelter, a girl takes orders, a boy assembles the soup, and an old woman runs it out to patrons sitting on plastic lawn furniture. Looks like a family affair. I smile contentedly to myself as I drink in the scene and a cup of green tea -- finally, a new adventure! The soup arrives. It's much like the pho ga that I've known and loved in Seattle, except the chicken skin is left on, making it chewy and unpleasant. My search for a really good bowl of pho has only just begun.

Many Hanoians are dressed impeccably. Hair like in a Japanese anime cartoon. Fashionable designer jeans and flat, pointy, expensive-looking shoes, the kind you might find in a European boutique. And yet the streets are lined with garbage. The most picturesque ponds are sullied with rotting bicycle tires other detritus. I can only imagine what it would smell like in the heat and humidity typical of Hanoi's summers. Nobody seems to notice or care. It's hard to fathom.

Everything is under construction. Buildings being thrown up seemingly at random. The alleys are a maze around patchwork structures of all description. Bundles of low-strung power lines run every which way. Getting lost here is a given. I must keep my wits about me because my smart phone can't get me out of trouble here.

I got my first taste of Communism last night when I tried to log onto Facebook and found it was blocked by the government. I asked Sara, another new housemate. An Italian architect, she laughed about the government's halfhearted censorship, likening it to her own Italian government's lax law enforcement, in contrast with, say, China's. Sure enough, with a little poking, I too was able to find the holes in their firewall. LOL.

That's it for now. Stay tuned... pictures to come.

"Papers, Please"

It's not enough to just show up in a country and expect to be let in. As an American who has traveled throughout Europe and the English-speaking world, it's easy to forget that fact. Vietnam is the first country I'm traveling to that actually requires a paper tourist visa. And let's not forget, they're still a Communist state. They like to keep a tab on their peeps.

I read the website of the Vietnamese Embassy to see what was available. It was a mess ... out of date and often contradictory information. The information I got on various traveler websites and message boards was equally confused. So I called the Vietnamese Embassy in the UN (open between 1200 and 1205 every third Thursday, or something) and and got the answer I was looking for: yes, a 3-month multi-entry tourist visa was available.

Paperwork completed, I mailed it off with my passport, a cashiers check and a return envelope to the Embassy in NYC and held my breath. And voila!



I am now authorized to enter Vietnam! Purty, ain't it? I couldn't be more pleased with myself.

Travel Immunizations

It's been a long time since my last update. Mostly that's because I haven't had anything exciting to report. Just bouncing around the US: New York, Fire Island, Seattle, New York, Baltimore, Charlotte, Charlottesville, New York, Syracuse, New York ... boring domestic travel. <yawn>

That's all about to change. In 3 days I board a plane bound for Hanoi, Vietnam! This will, without a doubt, be the most adventurous of my travels to date. It's taken a bit more research, and I'm that much closer to being the savvy global traveler of my dreams.

Stay Healthy!

I've often read on travel websites about the infamous "yellow card" that travelers pack along with their passport. It lists which immunizations you've received and when. You get stamps, just like with a passport. Some countries won't let you in without the right stamps in your yellow card. But I didn't have one.




So I got myself to the Seattle Public Health Travel Clinic. I told them my itinerary, and they told me everything that could kill or maim me in each of those places. A lot, it turns out. They printed it all out for me. They also shot me full serum. Both arms. Hurt like heck. But now I'm just that much fitter to travel.

I'm not quite ready yet, but I can at least cross that one off my list.