Bring In Da Ha-Noise

“You just need to take a leap of faith,” Brad said, coaching me on how to cross the street in Hanoi.

We had heard before coming to Vietnam that crossing the street would be one of the more memorable parts of the trip, and it couldn’t have turned out to be more true. Despite the presence of - or lack of – a crosswalk, the only real way to get from one side of the street to the other was to simply step into traffic, like stepping into a rushing river, and trust that the universe would provide for you.

Hanoi is not a very loud city, but it does keep a steady pulse. Standing on the corner while waiting to – or trying to – cross the street, you could close your eyes and hear the soundtrack of the city in surround: distant honking, beeping, the Doppler whirr of a rusty moped passing. Even the prickly rain hummed.

We found ourselves several times standing on the same corner, directly beneath Ben Reich’s brother-in-law’s café on gallery row, just down the street from the Opera House and around the corner from the painfully posh Metropole hotel. On one such occasion, we witnessed a collision between two mopeds. It’s surprising we didn’t see more in all our time in Vietnam, considering the density and intensity of the traffic. But in fact, we only saw this one accident. The two parties engaged in a silent argument, which escalated to one of the drivers kicking the other in the stomach. Neither one of them said a word. When the kicking was finished, each driver picked up their motorbike, mounted and drove on.

The day before, at the café overlooking that same corner, we sipped fresh fruit juice and watched the ambulance try to negotiate with an unmovable current of cars and bikes (as Amanda already mentioned). Ben, Brad and I talked about the nature of work. Brad – who spent much of the trip ruminating about Kafka On The Shore, the first book he downloaded onto his new Kindle - was clearly affected by Murakami’s inventive surreal tone. He said, “I’d love to write, and I think I’m a good writer, but if I couldn’t be as original as Murakami, I wouldn’t want to do it.”

Ben replied, “You just have to take a leap of faith”.

There you have it, I thought. Crossing the street and finding your creative voice are the same. You just have to do it.

Ben Reich, a New Yorker raised on the upper west side, attended Saint Ann’s in Brooklyn and then the University of Wisconsin, where his freshman roommate was a classmate of Amanda’s at Fox Valley Lutheran High School in Appleton. He came to Hanoi for the first time in college and fell in love with the place, and with a beautiful girl named Thao who worked in a record store.

She told me, “He came in to the store all the time but never bought anything. That’s how I knew he liked me.” After college Ben returned to Hanoi and he’s been there ever since.

Visiting a new city, especially one as exotic as Hanoi, improves considerably when you have a native to guide you. It improves completely when you have someone as connected to the place as Ben, but who also totally understands where you are coming from. Eating in a restaurant, taking a cab, or even crossing the street – everything changes when you have a guy on the inside.

The Hom market:

On New Year’s Eve, we met Ben, Thao and Hosea at their fantastic house. The cab ride from the hotel took over an hour, most of which was spent in motionless gridlock.

Eventually we turned off a regular road, down an alley, and then down another alley. Ben was waiting for us in a dark corner of the labyrinth. He led us even further into his hidden village, which we would have never even known about without him. As it turns out, much of Hanoi is hidden in plain sight – little towns and neighborhoods bustling behind the main streets, down tiny lanes barely big enough for a bicycle to pass through.

We celebrated Stephanie’s birthday with cake and a rendition of Biz Markie's “Just A Friend" by Hosea.

When we eventually ventured back out into the night, finding a cab was a challenge (after all it was New Year’s Eve). Finding two was impossible. The girls went ahead in one cab, and Ben, Brad and I tried hopelessly to flag another. Eventually we started to walk in the direction of the restaurant, which Ben said was about 4 kilometers away. But, as they say, in Vietnam the kilometers are longer.

Anyway, we got about a block and a half in 15 minutes, and found an old lady who seemed to be acting as a de facto dispatcher for makeshift and impromptu taxis. Ben said something to her in Vietnamese and she disappeared into the shadows, returning a moment later with a man in his 40s, a young girl of about seven, and an older man who looked to be in his 70s.

The next thing we knew, we were all piling into the man’s car: the man, his daughter, his father, his wife, Ben, Brad and me. They drove us to the restaurant out of the kindness of their hearts. Ben gave us a running play-by-play of the conversation. The man worked for the State on water purification issues. They were on their way to a party. The wife had her own business. She handed us her card. Her company was called Phuc Dat.

These people didn’t have any reason to take us. They didn’t know us, and I suspected that our restaurant was not on the way to their party. They did it out of kindness, “an auspicious start to 2010,” Ben said. I saw it more as a kind of leap of faith.

Appropriately, we counted down to midnight sitting in a cab in traffic.

Hanoi, Hanoi

After an incredibly peaceful, computer and television free two days at Ki Em, we said goodbye to the staff and all the dogs, had our final watermelon juice and piled into the van for the two hour trip back to the airport. We arrived for our 6:50 flight at 5:20, only to realize the flight was at 5:50. Thankfully, the airport only has 6 gates, so we boarded with time to spare and before we knew it, we were in Hanoi. Brad and Steph's great connections hooked us up with a friends and family rate at the gorgeous Intercontinental Hotel on the lake, a sprawling campus of pavilions reaching out into the water, when you look out the window, it almost feels like you're floating. A quick change of clothes (the weather went from 75 and sunny to 60 and misty) and we reconvened in the lobby to meet Brad's friend Ben, a UW-alum New Yorker who's been living in Vietnam for 12 years and has been a wealth of information for us. He took us to a great dinner at Highway 4 that started with spring rolls filled with fried fish, dill and wasabi - amazing, and followed by sticky rice with beef and clams loaded with basil. To drink, a rice wine flavored with Chinese herbs, known for enhancing certain aspects of human nature, i.e. virility, and tasting mostly like flavored cough syrup - and there were LOTS of flavors:

Upon returning to the hotel, some of us went to bed and some of us went out drinking and hookah smoking. I'll let you guess which ones. In the morning, we went out in search of more good food and some adventure. Hanoi is much easier to navigate than Saigon, so much to see, and much nicer sidewalks (in most places) and a few less mopeds blocking your way (in some places).

Breakfast was at a fantastic outdoor restaurant with tables in the middle and stands encircling them, you could walk around and point at what you wanted or sit and choose from the menu. There was nothing that wasn't available. We had pho, shrimp pancakes, crab spring rolls and noodles with shrimp.

The locals are fascinating, we encountered these two smoking a pipe on the corner, and not wanting us to feel unwelcome, they held it out for us to sample. We graciously passed.

Beautiful little streets and alleys, all bustling with activity. On every corner, and down every alley, there are men and women cooking and eating: soups, greens, fruits, ducks with eyes and tongues a-bulging, hot dogs, fried dough, fried bananas, things that look amazing, and many that don't.

All day, people are burning piles of fake money on the sidewalk. Brad says it's to offer prosperity to their ancestors, but he also says it realeases carbon poisoning into the air. It definitely emits a constant odor of burning hair.

Countless art galleries taught us about the Vietnamese technique of lacquering, and when we'd seen all we needed to see, we met up with Ben and his adorable son Josiah for a break. We sat on the terrace of his brother-in-law's cafe overlooking the streets. The traffic in Hanoi is reminiscent of Saigon, and from our perch we saw an ambulance attempting to traverse the street for much longer than it should have been. Remind us not to get sick.

Leo and I have been in search of the perfect Bahn Mi, a Vietnamese sandwich with French influence we've grown to love in Brooklyn. At breakfast, the one that appeared was a variation on steak frites, with a slab of what they referred to as filet mignon (my teeth begged to differ) sizzling in a hot plate of boiling oil. The waitress showed us how to cut it, put it in a baguette along with the french fries that were covering it, a slice of tomato and a slice of cucumber, and drizzle it with the oil. Good, not what we had in mind. Ben took us to Church Street, to try the pate version, which is more familiar to us.

This might be the first instance we've encountered where the original authentic version doesn't quite live up to what we're used to.

After lunch, a little shopping. Leo added to his exotic instrument collection...

A quick rest at the hotel and back out to dinner. A fantastic recommendation from Ben, Quan Nem had three things on the menu, and they were out of one. It didn't matter, because the crab spring rolls were the thing to have. We were told there were four in an order, we were not told that each was the size of your forearm. Insanely delicious.

A late night mojito with Ben, and we were exhausted. We thought a relatively early night was in order since tomorrow is New Year's Eve, and only the shadow (and Ben) knows what's in store for us then.... Can't wait to find out.

xoxo

Trixie

Letting Saigons be Saigons

The cab from our hotel in Saigon to the Chinatown market stayed on the main streets. Stephanie said, “You see the same stores over and over: cell phones, shoes, motorbikes and wedding dresses.” You could say that this is the good news, signs of economic development and modernization; everything you need for contemporary life.

The cab back to the hotel took the side streets. Brad said “I feel like a GI during the war. These streets are fucking interesting, and each one is different.” You could also say that this is the good news, that the tracts of modern life are still mostly cosmetic. Turn off of the main road, and you can still easily find the old Saigon neighborhoods.

It’s hard not to think of the war here. On the rooftop bar of the Rex Hotel, where Santa and his reindeer flanked the Elephant statue, and where mistletoe hung from bamboo ceiling fans, I wondered if this had been a hangout for foreign correspondents in the sixties. Did this very same lounge singer do this very same act in 1968? Guantanamera, The Lady Is A Tramp, It’s Not Unusual…it all would have worked perfectly.

Vietnam helped to define and galvanize a generation. In college I even complained that our generation didn’t have a Vietnam to give us cultural cover. What was it we stood for exactly? What issue would bring us together, to hold hands, to sing, to sit in, to march…?

For all the talk of the draft and what it did to the children of the sixties, I don’t think I ever gave The War itself much thought. I certainly never gave much thought to what it might have done to the people of Vietnam. My father did everything he could to stay out of Vietnam; Amanda’s father came here as a soldier. Fast forward thirty-some years: we paid top dollar to vacation here.

Our plane landed in Na Trang after sundown. The driver from our hotel was waiting at baggage claim with a sign that read “Mr. Stephanie”. We loaded our luggage into his Mercedes Benz van and started off into the night, not knowing how far or how long the journey would be, and without any real way of communicating with him.

The general level of English in Vietnam is still quite low. Everyone clearly understands the value (or worth) of a dollar, but the most basic conversation (What time? Where? How much?) can lead to misunderstandings.

We reached what I’ll call the Na Trang Strip after about an hour on a modern four-lane highway. The lights of the strip flickered the distance, like elaborate Christmas lights on a suburban front lawn. In fact, Saint Nick and his entourage were ready for us, winking at each hotel entrance and restaurant parking lot.

I crossed my fingers that our hotel would not be one of these new neon covered, engorged maxi structures. Eventually, the Strip receded into the distance behind us, and our four-lane highway turned into a two-lane road that sliced through rice paddies on either side of us. That road eventually gave way to a single lane country road, and finally to a dirt road that traced high sand dunes.

We passed young couples on mopeds, and even more mopeds with nobody claiming them – a sure sign that the beach must be near. Finally we reached our little glowing resort. Nine private bungalows tucked behind a high brick wall, between the road and the shore.

The service and overall vibe of the place was extremely serene and restrained, but somehow it makes me feel like a glutton for wanting a second cup of coffee at breakfast. The kitchen staff had stayed late especially for us, and we were quickly ushered to a long wooden table for a late dinner. Our server, a Frenchman with an almost cliché air of Parisian aloofness mixed with the holier-than-thou half smirk of a wannabe Yogi, reminded me of something out of a Ben Stiller movie.

Amanda and I awoke before dawn and watched the sunrise from our balcony. It was spectacular. I hadn’t seen a sunrise like that in years. I said the only thing that would have been better was if we’d stayed up all night to see it – to really earn it. Amanda said “I’d much rather wake up before dawn than stay up all night for the sunrise.”

On our way down to the beach, we met Linda from Manhattan. In her early 60’s with frizzy gray hair and the confident smile of a mother who successfully raised overachievers, Linda strikes me as someone who spent plenty of time singing “We Shall Overcome” in her day. She told us one of her daughters was priced out of Park Slope and eventually relocated to Utah, and her other daughter – here with her at the hotel- was just out of med school and headed to an Indian reservation in Arizona to volunteer. “I raised do-gooders.” (She also talked about her efforts to curb development on Fire Island, where she has been summering for 30 years.)

Linda warned us that the beach was “pretty gross” with washed up trash. Boy was she was right. The beach was filthy, and not in a way you’d expect. Sure, the odd flip flop or bottle of suntan lotion is to be expected, but this was on another level. For starters, the beach is almost completely virgin – there are two small hotels and one private home in the little bay, and that’s it. So it’s not as if there are many people using the it, other than the young lovers on mopeds we saw driving in the night before and the hotel guests.

Okay so fine, maybe one bra or pair of underwear from the kids. Or maybe a high heeled shoe. But not piles of them. Not jeans and shirts and belts and bags and bras and bras and bras. And human waste. Did I mention that? Human waste!

Brad tried to make light of it by saying, “the amazing thing is that each of these items has a story attached to it”.

Amanda saw it in a slightly different way: “I just hope none of the stories involves a dead body.”

We drove back to the airport in daylight, and realized how beautiful the landscape in Na Trang really is.

Next stop Hanoi.

Here today, Saigon tomorrow

"Vietnam used to be a poor country but today we are a developing country" explained Dong, our tour guide, this morning on the bus ride to the Cu Chi tunnels. I think he summed it up perfectly.

As Americans visiting Southeast Asia for the first time, I think we're pulled between the demons of our own country's past here and our present love of the culture and food from this region that reaches us in New York. Amanda's first job in Brooklyn was as a waitress at Mekong, an excellent Vietnamese restaurant, and I spent every Sunday night sitting at the bar, munching on rice noodles with spring rolls, waiting for her shift to finish. So to come all the way here for the real thing is a real treat. I don't know why I wasn't expecting to have to deal with the rest of if it as well - the relatively recent history of the war, the transition from poverty to commerce, agricultural to industrial, and the generally mixed looks we seem to get from people on the street.

"In Saigon, we have no metro - no subway," Dong told us. He continued, "for us, the motorbike is important. If you have bike, you have everything. Girlfriend, job, life. Without bike, you have nothing."

No kidding:

We arrived on Christmas day, which merely punctuated sentence being served: this is a country in transition. Although Saigon does have a Catholic district (and its own Notre Dame Cathedral), one gets the feeling that Christmas is a relatively new mainstream phenomenon here. As my dad always said, the way to conquer a nation is to drop televisions on them, and it seems that's ultimately what happened here.

Stephanie arranged most of our (thus far) excellent itinerary, and somehow found the An An hotel. I say "somehow found" because it's definitely not the kind of place that jumps off the map. Situated on a bustling side-street in "District 1" - the An An almost feels like a store-front at first. The lobby is barely indoors, and the action on the street spills into the reception area. It's great.

We wandered in the area a bit and knocked around in the giant nearby market (where you can get a Bun Noc Leo for 30,000 Vietnamese Dong, which in addition to being the name of our guide, is also the unit of currency here). Amanda's immediate commentary: "we are very popular - everyone wants to talk to us!" As in "madame, look here! Hello miss, you like new dress?" Also, she noticed that the market vendors had no trouble touching her as if they were long lost friends, grabbing onto her elbows or touching her shoulder with familiar ease.

We eventually made our way to the soft shell crab restaurant recommended by Brad's friend Ben, an American who has been living in Hanoi for years. (We'll meet him next week.) Our cab dropped us off in front of the restaurant, and immediately we discovered that there were two places right next door to one another, both with exactly the same name and basically the same menu. What to do? Just as we were being seated in one joint, Ben called Brad. We explained the question, and Ben told us we chose the wrong place. So we got up, walked next door to the other crab shack, and handed the cellphone to the waitress who nodded and smiled as Ben ordered crab dishes for us remotely. He literally phoned in the order. Food started coming and we were not disappointed.The ride home was...intense and beautiful in a kind of life threatening way:
This morning we awoke in time to take a walk in the neighborhood and pick up an Banh Mi on the corner.
The scene on the street was bustling.

We eventually found our tour bus...

...and met Dong.

Amanda found her shop.

Before the tour of the Cu Chi tunnels began, Dong gave us a short lecture on the geography of the area and the strategic importance of these tunnels during the war.

The whole thing was actually very impressive. The technology used to fight against the American military was really very basic, but ingenious and extremely effective.


Part of the tour includes the opportunity to fire a weapon, and after some uneasiness, we decided to do it. You can choose your weapon, and Brad was quite insistent that we fire an AK47, the "people's revolutionary gun". I had never fired a gun before and I admit, I was a bit nervous.

Amanda seemed more comfortable with the whole thing. Frankly, I'll sleep better at night from now on, knowing that my wife has the face of an angel and the soul of a warrior.

We then crawled through one of the tunnels.

And finally! We got to the food.

Which was prepared over an open flame by this woman - a stark contrast to the kitchen of Mekong restaurant in Brooklyn where Amanda once worked.

A final thought before dinner: Saigon is in need of sidewalks.

More tomorrow.