When back in New York jokes are often made, either by me of my
Benetton Ad circle of friends about punctuality and ethnicity. I believe
the the joke is something like, the darker the berry the later they are
to appointments? Or maybe I am simply misquoting the formidable Tupac.
Regardless, my suburban white roots run deep and I was up, dressed, and
in the lobby by 7:15 or so for an 8 am pickup that soon turned into much
closer to 9. I fear this tardiness was indicative of the way the tour
was set to go.
A 4-hour bus ride in a vehicle packed to the gills with people from cultures that do no promote volume control or personal space could have been disastrous, but I perfected the ability to fall asleep any and everywhere as an undergrad and I nodded off for a good portion of the journey, though not before taking in some of the scenery. Once the roads became to bumpy to sleep open-mouthed, catch flies, we were ambling through some one road towns just outside of Halong Bay.
Once at the dock various shades of white people were shuffled around and spun in circles, left dazed an confused before even boarding the An Suh boat for Halong Bay. Families were traded like baseball cards before filing into a rickety, white washed boat and slowing setting sail. Passengers were already irate and when the tour guide asked our group to return our tickets to him in some attempt to do the 15,000th head count, an Italian woman sassed back - making me proud of my Mediterranean roots.
About 40 minutes in we were at our first cultural point of interest by way of a carefully carved path deep within one of the stone formations that make Halong bay famous and postcard and worthy.
The natural formations were beautiful an awe inspiring though I found it being lit up like Katy Perry's undercarriage a bit superfluous.
Back on the boat we were served our 'authentic' seafood lunch, eliciting even more reaction from the disgruntled crowd and leaving me with a belly full of steamed white rice and my gut was telling me that my gut did not want to sample any of the other of the indecipherable culinary feats.
The next stop on this sanitized cultural experience was a local floating fishing village that I am quite certain relies more on foolish fanny-packed tourism than actual fish.
Shit really hit the fan when Quin, our guide wearing sweat socks and loafers, explained the additional charge for kayaking around the village when we we all quite certain we' already paid for this precarious leg of the voyage in our packages prior to arrival that morning. Swearing in several languages wafted through the otherwise serene setting and, while my new Russian compatriot tried to get me to argue with her so we could don orange vests and sea water soaked asses like the rest of bricks in the wall, I thought, and then articulated that life in New York is such a fight on a daily basis, I simply didn't have it in me. I've always been told to choose my battles and this was simply not one for which I was willing to fight. It felt sort of nice to surrender, and it allowed me to sit on the dock, peacefully for an hour observing the most impressive hustler I have ever laid eyes on - and I live in the Heights.
A gorgeous little girl, no more than 8 years-old, dressed in a bright orange that offset her deep brown complexion and doll like features. As gorgeous as this small creature was she was not messing around, and was manning her own boat filled with colorful fruit while trying to take the tourists for everything they had. She was not cutting me any deals as her pungent breath let me know the closer I got. It also confirmed my suspicions that life on a floating fishing village off the coast of Vietnam and the lackluster grooming habits implicated by such a lifestyle may be true.
I was captivated, and almost found it hard to set sail back out of the mouth of the rocky bay back to the mainland. Luckily a hazy low sun provided the guidance and ambiance required when doing something such as 'setting sail.'
Back on the bus people scrambled, eager to get a seat and post up for the next hours. It was like 'Lord of the Flies' and the mayhem in the quest for a seat was almost comical. Though if I had not procured one, like nice Hungarian/Polish couple I'd met, perhaps the humor would have been lost on me. I was one of the lucky ones. Lucky if your definition of luck is a spandex clad, highly decorated, portly Asian woman with a bad perm and absolutely no boundaries dozing off on your shoulder with a heavy head - the I was the luckiest girl in the world.
After some bad road trip snacks and a neck bending nap I was again at 85 Hang Bac where I immediately received an email from my new Peruvian friend,Victor whom I had met at the village. Leave it to me to meet a Hispanic man in Asia. He too is traveling alone, deeming us 'the brave ones' and we have promised to spend some time together while in Hanoi. That time, however, would not be tonight as I was tuckered and ready for some pillow talk with my Magnum P.I. roomie and a rapid drift off to sleep.
With not a thing to do and a whole day rolling with the best travel mate I know - me - that's just what I did. Rolled with it. I allowed myself a lazy morning and was up and on my computer tending to the real world by 9am. Unfortunately lazy did not allow me time to go bear witness to the preserved body of former Predient Ho Chi Minh- but I've seen so many walking relics in Vietnam so far I feel like I have a pretty good sense of what he must look like - only not in motion.
I had booked a ticket to the 5 pm performance at the Thang Long Water Puppet Theatre for 100,000 dong and knew I had some souvenirs to purchase and a train to ticket to book. A full day - if you ask me.
As always, high on my list of things to do was gorge on carbohydrates, which I did first with a Banana Honey pastry purchased off the street and though, not containing either of the aforementioned ingredients, delicious nonetheless. Postcards. Tea. And then my next stop for gluten was in the form of Mondo, a small chain I found just off the beaten path housing what was clearly the affluent Vietnamese, replete with designer clothing and full geisha makeup - midday. If you've ever thought - 'hey, I bet Italian food isn't very good in Southeast Asia', you'd be right on the money! My Chef Boyardee special was consumed with minimal disdain and I managed to pay the bill and leave without feeling totally stripped of my Italian heritage and stomach lining.
A 20-hour train ride was promptly purchased at my hostel's front desk for Hoi An by way of Da Nang the following evening and, just like any highly cultured lady, I headed to the theatre in my rainbow leggings and chucks. The dank smell of the theatre dissipated almost the moment the charming wooden figurines make their way onto the scene. There was music, there was lighting, there was absolutely no discernible story line (or translation into English) - I'd say my hour spent soaking up the local flavor was highly successful.
Having made plans to meet up with Victor, my new friend from Peru proved complicated with schedule and wifi issues, but after chatting up Lee, a South Korean man traveling on his last hooray before entering the work force and British Ken Doll who's name I did not catch but twinkle in his baby blues I could not ignore, I realized I had disproven the comment made to my father just days earlier that men don't travel alone. It may not be in droves, but these three young blokes proved me wrong and I thank them for it.
Either due to the fact that I am far more direction savvy or that I had semi-bailed on Victor the night before it was decided that I would meet him at his hotel for us to go dine. I later discovered his humble abode was a 15 minute walk for me, but took me closer to 45 while circuitously meandering the roads in an attempt to locate dear Victor.
We dined above the major roundabout at the north end of Hoan Kiem lake and though my meal of cashew chicken was underwhelming, it was nice to have company in the form of a young Peruvian man recently granted citizenship in the US. We chatted, we walked, we ended up not far from my hostel on a main drag where small plastic seats are provided for patrons along the busy roadways for eating, drinking and loitering. Half a beer later I was enraptured by a rotund Vietnamese girl pacing the block dressed in Hulk Hogan's castoff costume and listening to what I believe was her Walkman. Goes to show you - the crazies are everywhere.
A 4-hour bus ride in a vehicle packed to the gills with people from cultures that do no promote volume control or personal space could have been disastrous, but I perfected the ability to fall asleep any and everywhere as an undergrad and I nodded off for a good portion of the journey, though not before taking in some of the scenery. Once the roads became to bumpy to sleep open-mouthed, catch flies, we were ambling through some one road towns just outside of Halong Bay.
Once at the dock various shades of white people were shuffled around and spun in circles, left dazed an confused before even boarding the An Suh boat for Halong Bay. Families were traded like baseball cards before filing into a rickety, white washed boat and slowing setting sail. Passengers were already irate and when the tour guide asked our group to return our tickets to him in some attempt to do the 15,000th head count, an Italian woman sassed back - making me proud of my Mediterranean roots.
About 40 minutes in we were at our first cultural point of interest by way of a carefully carved path deep within one of the stone formations that make Halong bay famous and postcard and worthy.
The natural formations were beautiful an awe inspiring though I found it being lit up like Katy Perry's undercarriage a bit superfluous.
Back on the boat we were served our 'authentic' seafood lunch, eliciting even more reaction from the disgruntled crowd and leaving me with a belly full of steamed white rice and my gut was telling me that my gut did not want to sample any of the other of the indecipherable culinary feats.
The next stop on this sanitized cultural experience was a local floating fishing village that I am quite certain relies more on foolish fanny-packed tourism than actual fish.
Shit really hit the fan when Quin, our guide wearing sweat socks and loafers, explained the additional charge for kayaking around the village when we we all quite certain we' already paid for this precarious leg of the voyage in our packages prior to arrival that morning. Swearing in several languages wafted through the otherwise serene setting and, while my new Russian compatriot tried to get me to argue with her so we could don orange vests and sea water soaked asses like the rest of bricks in the wall, I thought, and then articulated that life in New York is such a fight on a daily basis, I simply didn't have it in me. I've always been told to choose my battles and this was simply not one for which I was willing to fight. It felt sort of nice to surrender, and it allowed me to sit on the dock, peacefully for an hour observing the most impressive hustler I have ever laid eyes on - and I live in the Heights.
A gorgeous little girl, no more than 8 years-old, dressed in a bright orange that offset her deep brown complexion and doll like features. As gorgeous as this small creature was she was not messing around, and was manning her own boat filled with colorful fruit while trying to take the tourists for everything they had. She was not cutting me any deals as her pungent breath let me know the closer I got. It also confirmed my suspicions that life on a floating fishing village off the coast of Vietnam and the lackluster grooming habits implicated by such a lifestyle may be true.
I was captivated, and almost found it hard to set sail back out of the mouth of the rocky bay back to the mainland. Luckily a hazy low sun provided the guidance and ambiance required when doing something such as 'setting sail.'
Back on the bus people scrambled, eager to get a seat and post up for the next hours. It was like 'Lord of the Flies' and the mayhem in the quest for a seat was almost comical. Though if I had not procured one, like nice Hungarian/Polish couple I'd met, perhaps the humor would have been lost on me. I was one of the lucky ones. Lucky if your definition of luck is a spandex clad, highly decorated, portly Asian woman with a bad perm and absolutely no boundaries dozing off on your shoulder with a heavy head - the I was the luckiest girl in the world.
After some bad road trip snacks and a neck bending nap I was again at 85 Hang Bac where I immediately received an email from my new Peruvian friend,Victor whom I had met at the village. Leave it to me to meet a Hispanic man in Asia. He too is traveling alone, deeming us 'the brave ones' and we have promised to spend some time together while in Hanoi. That time, however, would not be tonight as I was tuckered and ready for some pillow talk with my Magnum P.I. roomie and a rapid drift off to sleep.
With not a thing to do and a whole day rolling with the best travel mate I know - me - that's just what I did. Rolled with it. I allowed myself a lazy morning and was up and on my computer tending to the real world by 9am. Unfortunately lazy did not allow me time to go bear witness to the preserved body of former Predient Ho Chi Minh- but I've seen so many walking relics in Vietnam so far I feel like I have a pretty good sense of what he must look like - only not in motion.
I had booked a ticket to the 5 pm performance at the Thang Long Water Puppet Theatre for 100,000 dong and knew I had some souvenirs to purchase and a train to ticket to book. A full day - if you ask me.
As always, high on my list of things to do was gorge on carbohydrates, which I did first with a Banana Honey pastry purchased off the street and though, not containing either of the aforementioned ingredients, delicious nonetheless. Postcards. Tea. And then my next stop for gluten was in the form of Mondo, a small chain I found just off the beaten path housing what was clearly the affluent Vietnamese, replete with designer clothing and full geisha makeup - midday. If you've ever thought - 'hey, I bet Italian food isn't very good in Southeast Asia', you'd be right on the money! My Chef Boyardee special was consumed with minimal disdain and I managed to pay the bill and leave without feeling totally stripped of my Italian heritage and stomach lining.
A 20-hour train ride was promptly purchased at my hostel's front desk for Hoi An by way of Da Nang the following evening and, just like any highly cultured lady, I headed to the theatre in my rainbow leggings and chucks. The dank smell of the theatre dissipated almost the moment the charming wooden figurines make their way onto the scene. There was music, there was lighting, there was absolutely no discernible story line (or translation into English) - I'd say my hour spent soaking up the local flavor was highly successful.
Having made plans to meet up with Victor, my new friend from Peru proved complicated with schedule and wifi issues, but after chatting up Lee, a South Korean man traveling on his last hooray before entering the work force and British Ken Doll who's name I did not catch but twinkle in his baby blues I could not ignore, I realized I had disproven the comment made to my father just days earlier that men don't travel alone. It may not be in droves, but these three young blokes proved me wrong and I thank them for it.
Either due to the fact that I am far more direction savvy or that I had semi-bailed on Victor the night before it was decided that I would meet him at his hotel for us to go dine. I later discovered his humble abode was a 15 minute walk for me, but took me closer to 45 while circuitously meandering the roads in an attempt to locate dear Victor.
We dined above the major roundabout at the north end of Hoan Kiem lake and though my meal of cashew chicken was underwhelming, it was nice to have company in the form of a young Peruvian man recently granted citizenship in the US. We chatted, we walked, we ended up not far from my hostel on a main drag where small plastic seats are provided for patrons along the busy roadways for eating, drinking and loitering. Half a beer later I was enraptured by a rotund Vietnamese girl pacing the block dressed in Hulk Hogan's castoff costume and listening to what I believe was her Walkman. Goes to show you - the crazies are everywhere.
