Vietnam: It's A Pee Country

There are a few laws of the land I have discovered here in Vietnam. 1) There is no translation for 'excuse me.' If someone is in your path, someone be damned. Do not even feign the effort to politely scoot to the side or give a slight, if benevolent head nod in recognition of what you are about to do or soon intend on doing. By all means, just push through. 2) The louder the better. Whether in a restaurant or crowded train speaking at any volume and with any level of emphasis is absolutely acceptable, encouraged if you're a child. A parent must never dissuade said child from screaming at inopportune times, perhaps in fear it would upset the gods? 3) There are no traffic laws. The lights are for decoration and the signs are mere suggestions. If you believe, as a pedestrian you, have the right of way, you are sorely mistaken- even when on paved sidewalk. 4) Public urination- A-OK! If you gotta go you gotta go. Young, old, male, female -  drop trow and let it go. It's only natural, right? And lastly, 5) The time, distance or cost of something is only a matter of opinion. If you ask 10 people how long the train takes from Hanoi to Saigon, you will receive a minimum of 8 answers. If you'd like to purchase a Coca Cola at the store, the cost of the beverage will be calculated with an algorithm taking into account the clerk's mood and your skin color and/or apparent wealth.

Word on the street was Ho Chi Minh mausoleum was closed this Super Bowl Monday so I nixed my morose plans and went in what would be my last jog around Hoan Kiem Lake. Having yet to repeat a country there are moments, more and more as I visit different places, where I become terribly aware, and a bit melancholy, that this will likely be the one and only time I am in this place. Sure, life is sort of like that - moving at the speed of light with days spent or lost, never to return, but this somehow feels different. I made special note on my last lap and headed back into the intestinal tract of roadways to shower, change, and face the day.

Tet, or the Lunar New Year, had left the city pretty mellow, limiting options for activities and cultural experience, but allowing me the freedom to feel comfortable doing little at all. Either in my never-ending quest to become the fattest person on the planet or inspired by Anthony Bourdain I toured the town one last go round on an gastronomic journey. Restaurant 96 provided me with my main meal of the day - a dish titled something along the lines of fried noodles with chicken - but something I deemed Top Ramen with red sauce. It was sufficient and served it's purpose, allowing me to quietly dine and to meet a nice Canadian gay who has signed up for the restaurant's cooking class and who informed me of Phillip Seymour Hoffman's untimely passing. Something about becoming a parent just makes addiction and suicide a non-option in my opinion. Still, sad news.

Having purchased some snacks for impending 20-hour train ride to Da Nang (as the train does not go directly to Hoi An) I swung back by the hostel to store my goodies in my ever burgeoning bag and immediately became engrossed in conversation with a nice couple in their sixties from Bismarck, North Dakota. Linda was feisty and a bit of a world traveler and her husband John was a warm Vet clearly very in love with his wife. We chatted, about travel and life and family. I was very honest and open an personal, as I know no other way, and when we parted ways Linda gave me the sort of hug that almost makes you cry. She told me to 'keep on keeping on' and then held me in an embrace for far longer that makes me comfortable, but just long enough to convey her message of love.

Having not consumed enough refined sugars and white carbs for one day, I walked a couple blocks north to the main drag of outdoor seating where I had had my obligatory local Biere LaRue just the night before. Today's menu was sweet potato fries and lemon juice - a sort of home made lime aid served all over the country that blows Country Time out of the water! Some people watching was had, mostly of school aged girls giggling over their respective plates of fried foods served with both ketchup and chili sauce.

With a couple hours to spare and a real hankering for something sweet (I told you, I'm repulsive) I headed down to the lake, past the puppet theatre to purchase a pre-fab strawberry sugar cone for 30,000 dong and watch the last of the Tetacular impromptu photo shoots in front of the ornate floral displays take place.

My bags packed, I loaded up and headed out the door of 85 Hang Bac in search of the train station and warmer days ahead.

I made it there on motorbike (luggage in tow) and boarded car 9, bed 23 to Da Nang. Having paid 60 American dollars for my ticket, I knew accommodation would not be posh, but I had no idea I was booking a bed in a sarcophagus for 6. Being on the top bunk, yet again, I had to watch a fellow traveler Peter Parker his way up to the 4 feet of space before I could figure out how to do it myself. With not a square (inch) to spare I was feeling a bit claustrophobic, but took some deep breaths, pulled out my book and thought to myself - only 20 hours to go.

The rules of in Vietnam that I mentioned above all apply here with cramped quarters and screaming children. The air conditioning vent was temperamental and located directly above my larynx so I woke hourly to dig around in my bag, pull out whatever form of apparel I could locate in the dark and assess my brand new set out housemates, seemingly growing exponentially as we chugged along. I tried to sleep through the entire ordeal, as sitting up was not an option and the food car consisted of Cup-a-Noodles cart coming by bi hourly - I felt trapped.

When I could sleep no more I rose and went to stand in the hallway, a three foot gap between coffin door and smudged window where, much like the open markets, small plastic seats can be set up for socializing and the general impediment of those wanting to get by.

After witnessing some truly gorgeous vistas of lush jungles and untainted beaches bathed in morning light, two nice older women with a little boy who liked his photo taken offered me on of their plastic perches, and that is just where I remained until deboarding at Da Nang.

I knew nothing about Da Nang, and was really only using it as stopover for a day, but once I saw the warm and inviting weather immediately decided to stay an extra day. A pushy motorbike cabbie brought me to Sea Wonder Hotel where I had booked another dorm, only for twice the cost of my previous abodes. Once inside the room I saw why. 4 twin beds lined up nicely against a wall opposite a TV and a seemingly functional bathroom. It was like of died and gone to trump tower. The wifi in the rooms was icing on the cake.

Without bothering to shower, I freshened up, brushing my teeth for the first time in what seemed like days, and switching out of my Mary Kate and homeless Olsen garb to once again, put on my beach wear, still smelling of Phu Quoc.

The receptionist at Sea Wonder was exceedingly helpful and directed me to Dragon Bridge, a bridge that unites downtown with the beach side and is adorned with large yellow sheets of metal, creating the actual artifice of a dragon. The bridge feeds directly into the Cham Museum, housing ancient sculptures. Neither site was quite as interesting and the continuous 'hi' and 'hellos' I got from inside homes, businesses, and people motorbiking down the street. Kids and adults alike were pleased to use their very limited English on what seems like one of the very few white people they see in these parts. It was both charming and unnerving.

Walking in the sun and looking at boring art had worked me up quite an appetite and I figured Thai food might be a good call - seeing as I am just next door. Still not holding a candle to Ploy II on Haight Street I am afraid, but it was the perfect hole-in-the-wall and when the sun is shining and the breeze off the ocean is making your mane look like you're in a Sisqo video there is very little to complain about.

When entering Da Nang it seemed to have a decent sized commercial area and I went searching for something of interest. I found that in the form of a frothy beverage at Highlands Coffee, a chain I have seen all over the place that provides comfortable outdoor seating and today, luckily enough- ideal people watching. Unless the local theatre is putting on a production of 'Grease', I just got to bear witness to the real life Asian Danny Zuko and his T-bird brethren. With two ladies silently flanking their sides a group of young men in leather jackets and pompadours boisterously chatted while their pink ladies looked on adoringly. It was a seen torn from the pages of K pop weekly!

After they Grease-Lightening'd out of there I took a leisurely walk home. The reviews on hostels.com had mentioned the downside of this lodging to be the distance to the city and it is quite a walk, but the night was mild and the bugs largely at bay. Now, sitting here upon my bed I am left pondering, to stay in or not to stay in  - that is the question.

Life is Like A Street Pastry - Unexpected and Delicious (Barf)

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.

With Victor clearly chomping at the bit to get his jolly drink on I excused myself, gave him a genuine hug an retired to my home in Hanoi for the final curtain call...