Admittedly, each of us had our own notion of what Vietnam would be like. Michael's Vietnam was a collage of old war films, the Hanoi Hilton, the Viet Cong, while Val's was a more romanticized image furnished in dark teak, languid ceiling fans and wide colonial verandahs filled with the scent of green papaya.
Our drive in from the airport began the gradual reconstruction of those notions. The crowded new highway was flanked by miles of rice paddies out of which rose monstrous steel billboard after billboard, advertising things like a new mobile phone or say, communist propaganda emblazened over cheerfully drawn smiling young people. People actually wear those cone straw hats stereotypical of the Western world's portrayal of a chinaman. Virtually anything can be transported on a motorcycle or bike: a family of five, cages of live pigs, a refrigerator, or a balancing act of baskets 30 feet high.
When we arrived into the Old Quarter, Jenna and Angelo were waiting for us. Ecstatic to see each other, we exchanged rapid fire greetings, all four of us trying to talk at the same time. Our hotel room was the nicest one we've stayed in by far: a relief after the last couple of dumps.
The Old Quarter is a beehive of honking scooters, honking vans, honking cars (drivers here use the horn about 95% of driving time), cyclo drivers heckling you for a ride, street vendors selling everything from baguettes to cigarette lighters. Local markets abound with souvenirs, seafood, shoes, anything you can imagine. Food stalls selling pho (the traditional Vietnamese noodles with beef), com (rice dishes) and coffee (sometimes in old Pepsi bottles) to customers who seem happy to perch on low plastic stools virtually anywhere along a curb, creating makeshift cafes. A fast favorite of the Chamorros and Capobiancos was the omnipresent Bia Hoi kegs, avialable from mom and pop establishments, a watered down beer for 12 cents a glass. Belly up to a stool on the curb next to small heaps of vegetable and fruit peels floating in sludge in the gutter, hold out one finger and promptly receive a refreshingly cold skunky 12 cent beer. Heaven.
Crossing the road is a favorite activity. At first requiring nerves of steel and careful eye contact with motorists coming at you from all directions, we quickly gratuated to veteran road crossers as we waltzed nonchalantly across the road like we owned it. Traffic just moves around you like the red sea, absolutely thrilling!
So far, the food in Hanoi has not been as good as in Thailand. As San Franciscans, we have the best of the best of all cuisines, Vietnamese being high on our list. But so far, the real thing has not measured up, making us wonder which is more authentic, the flavorful SF version, or the disappointing Vietnamese version. Unlike in Thailand, eating where the locals eat has proven to be challenging. The quality of the food is far inferior, giving new meaning to "mystery meat."
The Vietnamese have survived a long history of colonialism, communism, a terrible famine, and the American War (what they call the Vietnam War), to name a few biggies. The country has a decidedly more communist feel compared to their laid back and far more hospitable Thai neighbors. We have been learning momre and more about this socialist republic since our arrival. In this particular nutshell, it looks good on the outside, but when you crack open the nut, there is nothing inside. Besides agriculture (rice and coffee), the tourist industry is the only other viable industry visible. Every other storefront is a bar or restaurant and/or tour operator able to book you a packaged tour anywhere in the country. Everyone is trying to sell you something all the time, it's hard not to feel like you're just a walking dollar bill.
Hanoi Photos are at http://flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594298984176/
