High Heat and Home Visits in Hanoi, Vietnam

Brief Note: As you may have noticed, there was about a month and half with no posts. This is because I was experiencing some technical issues with my blog that took a ridiculously long time to figure out. Last week, I finally fixed the issues and posted about my Australia trip (the posts had been ready to go for weeks!). But, I am still more than a month behind. I have the posts written up, but haven’t uploaded photos (which takes a shockingly long time, especially on some of the slow wifi networks in SE Asia). So, I’m jumping in today with a post in the current timeline (Vietnam!), but will intersperse “catch-up” posts (from Indonesia, Singapore, and Thailand) when I find the time! Sorry for the confusion.

So. Vietnam…

In Hanoi, I walked.

And I sweated.

In Chiang Mai, in northern Thailand, the weather was cooler than Singapore and Indonesia and Bangkok, and I thought Hanoi, as a northern Vietnam city, might be the same. But I think it was hotter than all those places.

Walking at all meant wiping my upper lip, wiping my forehead, feeling water prickle at my hairline, feeling sweat stick my shirt to my back, running down my neck and into the collar of my shirt. The humidity is so intense, so sticky. Often I stepped into stores just to feel a little bit of AC, but then I felt bad touching anything or asking to try it on because I was a dripping mess.

So now that you can picture that, less about me and more about Hanoi!

I only explored a small part of a great big city, but what I saw was incredibly busy. In the Old Quarter the streets are narrow and the sidewalks aren’t for walking. People stroll up and down the streets while cars and motorbikes buzz past, constantly honking to alert people to their presence, to urge someone to go faster, to make a tourist step to the side. Or maybe they just do it because they like the sound. For how much it happens, it could be the latter.

It’s bright, so many colors: the paint on the buildings, the paper lanterns strung on the balconies, flowers (real and fake) bursting from window boxes and dripping over doors. Motorbikes of every color, draped in rain covers in every color. Restaurants spill onto the streets, and you know the best ones by their red or blue or green plastic stools and metal tables. I love the Asian style, especially in older women, but also frequented by younger ones as well, of wearing shirts and pants in the same multicolored print. Those pointed hats that are so quintessentially Vietnamese are not a stereotype. Men and women wear them walking, wear them on motor bikes, wear them at the market, and especially wear them when leading pushbikes piled high with fruit for sale.

No matter where you look, where you pause, where you walk, there are a million things going on. As soon as you think you’re safe, a motorbike speeds past, pressing repeatedly on the horn. Normally, I am not a city person (and I would never want to live in Hanoi), but I loved visiting. Loved walking through the colorful and chaotic streets and just watching, observing, seeing, and feeling.

Of course, there were the constant calls for “Massage miss? Motorbike miss? Taxi miss? You sit miss?” But a smiled “no thanks” and a shake of the head got me past them all just fine. It’s the kind of city where you are absolutely not invisible (at least, not if you’re a tourist).

Thankfully, there were plenty of tourists (but not too many) in June. Because the other thing that happened to me constantly in the Old Quarter was getting lost. I walked past the same massage parlors over and over, sometimes turning around and walking past them again only a minute or two later. “Massage miss?” Still no. But at least they didn’t recognize me!

I am usually really good with directions. Even when I first arrive in a new place, I can drop my bag at the hostel, follow Google Maps to a restaurant, and then walk back without the help of Maps. Not in the Old Quarter. Not at all. So some streets I walked at least thirty times in four and a half days. And some, even though I intended to walk them all, definitely never felt my flip flops.

So mostly I walked (and got lost) and looked and didn’t really do. I walked past a temple that charged 20,000 VND to enter (about 80 cents) and was like “I’m not paying for that!” If I was here on a two-week vacation, I absolutely would have paid for that. But long-term travel makes you think differently. I think there are two reasons for this.

First, you stop reveling in how cheap everything is and start to consider the real value of what is in your hand. Yes, money in Southeast Asia feels like Monopoly money. But it’s still money. It might be ridiculously cheap, but it still could be spent on something else. I could visit the Temple of Literature for 70,000 VND, or I could buy a bowl of Bun Cha and a glass of fruit juice. And even though it’s very little money, the value of it becomes real in a different way.

Second, I hate to say it, but there does come a point when you wonder why you need to see another temple. What’s special about this one? Especially when I can visit another one for free.

Now, I actually was planning to visit the Temple of Literature because it’s the site of the oldest University in Vietnam. That kind of history appeals to me. Besides, it looks very beautiful. But something else that was way more important came up (more on that later). I also was going to visit the Mausoleum of Ho Chi Minh and see his embalmed body (just like Lenin. It’s clearly a communist thing that is incongruous to communist ideology—which touts equality and yet venerates leaders). But, the visiting hours are ridiculously strict, which I didn’t realize until too late (7:30am-10:30am on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays). Finally, I decided I wasn’t going to visit Hoa Lo Prison because I hate seeing all the ways that human beings are horrible to other human beings. Upon reflection (four days later), I regret not going to the Temple of Literature and to Hoa Lo Prison. I don’t regret not seeing “Uncle Ho’s” body.

I still did plenty of cool things in Hanoi. I visited Tran Quoc Temple (free, btw) in the middle of Ho Tay (Lake Tay).

I walked past plenty of other pagodas and pretty buildings, including the Hanoi Flag Tower and St Joseph’s Cathedral.

I went to the Thang Long Water Puppet Theater. I hadn’t anticipated much, but it was actually beautiful and funny and a great experience. The water puppet tradition is over a thousand years old.

I drank a smoothie on Train Street and watched the train come through the narrow alley.

I did a cooking class, which was my number one priority in Vietnam. In the year before I left on my travels, I’d been working on making Vermicelli Noodle Bowls at home, but I hadn’t gotten down the sauce or the pork, and I definitely couldn’t make the spring rolls. But the cooking class has cleared up all my failures and I can’t wait to make noodle bowls (and Bun Cha) when I get home. (Start making your reservations now!)

So, I walked and walked and cooked and ate. I ate so many delicious things. Banh Mi. Pho. Banh Cuon. Banh Ran. Bun Cha. And more Bun Cha. And even more Bun Cha (it’s my new favorite dish).

One my third day in Hanoi (after visiting Tran Quoc Temple) I walked through the Ngoc Ha neighborhood. I was drawn there to visit Ho B52 (Lake B52), but I’d read that the neighborhood was an enchanting mix of tiny alleys. And it did not disappoint. I walked for about half an hour through super narrow alleys as motorbike after motorbike zoomed through. Shops on the ground floor of homes spilled partially into the alleys and three of four rows of balconies towered above on either side. And then, I was spit out into an open space with two lakes. I would actually call them ponds. They were perfectly still with a road running between them, and the reflection on the water was perfect.

Then, I saw it. The namesake of the lake. The remains of a downed B52 plane from the Vietnam War. It wasn’t much to look at really, three wheels, lots of warped metal. I’m not sure I’d guess that it was a plane if I hadn’t known before seeing it. But just imagine…

I’m looking around at the neighborhood life unfolding. Two women on the corner buying fruit. A man leans on his motorbike chatting with two other men who are pouring concrete to patch up part of the street. A mom walks past with a little girl. Fifty-two years ago, this neighborhood may have been the same (life goes on even in war) or they may have been prepared for war. May have stayed inside, may have covered their windows with black fabric. May have been off fighting. Either way, a plane was shot from the sky and crashed into their pond. In my parents’ lifetimes.

Suddenly, I’ve never felt so close to the Vietnam War. But those people live with it outside their window every day. And many of them probably lived through the moment that it happened too. The Vietnam War was not that long ago. And with that realization came a more powerful one. Looking at that plane, reflecting on the books I’ve been reading recently about the Vietnam War, I wonder, how is that they even let American tourists into their country?

I’ve been reading books and articles on the internet to refresh my memory of the Vietnam War, and the reading about it is horrible enough. That why I thought I wouldn’t visit Hao Lo Prison. I didn’t need to see all the horrible things I’d been reading. Besides, I’m going to go to the Cu Chi Tunnels in the south, so I thought that would be enough war history for me. But now I regret not going to the prison. Regret not making those horrible years and those horrible events more tangible in my mind. It feels wrong to be so little effected in my everyday life by something that is yet very real in the minds of the Vietnamese (although, maybe not the Vietnamese people of my generation. I would like to ask them).

My most authentic experience, perhaps across all of my Asian travels so far, also occurred around this time. I went to the Botanic Gardens to find that they don’t exactly live up to that name. It was basically a city park with two small ponds encircled by walking paths, a cement slab with lines for badminton, rusty workout equipment, and two slides, and two cages—one for some miserable looking monkeys and one for some birds. But I paid to get in, so I found a bench to sit on and read my book for a while.

And that’s when four children came running up. They spoke a tiny bit of English: hello, thank you, some numbers and a few other words like teddy bear or monkey (they’re the ones who showed me the caged monkeys). But we exchanged names and ages (10, 10, 9, and 7) and they didn’t seem like they were keen to go anywhere else, so I got out my phone and we began to converse via Google Translate. For about an hour, they asked me questions “Do you have a boyfriend? Do you like to sing? How often do you come to the park? Do you like Vietnam? Are you coming to the park tomorrow? Do you know Messi?” and I asked them questions. “Are you siblings? What do you like to do on summer vacation? What is your favorite color? Do you play soccer?”

Mostly the park was full of local people, but once a “westerner” (their term) walked past and they asked me if I knew her. I said no and they ran up to her shouting hello, but she walked on. Later, a “western” guy about my age walked past and they asked me if I wanted him to be my boyfriend. I told them I didn’t know him, but they tried with him too.

They had a deck of cards and I asked them what games they play and they showed me, one of the girls dealing me a hand and showing me how to play. I thought I understood the game, but then they’d shake their head and chorus “no” and pick a card for me that didn’t make sense, but we did that several times and they seemed to love it equally when I won and when I lost!

When one of the girl’s mother came to fetch them for lunch, I told them I was going to go, but they made me promise to come back to the park tomorrow afternoon.

And who was I to disappoint them!

The next day, in the morning, I visited Ma Mai Heritage House, which is a small home in the Old Quarter, built in the late 19^th century, that has been preserved as a museum. A student who wanted to practice her English gave me a short tour, telling me about how the bottom floor was a shop that opened to the street (just as most businesses in Vietnam still do today). The next room back was also for business, but sported a beautiful tea table. An open courtyard provided light and airflow (though no air was flowing. I was sweating throughout the whole tour, using the brochure they’d given me as a fan). At the very back was the kitchen, mostly open air, and the bathroom. Unfortunately, the bathroom was the one thing that they’d converted to modern amenities, which is too bad. I love seeing old bathrooms and working out how people did their day-to-day living.

Upstairs, the best room of the house was devoted to the family shrine. Then there was the bedroom. “For the grandparents,” my guide told me. But when I asked where the kids and grandkids slept, she said they slept there too. Maybe the grandparents are the ones who get the bed.

In the afternoon, I did the forty-five minute trek back to the park. A few minutes later, while I was still heavily perspiring, the kids showed up. They were concerned about me being sweaty and got out a fan to help me out. I kept protesting, but they seemed very concerned and were very sweet.

We colored on some paper they’d brought and walked around the ponds. Then we played on the slide. It wouldn’t have passed inspection in the US (rusty metal stairs, the top one which was lose, a stone slide at a very steep angle with rough concrete at the bottom). Finally, the kids were as sweaty as I was!

The most talkative of the kids, 10-year-old Song, gestured at my hip, which was how I knew she wanted me to get out my phone so she could tell me something. I opened Google Translate and she spoke to the app. Google Translate is seriously amazing. Without it, my interaction with the kids would have stopped after 90 seconds after we’d figured out all of our ages on our fingers. But here I was on day two, hour two of playing with these young Vietnamese kiddos.

However, Google does its best, but sometimes it screws things up or misses words. For example, after we were done coloring and the kids wanted to walk around the pond, Khoai (the seven-year-old boy) asked me “Can you get me more paper and colors?” And, for a brief second, I thought he wanted me to buy him more coloring books and pencils and I wondered if this was some kind of long con, but that didn’t seem right with how we’d been interacting so far. So I asked him to repeat it and it turns out he was just wondering if he could put the coloring book and pencils in my backpack while we walked around the lake. So, generally, we seemed to muddle through those errors ok. It’s the cultural differences that are more challenging. And more fun to finally figure out.

So, when Song asked me her question, she said (via Google Translate). “Is it good that my friend is coming to my house?”

So I said, “That is good. I will leave so you can go home.”

And she said, “Do you want to leave?”

I said, “I like spending time with you.”

She said. “So my friend comes to my house?”

I said, “I don’t understand.”

She gave me the weirdest look. “It is ok that my friend comes to my house?” And that is when I realized that, probably, she was referring to me in the third person, perhaps as a sign of respect for elders, or perhaps that’s just how the Vietnamese language works. Either way, sometimes Google seemed to pick up on that and translate as if she was saying “you” to me (or maybe sometimes she was saying “you,” but this was a bigger deal so went formal?). But suddenly I was pretty sure that I was her friend, the one she wanted to come to her house.

I clarified. “You are inviting me to your house?”

She smiled and gave me thumbs up.

So I nodded emphatically. “I would love to see your home.”

So the kids took me home. They lived three minutes from the park in a large building. I didn’t realize it was a residential building because it didn’t have windows and was covered in large ceramic tiles. On the ground floor, we walked up to one door in a row of doors and left our shoes outside. The door opened to a bathroom on the right, a short counter space with cooking utensils on the left, and then a room, about the size of a high school utility room. Against one wall was a bunk bed. Shelves lined the other two walls and a wardrobe rested up against the last wall. Oddly, a lot of large vases seemed to occupy most of the shelves. Bamboo mats covered the floor. An air conditioner was mounted on the wall and a fan blew. Four Vietnamese women were in the room, one lounging on the bottom bunk and three sitting on the floor.

They did not speak a word of English other than hello, but they greeted me with smiles. Song told me which one was her mom, and another told me she was Khoai’s mom (by pointing to him when I used the English word mom). And I think the older woman was Song’s grandma, but I’m not completely sure.

Song’s mom set out a bowl of jackfruit and some bananas. Khoai’s mom got me some water and then they took pictures of me with each of the kids. They talked a lot in Vietnamese with the kids and I’m sure they were talking about me, but having no idea what they were saying, I just listened.

After a bit, Song asked me if I wanted to stay for dinner. “Would you stay here to eat?” So that time she either used “you” or Google translated it that way.

I was going to go to the Temple of Litarture, but this was a far better offer.

After making sure that she was sure, I said that I would love to. We went back to the park for a while, getting sweaty on the slide all over again. As it was later in the day (and maybe, possibly, one half degree cooler), the park was busy. Some people were using the work out equipment, but mostly there were people all over playing badminton and another sport that was a mix between badminton, hacky-sack, and volleyball. (Basically two people hacky-sacking a weighted shuttlecock over a net to two other people, who passed it back). A workout dance class was happening on the other side of the park and someone was playing music on portable speakers and two couples were dancing. It was perfect.

We returned to Song’s home for dinner an hour later. Her grandmother laid out the bamboo mats on the floor and then put a Styrofoam rectangle down, maybe a cooler top? We sat around the Styrofoam and ate soup with chunks of beef, wide rice noodles, and broth. Khoai’s mom and the fourth woman had disappeared, so it was the four kids, Song’s mom and grandma, and me. They chatted. Song showed me how to put some gelatinous shrimp in a bowl and eat it with my soup. When I tried to get bits of meat off the boney beef chunks, she shook her head and picked up her own chunk in her fingers, gnawing on it. So I followed suit.

As we were finishing dinner, the grandma and kids started talking loudly to Khoai and even though I had no idea what they were saying, the meaning was clear. Khoai had only eaten the beef, not his noodles, and he wasn’t getting dessert if he didn’t eat his noodles. Different cultures, different languages—but we’re really all exactly the same across the world.

Thank you to Song, Khoai, Ha Vy, and Tuong An for welcoming me in Vietnam!