Final Night in Vietnam

Tonight (May 22) I went to the Rex Hotel, which has been around since before the Vietnam war (just to remind you, I haven’t).

Generals used to go here to “debrief” for three minutes, then get pleasantly hammered and sing along to American music until it was time to refill the foxholes with a fresh batch of gun-toting 19-year-olds (anyone around in 1985 can’t forget this #1 ditty) …

I just went there for the rooftop view, and to avoid the supposed throngs of well-heeled (men) and high-heeled (well, mostly women) jet-setters and tourists drinking $20 martinis at the other hotels in Ho Chi Minh’s main square.

Rex’s rooftop lanterns and cool Asian looking thing behind the band that’s oddly playing American music. Cooler when you click on it to enlarge.

But before I even got to (read: found) the elevator, I met yet another horde of Australians and spent the evening watching them sling Singapore Slings and Tiger beers. Two of them were Vietnam vets returning there for the second time, surprised to find luxury hotels in place of dilapidated buildings, and McDonald’s in place of agricultural swamps. The only constants seem to be excessive heat, even more excessive alcohol, and hordes of Australians absorbing copious amounts of both.

I must admit I had no idea they were so involved in the war, but apparently they rode America’s tattered coattails down the rabbit hole (Iraq, anyone?), and their drafted soldiers came back to hostility and condemnation. I spent about 15 minutes dancing with one of the middle-aged wives, which the husband greatly appreciated, though neither one of us could figure out how to lead.

The most surprising comment of the evening was that the punishment for owning a handgun in Australia is 14 years in prison. That’s what happens when there is a minor gun incident in other countries. I Googled this and didn’t find consistent corroboration (there are so many gun laws and changes there), but I’m not gonna argue over gun laws with anyone who spent years shooting them at stuff.

As always, I had a great time with so many Australians on my Vietnam leg. But they are so ubiquitous, even in Europe, I sometimes wonder if there are any Aussies left in Australia. Maybe that’s why so much of it looks like this:

o o p s ** BEGINNING OF NEW POSTS IS HERE **

Hello again!! Yes, I have an excuse for blowing this off for 2 months. See, my dog ate my sick grandmother’s car accident, and my dentist appointment has the stomach flu, and …. oh screw it. I got lazy. Though I do have an excuse for not writing during late May.

Between singing karaoke, chasing down restaurants with A/C, photographing mangy cats and zoo tigers, and riding shotgun daily in a Scooby Doo style van of 11 people (which I will justify henceforth), I had better things to do than write dutifully every day in my awesome Doctor Who Journal (River Song’s T.A.R.D.I.S. journal — squee!) while in Malaysia…

Sooooo….  2+ months late, I’m catching up by wrapping up Vietnam and moving onto Malaysia. That part isn’t going to be in exact chronological order, as (1) I can’t be bothered to sort all of that out, and (2) our Malaysian gang spent 4-5 days in a row sunbathing, swimming, scarfing, sweating, singing (no shame), and sharing a great time together. Do you really want to hear four consecutive blog posts about the same shenanigans? No, you don’t. Besides, I have totally ruined the point of having a blog, which is supposed to have a modest post every day or two, not a sprawling novella that’s airdropped every month or two like a carton of foreign aid.

And so, to completely confuse you while retaining the LAW of BLOG, I’m going to add sections normally, which means you won’t be able to begin at the top (early Malaysia) and read down to the last new post. You will have to begin here in mid-blog and crawl your way to the top like a corporate stooge. ENJOY!!

Love Song to Seattle, sorta

I really am planning on doing the entire rest of this blog over the next week or so, I’m just swamped until then with other stuff. So here’s a poem to the tune of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Homeward Bound.” One of my favorites. Click here if you don’t recall which song it is.

I’m sittin’ in a far-off nation
Got mosquito bites and constipation
On a tour of Vietnam
(“I wasn’t born when we dropped the bombs!”)
Then to Malaysia’s coal-hot sands
Where Pauly Bear will give his hand.

Homeward bound
I wish I was
Puget Sound!
Home, with the tolls and gun fights.
Home, with the endless grey nights.
Home, where my kitties
Dream of cuddling with me.

Everyday our Deet-sprayed team
Snag cheap massages and ice cream.
Washing panties in the sink.
And, “Are those ice cubes safe to drink?”
And every stop without A/C
Reminds me that I long to be

Homeward bound
I wish I was
Puget Sound!
Dodging commuter bikers.
Potheads, gays, and recyclers.
Home, where my kitties
Dream of cuddling with me.

Our hosts survived our wedding song
Of Karaoke gone so wrong
Huddling under ceiling fans
With pit stains, cameras in hand.
What do you think gave us away
As the non-Asian folks that day?

Homeward bound
I wish I was
Puget Sound!
Home, I want $5 coffee!
Price-gouging rent? Lay it on me!
Home, where my kitties
Dream of cuddling with me.

Day 12: videos + sight seeing. But not really.

Here are the two videos I mentioned before. One with cute baby monkeys in the Halong Bay floating fishing village, and one of me being a cat lady in said fishing village. In my defense, I’m not the one who pointed out the cat — I’m only the one who got all excited about it. Also, there is no visible cat. Also, I’m too cheap to pay for premium service from WordPress.com so they’re on YouTube.

I’ve taken to Googling things that I was considering visiting — Cu Chi Tunnels (an extensive labyrinth of underground wartime hideouts), Chinatown, and the fantastical Cao Dai temple (this is particularly cool, but not worth the bus ride). Let’s pretend I went. Here are some photos:

Binh Tay Market in Chinatown

Cao Dai Tample in BFE

Cu Chi Tunnels

I totally want to play Whack-a-Mole with the guy above. How am I actually considering spending my penultimate day here?

Watching. Not doing. I do love donuts though, so no judgement here.

I did actually spend the entire day in the hotel, other than going out for food. I needed a break from sweating and walking, as I now have Snoopy band-aids keeping my feet from making me cry.

I also got a 60-minute facial in my hotel for a ridiculously low price. I was considering adding a sauna / jacuzzi to the deal, but then realized I had spent the whole damn day avoiding being hot and sweaty, so why would I pay for the privilege?

I ended up going to a really good Mediterranean / Greek place that had great falafel. I will not tell you the name, though, lest you give them your business. I ordered a side of feta and they charged me FIVE DOLLARS. That’s like $.60 per cube of cheese. And they were little cubes, like dice. I thought there might be a prize inside one, like when someone hides an engagement ring in a French roll. No prize. And the trouble when you don’t have exact change is that you can’t refuse to pay for something, then give them a large bill and expect the money back you want. They seem to have mastered this whole capitalism thing.

In the evening I went to this highly-reviewed African / Casablanca-themed bar/restaurant called Mogambo. I’ve eaten very little Vietnamese food while here, as what I’ve had hasn’t been great. Mogambo was on a street filled with homeless / toothless folks, wrought iron window coverings, and garbage bins, so I scooted my arse in and out of there pretty quickly. Even the woman at the bar told me to hold onto my bag. I actually had a cheeseburger, as they are supposed to be the best in Ho Chi Minh. It was pretty good, though I ate an entire jalapeno in one bite and was sweating in places I didn’t even know you could sweat — like my eyelids. And my eyeballs, though I think those are called tears.

I also spent a few hours at a bar that was making the only noise in “happening” downtown Ho Chi Minh at 9 pm. A Philippino guy with no discernible accent was singing R.E.M., Adele, U2, the Eagles, and the like. I spent the evening with two Australians and an English girl. Air conditioning, cheeseburger, R.E.M., and white people. Talk about a gringo day. I’m surprised someone hasn’t come knocking to revoke my travel visa. I also passed by these shops on the way home from Mogambo:

What I felt like today:

Day 12: Too Hot for Pants

It’s 9:30 AM and I’m back in my hotel room on the bed writing this post. Why? It’s too hot for pants. It’s only 9:30, and in my hotel lobby — not even outside — it’s too hot for pants. If this were Holland, that might fly, but not here. Pants are sort of compulsory. So this post is going to be sort of random, because that’s what happens when you’re voluntarily in your underwear an hour after breakfast. Also, you whine. So here goes.

Whine #1
I’ve finally had it with going the wrong way down a street 75% of the time. I mean, the law of averages says that I’d get it right at least 50% of the time. But not me. Nope. I walked past the Irish pub I had just eaten at at three times in order to find the proper street to go into town last night. It’s only two blocks from my hotel, as is the pub. I wonder if this is what people mean when they say their food is repeating on them.

Whine #2
Why are you asking if I need a motorbike into town when I just blew off the guy standing 2 feet from you? Do you think I really do need a ride but am waiting for the right guy to come along? I wish I could just spit this out, but then I realize that if they could speak decent English, they’d probably not be stuck offering rides on the street at 11 PM.

Whine #3
Beware more Asian stereotype banter: Contrary to popular belief, there are Asians that are bad at math. I know this because the street numbers do not go back and forth from one side of the street (even ones) to the other side (odd ones). It seems random. You can cross the street and go from #15 to #36. Why? Also, things will be progressing along swimmingly — 41, 43, 45 — then it will go 47A, 47B, 47C. Maybe it used to be one giant building that got split into three parts, but it doesn’t look that way. I bet someone was a bit sloshed and just skipped those three, then had to get creative. If they used calculus to determine street numbers, they’d probably do fine, but maybe because their educational system is superior and they probably learned to count at 8 months of age, they’ve sort of forgotten.

Whine #4
I want to go home. Not forever or anything, just to see my pussycats. Snugglepuss and Snuggleupagus.

Snagglepuss and Snuffleupags

Snugglepuss and Snuggleupagus. Even their freakin’ tushies are adorable. Go ahead. Adore.

I realize it’s a 45 minute drive from my folks’ house — where my car is — to the boarding place, plus an 18 hour flight, 10 hours of layovers, cabs, and ferries, and $1,500 price tag. But the heart wants what it wants, and I want my boys.

I asked at the front desk where you can buy a cat, or an “animal for the house.” Then I actually meowed. That’s what they actually call a cat — mèo — also adorable. They probably thought I was still drunk from the night before. Still, this didn’t translate, so I drew a cat face on the back of a business card. Apparently, this is not a popular tourist attraction, because they looked at me like I had just asked where I can take fencing lessons to fight the ninjas hiding in my closet. After about 10 minutes, the driver wrote down a street name where people sometimes sell them on the street, like oranges or little plastic Buddhas. People don’t buy pets here. It’s like cocaine. You sort of just have to know someone.

Whine #23
Yes, I know it should be Whine #5, but in the effort to blend in, my numbering system has stopped making any sense. They say communication is 85% non-verbal. Which means that people should understand at least 85% of what I say, even if they don’t speak any English. AND I’m Italian, and we rock the hand gestures, so that should bump it up to 90%. When I get home, I am going to wrote a peer-reviewed scientific paper debunking this theory.

Whine Q
Pointing. One finger? Rude. Two fingers? Not rude. This seems to be a universal truth. WTF? Particularly given that it’s the middle finger you add to go from “rude” to “not rude.” What people are basically doing is being rude (index finger) + telling people to go $#@! themselves (middle finger). This makes me secretly happy.

Whine &%$
I have one slot in my head for foreign languages. Not one for French, one for Spanish, and one for Russian. And whenever I’m trying to communicate with someone from any of those countries, the wrong language comes out. It’s like picking a street. You’d think I would get it right 33.3% of the time. But nope.

And finally, this is not a whine. On the television in the hotel restaurant, they had a creepy show on how potato chips are made, like those lame French shows on making cheese. Worst reality show ever. Anyhoo, the guy they were interviewing had a hairnet on — and a beardnet.

This also makes me secretly happy. Though I guess I should stop saying that if I’m posting it on the internet for all to see. And a man in a beardnet pointing with two fingers? Heaven.

Yesterday’s Massage
Speaking of another time I was not wearing pants… 234,000 VND is about $11 for a 45-minute hot stone massage for the back, neck, and shoulders. Yes, please. And at no extra charge? The buttocks. Not the part that refrigerator repairmen flash when they bend over to grab their tools. The part you grimace at when you put on a bathing suit after 35. Ladies, you know what I mean. And if you don’t — %$#@! you.

Not this.                                                          This.
  

It was delicious, however. Though wouldn’t you know, when I was on my stomach with my palms facing up, a stone in each palm, my nose began to itch. There must be nerve endings in your palms that go to your nose, so that every time your hands are occupied, the damn thing starts itching. I then got a clavicle rub on my back. I thought I was going to get felt up a bit, but I guess you have to pay a bit extra for that.

To recap — yesterday I got screwed by a taxi driver, spooned by a motorbike escort, and fondled by a masseuse. I think I need a cigarette!

When I read these posts before I publish them, I hear them in my own voice. This annoys me. I’m making an effort from here on out to hear them in the voice of Morgan Freeman.

UPDATE: It’s 12:18 PM and I still haven’t gone outside. I think I’m just venturing out to go eat today. My skin is 100 degrees for some reason. I’m also still in my underwear. I suppose if I’m spending a whopping $59 + taxes for this hotel room (my Hanoi room was only $29 per night!), I may as well get some use out of it.

Day 11: War Remnants Museum & Jade Pagoda

But first, a word about taxi drivers. Well, I’m trying to refrain from profanity, so I won’t post that word here, rather I’ll dispense pearls of wisdom so that you may profit from my experience. Speaking of profit—the only taxi driver that won’t fleece you naked (see photo of semi-nude sheep many posts ago) are the ones called by your hotel. The others will run the meter faster and faster until you have to dip into your 401k to pay the fare.

This happened yet again today, but I told the guy to let me out—which he did, in what the guide books surely call “Vietnam’s Compton.” Fortunately I wasn’t far from my destination, the Jade Pagoda. A guy on a bike offered to take me the rest of the way for 20,000 VND ($1). I accepted, and he promptly drove me 2 blocks. Ah, well.

See, I have been reticent to take motorbikes because I fear

• they will get into an accident, as people here drive like they’re on meth
• I will fall off the back
• They will take me to a warehouse, where I will be sold into sexual slavery in a Vietnamese mountain village

However, spooning a toothless stranger on a motorbike and holding on for dear life seems preferable at this point to hailing another taxi. Tomorrow I need one for a 30-minute ride to “Vietnam’s Chinatown,” but I’m offering a flat rate.

I thought people might be interested in what the Vietnamese are presenting about the “American Aggression,” though I suppose you can guess, as I could. The museum, like the one in Hanoi, was very one-sided (as all war museums are)—though when Side #1 includes 100s of photos of grotesque, deformed children; burned villages, temples and hospitals; mangled bodies of villagers of all ages; schools 40 feet underground for protection; and 70 year old men being tortured, what Side #2 has to say in its defense becomes a bit less compelling.

The first photo is my favorite, actually. Nice to know our troops never lost their sense of humor. What’s inside is poison gas. They actually had many types of “agents,” not just agent orange. Blue, pink, and other colors were options as well. I suppose it’s like handbags. Having only one color in your repertoire will just never do! If you click on the images, then click the magnifying glass your cursor becomes, you will be able to read what’s in the photos.

  

I was a bit disappointed in the Jade Pagoda, particularly since it cost me the price of a nice dinner out to get there, but here are a few photos. Others didn’t turn out very well. First is a lion — one of two guarding the pagoda. His mouth is open. If you put your ear to his eye teeth you can hear him whisper, “Do not fuck with this pagoda.”

Entrance

Here’s some guy. I’m too lazy to look up who, because I have a massage in 10 minutes. But no, it’s not Fu Man Chu, in spite of the moustache. 10 points for style, though.

Shrine

Day 11: Ho Chi Minh City

In case anyone was worried that North Vietnam destroyed any potential for capitalism in Saigon, I offer the following counter evidence (best when clicked on):
Exhibit B. The post office. POST OFFICE, people.

The city itself is a hodgepodge of sketchy Los Angeles, Monte Carlo, Chinatown, and any other nameless big city. Pagodas happily share the sidewalk with graffitied teardowns, Pizza Hut, and Louis Vuitton. Pastel Tube homes scatter themselves along the freeway on the way from the airport. As always, the airport surrounding area ain’t that hot.

There are many restaurants with “Lucky” or “Happy” in the title, and they seem to do quite well. I’m thinking of opening one called “Happy Go Lucky” and making a mint. People personalize their motorbike helmets and masks here – it’s part of their fashion. Given that that’s all people see of them so much of the time, it makes sense. It’s rare to see someone over 30 on a bike, and it’s rare to see a car, so I don’t know where the older folks are.

The only French street names that were kept here are, interestingly enough, French scientists such as Louis Pasteur and Marie Curie. Good on you, Ho Chi Minh! Someday we’ll have stuff like Britney Spears Street or Channing Tatum Avenue.

For my first meal, I went to an upscale restaurant / lounge called Xu, at the recommendation of Trip Advisor, Lonely Planet, and general online accolades. This meal cost me more than a massage, but it was amazing. If I’d known ahead of time, I might have skipped it, but my lemongrass sea bass skewers on a bed of caramelized onions and green beans was fabulous. Here’s the décor:
I would’ve taken a shot of my meal, but there are enough obnoxious photos of people’s food on the internet.

Other places I’ve eaten, which really aren’t much cheaper than Seattle — though I’m in the Beverly Hills neighborhood of Ho Chi Minh, so it’s understandable:

A French bakery as nice as stuff in Paris (thank you occupiers!)

Cupcakes. My favorite food group. Check the design on those puppies!

And places full of white folks where you can get an omelet, espresso, and orange juice for the low, low price of $15 (3x Hanoi).

There are also traces of Hanoi culture, though.
  

My hotel leaves something to be desired – no sink plug so no in-room laundry, a forgotten wake up call, the internet is often down and Facebook is sometimes banned here, and a shower that leaks onto the floor. Nothing fatal, but I’d expect better. Hanoi was amazing.

Today I visited the city mosque, which was quite plain, especially compared to Buddhist pagodas. No shoes, no tank tops, and no women allowed. They are only allowed around the side in this shabby room that looks into the main area through a screen. At least I wasn’t stoned to death for accidentally going in (in my defense, I looked for signs that said “No Dogs, No Women” but didn’t see any). A man ran up to me waving his arms and shouting something unintelligible – presumably that I skedaddle on out of there before Allah smites me with an eternity of damnation.

I’m now off to the War Remnants Museum, complete with air conditioning, and then I have a neck, back, and shoulder massage with hot stones for about $25. Eat your heart out.

Finally, if you are one of the very few who receive an old-fashioned post card, you better be %$#@! grateful, because I sweat out about a liter trying to find the place.

A sudden typhoon has taken over the city, and people are scurrying like mice for cover. That happens here, as if it isn’t humid enough when it’s not pouring. Anyhoo, a great excuse to take a taxi. “Xin chào!” (translation: Adios, bitches!)

Day 10: Flight to Ho Chi Minh

I saved 30% by buying my ticket in Hanoi the night before rather than Seattle. They do indeed know where you log in from and adjust their fare accordingly. Who says the early bird gets the worm? Maybe the worm should’ve stayed in bed. So the next time you want to book a flight, have someone in Uganda do it for you. I got the very last ticket, though, so you have to be careful.

Travel days aren’t that exciting, so to sum up:

• Yay!: Free baggage check. Oh, the days of yore!
• Boo!: Food stall stale fried rice with bits of what I can only assume are pig, with warm OJ
• Boo!: Flight is 90 minutes late due to technical issues. My laziness pays off, as I sat and watched the locals queue up three times in hopes of boarding while I sat, ate M&Ms, and edited photos on my PC.
• Boo!: $3 for said pack of M&Ms. For perspective, a bowl of pho bo (noodle soup with beef) is $2 – 2.50.
• Yay!: No shoe removal or PC unpacking for security check. The woman in line ahead of me was so thin her skin-tight jean legs didn’t resemble sleeves as much as finger puppets. Talk about being relegated to the children’s department in America.
• Boo!: No T&A, I mean TSA, to feel me up after I walk through the little metallic doorway.
• Yay!: Delicious saucy fish and noodles, plus watermelon, dragon fruit, and some yummy white thing like cantaloupe but sweeter and juicier. For a flight under two hours. It’s amazing how coveted and delicious food becomes when you are in an airport or on the plane. You lick the bag of an item you would turn your nose up at during any other situation. Salt-crusted trail mix with pretzel fragments, tooth-cracking corn nuts, and twigs? Yes, mam! Can I get two packets?

The Boos have it, ever so slightly.

I miss the international airports, with their shops and price-gauging restaurants and free internet and employees who speak at least a little English. Even here, though, my Pidgin English is better understood than my crappy, mispronounced Vietnamese. For all I know, I could be telling them that their pillowcase lays eggs left of the democracy butter churn.

A Note on Hanoi Street Names

The Old Quarter is at least 1,000 years old, and the streets are named after what they used to sell (silk, baskets, etc). This explains why a single street will change names every block or two, as the wares sold there shifted accordingly. This also explains why even the “detailed” maps of Hanoi only have a few of the many names a street might have. It’s not uncommon to have to walk three or four blocks before the streets you encounter are actually listed on the map. Of course, most names no longer relate to the goods the sell. If they were named today, they’d be called things like “Miniature Buddha Avenue,” “Knock-off Tee Shirt Lane,” and “Flip-flop Boulevard.” Not that there aren’t amazing authentic crafts here, they just get a bit lost among the trinkets, as quality is so often lost among quantity.

It seems the store names have taken on more accurate, yet peculiar, descriptions. I couldn’t figure out why several shops on a particular street were titled “Gecko.” I kept looking for that obnoxious Australian lizard hocking car insurance. Then I happened upon a hotel that had at least a dozen translucent lizards running up and down its elegant façade. Adorable, if a bit creepy. I opened the lobby doors to see if any had admitted themselves as guests. Nope—apparently only the odd bug has the audacity to ingratiate itself free of charge, like an unwanted relative turned up on your doorstep.

The streets are supposedly laid out like a Chinese checkerboard, though my impression was more like that of the L.A. freeway interchange or a pile of pho noodles.
There are more straight lines on Marilyn Monroe. I never did get used to navigating them. I never do, though due to their complexity, I had to stop every block to ensure I was going the right way (70% of the time, I was not). Locals took this opportunity to offer me a motorbike ride, a sticky rice ball, or a silk purse. You’d think I would have perfected my Vietnamese “No, thank you,” but I couldn’t even spit that out properly. What with my “Kiss Me, I’m Italian” looks, hopelessly Western outfits, melon-sized camera, and omnipresent map, I’d long given up on trying to blend in or be a cool tourist. I did find some irony in the situation, as I’d seen throngs of Asian tourists toting back-breaking cameras through Disneyland, scrutinizing the map of Tomorrowland. Here’s to 1980s Asian stereotypes.

Asian tourist and Long Doc Dong from the movie Sixteen Candles

Day 8: Floating Fishing Village in Halong

Each of these photos is HUGE if you click on them. i’d recommend it for ones like the panorama, or other detailed shots.

The final day in Halong Bay, we visited a traditional floating fishing village and pearl farm.We set out from our put-put boat on rowboats steered by old Vietnamese women. The ones that had to take three of us at a time didn’t look thrilled.The village itself reminded me of Hanoi in that each tiny, square house was brightly and uniquely colored, with laundry stung outside and at least one hammock in use. They were even outfitted for television. Several had numbers spray painted on them, which means that family was already set to be relocated. It was sad to think that the villages were being dismantled in order to preserve the site, though apparently the locals were as bad at tossing trash into the bay as the tourists. The village had one tiny school, which was in session (the building below), and a small souvenir shop that sold the same goodies I’d seen in 100 shops in Hanoi. Exotic, colorful birds cooed from ornate wooden cages that hung from an overhang on the large square dock. Then suddenly—Baby Monkeys! Now, I hate monkeys almost as much as cockroaches, but I must admit these rambunctious things were adorable. The shop owner was harried to shoo them away, as they apparently broke things in the shop as they tore through it like—well—monkeys in a china shop. You can hear him say that at the beginning. I missed the best footage of them jumping on the boat, but you can’t win ’em all.

I have to add a link to the monkey video I got later, as it’s uploading on Picasa and I need go get outta here. I have a couple others as well.

On the way to the pearl farm, we saw row upon row of floaters with ropes attached, which oysters clung to for dear life. An acre of water was covered with orderly lines of what seemed to be bowling or cannon balls, bobbing on the mildly rippling bay. A teenage girl on the dock was extracting pearls from the oysters that were remarkably consistent in size, color, and perfect shape. She didn’t even look up at us as we examined her work and our cameras clicked away. On the adjacent dock was the pearl store.

We again boarded the little boats that took us from the Dragon Pearl to the village, steered under massive archways that were eroded over millions of years by the water, then finally to our little put put, which took us back to Dragn Pearl for our final voyage.
  Aaaaand this is why there are no photos of me, in addition to the fact that other folks on the trip still have to email theirs to me.

We then returned to the mainland, and boarded the van for home. A few parting shots of Mr. Smiley, our fearless tour guide. The ship captain is on the right below.

And my other best friend. I spent the last 30 minutes before leaving the boat showing this fan what is underneath my shirt (you get better air flow that way). 

Back Home

On the way we stopped in Yen Duc village to watch a traditional water puppet show. Unfortunately, this one was the equivalent of a kindergarten play and not at all representative of a real performance. The speakers cracked and the water was brownish. Still, the countryside was beautiful and there was cheap ice cream, so no complaints from me. Driving back to the hotel, we passed cows eating garbage at the side of the road, women in short skirts and heels riding side saddles on speeding, weaving motorbikes, tuk tuks, and aluminium and wood shacks huddled along the mud-colored river that crossed the freeway. Tarps covered the areas that had no walls left, which reminded me of the slums visible from the train into Serbia.

I returned home with an unexpected souvenir – one I also managed to acquire my first few days in Eastern Europe in 2003. They should call it “Traveler’s Foot,” because every traveler I know has passed it on, yet I don’t know a single athlete who has had it. I also discovered that, at some point on the trip, my headphone coverings had actually melted. Melted. So when I say it was hot as %$#@!, don’t snigger.