Hoi An

I've fallen behind in my posts. I'm sorry. The paradox of writing while traveling is that travel is, by necessity, a detachment. One tries to immerse oneself in the moment, rather than holding on to home and comfort. The past wanes dimmer, and it grows hard to drum up the motivation to sit down and share.

All that said, let's do Vietnam justice.

If you travel to Vietnam, go to Hoi An. Yes, it's touristy. Sure, it's a bit on the expensive side. Go anyway. It is just great.

We arrived via bus, and wandered from the station into the Old Town. Historically, this was a hub for silk trading, so it's full of beautiful old buildings, Chinese great houses, and charmingly narrow alleyways. The Thu Bon River runs under an arched footbridge (used by motorcycles as well as pedestrians, of course), and tourists gather for obligatory photos on a pretty little Japanese covered bridge. At certain times, the whole downtown area is closed to motor traffic, and the ancient Oriental architecture feels almost fake in its prettiness.

We checked into an alright hotel on An Hoi, which is a small island connected to town by the "footbridge," and then we set out in search of food. Half a block later we settled into couches in a breezy, Mediterranean-style cafe, ordered up some pricey delicacies, and played chess. Delightful.

Aside from its picturesque buildings, Hoi An is famous these days for food and for tailoring. Most storefronts offer at least one of these forms of indulgence, and if they're not, they're art galleries. On a tip from another traveler, Andrew and I signed up for the Red Bridge Restaurant cooking class, which promised a trip through the local markets and an organic farm to collect ingredients for a five hour cooking class. We started early, meeting up with our chef-guide Phi, who trained in a rather intensive and exclusive vocational program in Hanoi. First to the organic farm, where neat little rows of greens were planted in a manner distinctly reminiscent of perfectly spaced rice paddies. We collected some green onions, bean sprouts, mint, and saw coriander. Then on to the market, where we found meat and prawns, and got a quick lecture about MSG. "You hate your life?" Phi asked. "Buy this."

Groceries in tow, we took a van to the Red Bridge restaurant and set to preparing a feast of a lunch. First off, we started the thin beef stock that is the basis for Pho, Vietnam's ubiquitous and delicious national dish. Next we learned to make rice noodles from the paste that is formed if you leave rice to dissolve in water for days. Absolutely painstaking work, the fresh-rice noodle making. Not only does it demand several days forethought, but then also a slow and precise process of forming, steaming, and then cutting the noodles. Makes Italian pasta from scratch look like lazy work (it's not)! Next up was the curried prawns wrapped in banana leaves, a pretty and simple, savory dish which I will find occasion to use. Next we learned to properly chop a series of vegetables to make a mango and red pepper salad with a light, salty dressing and sesame seeds. Finally we finished the assembly of the Pho... stock with noodles, veggies, and meat. And we ate and ate and ate, lounged in the sun, then took a boat back up the river to town.

In the evening, after a small dinner at a market stall, I decided to indulge in Hoi An's other specialty. I picked a tailor based solely upon a pretty dress hanging in the store window, and was promptly in the able hands of Mrs. Kim Phoung, who speaks quite passable English, and has a heart of gold. She carefully guided me through the process of picking fabrics and cuts for a little hooded jacket and a green silk cocktail dress, then took expert measurements and heard me out as I described important design details such as an interior pocket in the jacket. She would have the items ready by 3pm the following day.

Unfortunately I woke up the next morning to terrifying, motherly emails suggesting that my still swollen leg indicated a serious infection. Several stateside doctors had looked at pictures of the wound and reported grim predictions about future disfigurement if I didn't get some powerful medicine. As is so often the case, Mom was right, and I booked a doctor's appointment at a Western medical clinic in Danang.

By 11am I was at Mrs. Phoung's door, wondering if she could do me the special favor of expediting my order. By the way, we had discussed her making a duplicate bathing suit from one I had with me, and if she could get that done by 3pm also, that would be just swell. As it turns out, Mrs. Phoung doesn't make bathing suits, but she has a friend that does, so we hopped on her motorbike and drove across town through a warren of tiny streets until we arrived at the shop of another tailor, this place notable because it was strewn with Lycra instead of silk. The woman took my measurements, looked at my original, offered to make 2 for $20. I picked out fabric. Then Mrs. Phoung reminded her friend of the 3pm deadline, and the friend laughed. Nevermind.

Back at the original shop twenty minutes later, Mrs. Phoung got a call from her friend. "Okay, I'll do it." While we waited for her delivery, Mrs. Phoung shared with me a snack of warm, cooked, spiced snails that she bought from a street vendor. She showed me how to use a sharpened twig to reach up into the tiny spiral shell, pierce the animal, and pull it out to eat. Her daughter showed me the best way to peel sections of a grapefruit. At 3pm I was the proud new owner of a specially made mini-wardrobe, and while I was waiting in the shop for a last minute alteration on the dress, Mrs. Phoung for the first time noticed how swollen my leg really was. Immediately she jumped into action, ran to the back of the shop (which is also her home), and found a tiger-balm-like ointment that she rubbed on my calf. It was never clearly explained that a topical salve would not strike at the deep infection.

As we sped in a taxi to Danang, I marveled at the magic of Hoi An. In such a seemingly serene place, extraordinary magic is unfolding in the hands of extremely hard working entrepreneurs. From food to ambiance to clothing, the place has a deft grasp on what will make a good tourism destination, and even the commercialism of it all is downplayed by the charm of the culture and the genuine nature of the locals. I was smitten.