Backtracking: Danang Shrooms

As I endeavor to pull my life together in Australia, I think back to the weird and exciting events of my recent travels. There's a particularly good story that took place during the exodus from Hoi An.

We left Hoi An in a rush so that I could attend a hastily scheduled doctor's appointment at a Western-quality, Western-doctor-staffed medical clinic in Danang. I had forwarded my parents a number of horror pics of my engorged leg, and their distress quadrupled when Jacksonville-based doctors said the leg was in a state of cellulitus (ick) and I was probably harboring a staphyloccocal infection that could cause permanent disfigurement or amputation. These are awesome things to hear about one's leg while one is trying to enjoy the charms of the developing world.

Dad emailed to remind me that I'd be uglier with an indefinitely mottled leg. Mom emailed to tell me that she'd researched every medical facility within 500 miles of me. Their scare tactics worked. Thank you, Parents. Off to a doctor I went, knowing nothing they could do would be as harrowing as getting the first stitches of my life on a newspaper-covered "operating table" in a government hospital from a doctor who spoke nothing like English. As it unraveled, a cool $114 (US dollars, please) got me in with a doctor who confirmed the Jacksonville diagnosis and out with two weeks' worth of knock 'em dead antibiotics.

Multiple choice: Complete this sentence.

Moms are always:
(a) right
(b) omniscient
(c) badgering
(d) irreplaceable
(e) all of the above

We had several hours to kill before our plane to Hanoi, so we asked the nurses for a restaurant recommendation, and were soon in a taxi headed to someplace called Ashira or Asima or something like that. They had said something about mushroom soup. Sounded appealing. We walked in the door to find no less than thirty waitstaff occupying a space that could accommodate maybe 60 wealthy customers, of which there were currently five, plus us. Picture that we are carrying our backpacks, dressed for a morning of milling around Hoi An. We don't smell particularly bad, but I'm not exactly wearing strappy heels that show off my perfect pedicure. And we certainly can't communicate. Andrew mimes scooping out of an imaginary bowl to indicate we want soup. We are seated on the second floor.

When the manager came to deliver our menus and our peanuts (appetizer? garnish? to be eaten with chopsticks?), we learned that the restaurant had opened the night before, hence all the bustling fanfare with the waiters. There were no less than four people servicing only our table, and no less than ten guys at anytime lined along the wall staring, watching, waiting for us to flinch so they could whisper comments to one another. My nerve-wracking travels in India herded themselves into my mind. We opened the menu, and found... mushrooms. Page after page of pictures of mushrooms. When I master wines, then cheeses, I'll have to turn attention to mushrooms. Apparently there is huge variation and variety, and certain Asian restaurants revel in it. When it came to ordering, we were befuddled. The manager helped us to select a "very nutritious broth" and three different types of mushrooms, as well as some cabbage. I ordered a bottle of wine (which was terrible).

The meal proceeded thus: A huge steaming pot of broth was placed in the center of our table over a purpose-built burner. Plates of mushrooms and cabbage arrived at intervals. A waiter whose sole purpose was to watch us eat mixed the shrooms into the broth, and theatrically ladeled this soup into our individual bowls. Three sips later, when our broth levels got low, she scooped more in. In case there was a moment this dedicated scooper couldn't handle, there were also individuals devoted to refilling our wine and water glasses at least once every minute. Thus the next three quarters of an hour passed: Bite, bite, scoop, flourish, guys along wall snicker, bite, sip, eat a peanut while wine is topped off. Andrew, who embraces awkward moments, enjoyed himself thoroughly. I tried to focus on earthy flavors.

Oh, but it wasn't over. After the broth went away and our dessert of fresh pineapple was gone, the bill came. And not only was the bill breathtakingly high by Vietnamese standards, but we didn't have the cash to pay it. The restaurant did not accept credit cards. I start to imagine what it would be like to spend some time washing dishes for this place. Once again we summoned the manager and explained our predicament. Ten minutes later, Andrew, I, our backpacks, and the manager were all cozy together in a taxi, combing the city center for an ATM. One that would take an American bank card.

We arrived at the airport with time to spare, thank heavens, and as I hobbled onto the Hanoi-bound plane, I could almost hear South Vietnam breath a collective sigh of relief that my bumbling self was headed out.

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.

Danang: Where No One Speaks English

I've debated at length whether or not to post my favorite picture of the nasty wound that by this time has become the defining event of the trip. It is a stark comparison shot showing the healthy, normal knee alongside the engorged, stitched, red, and oozy one. Fortunately for the squeamish, I think I'll err on the side of mystery and spare everyone the gore. Suffice to say that three days of rest felt nice but changed little, and by the time I hobbled into the airport at Nha Trang, I had become the sort of oddity that stops all (pedestrian) traffic. Had I thought ahead and dressed the part, I might have earned some pocket change posing as a handicapped beggar.

Yet onward we press, though my leg be rotund and discolored and aching, and though I pick my way ever more slowly through the treacherous zooming traffic. All part of the healing process, I say!

***For those of you who are terribly concerned about my well being, please rest assured that I will, it turns out, survive. Leg intact. For those of you who prefer suspense as a literary device, I offer this: Things were looking grim. I penned a truncated will just in case friends and family needed tools to deal with a sad ending.***

If we had been still in Singapore, land of beautiful law-abiding wealthy people, I likely would have been quarantined on the spot and fined for being disabled in public. But in Vietnam, happily, they let infected gimps like me into airports and onto planes. In short order, we were soaring over the rice paddies on our way to the country's third largest city, Danang. This commercial, sprawling, architecturally vapid place is the gateway to one of Vietnam's most charming towns, Hoi An. We hopped in a taxi, pointed to the map and address of the bus stop, and asked the driver to take us there. He spoke zero English. Smiling and nodding, he brought us to an industrial sort of road far from our target. After several minutes of frustrated gesticulating, we gave up and set out on foot. Surely someone could give us directions!

People tried, they really did. As we wandered from metal shop to car dealership to restaurant to (small jail??), everyone was happy to express his or her opinion about what we were looking for and how far we needed to go to get there. With answers ranging from 3km to 100m to "you here!", and no taxi in sight in this scrubby part of town, I was beginning to feel a creeping worry. And as it rose up from my stomach to tighten my chest and force me to breathe deeply, I assuaged my nervous mind that (a) this is why I do not travel alone-anymore-to developing countries where I do not speak a lick of the local language and (b) it was noon. We had plenty of time until real crisis.

Finally I suggested we try our luck in a bank, so we poked in, hapless as sheep and with backpacks in tow. None of the tellers understood us in the least, but one of the customers stood up and said he could be of assistance. God bless him. And he was quite a help, though his command of English began and ended with him telling us to follow him. We crossed the two-lane highway of a street, and waited on the curb with him until he flagged down a tiny yellow bus, presumably the right one, and he shuffled us on it, leaving us at this point to fend again for ourselves. We were the only non-locals aboard, and certainly the only Caucasians. Oh, the staring. I think the staring is the only thing I really hate about traveling outside my comfort zone. I can handle all manners of anxiety and I can manage an ever-growing set of insane situations, but just don't watch me! I feel like an animal in a zoo... "Oh isn't it cute how she tightens her backpack straps! And see now she's checking her watch! Just like we do, honey!" Fifteen awkward minutes elapsed on the local bus, but true to our helper's word, we alighted at the city bus station. From here we had only to follow the trail of other dizzied backpackers to a bus labeled "Hoi An." Our safe haven, and a break from the infernal walking, was only an hour away.

Nha Trang

I spent nearly all of today bedridden in hopes that the God-awful swelling in my leg would subside. Things are improving, but I make a crummy invalid. I'm annoyed to be sleeping through an adventure for the sake of my health.

Yesterday we took a bus down from Dalat to the coastal city of Nha Trang. Forsaking the details of every painful pothole--and I assure you I recall every one--suffice to say that the highway system of Vietnam is a couple public works programs from completion. For about ten miles, the entire "freeway" was a dirt trail where there was a clear attempt at road construction, but mostly there were just huge rocks in the road. The bus either dodged or rolled right over the boulders, depending on their size, and if we slowed even slightly, a buzzing fleet of motorcycles swarmed past on either side. Fearless, those guys. The trip did take us down through some beautiful mountain country. There were high waterfalls sliding down sheer granite faces and sweeping views of the valley floor when we descended out of the clouds that blanketed the highest peaks on the journey. The vegetation, deciduous largely comprised of pine trees, reminded me of the Cascade mountains of North America. In fact, it was not until we got down into the valley's small villages and began to see fields of those squat, wide-leafed palms that seem to me so distinctly Vietnamese.

Nha Trang is a popular tourist destination, one that we intended to avoid, but if one must sit on one's butt all day, at least one can sit one's butt on a pretty beach. Andrew took stock of the town while I stayed in the hotel reading, sleeping, rolling to my side, sleeping some more. He reports white sand beaches, a nice seabreeze, and less aggressive hawkers and touts than expected. Overall, I think the touts of the world could take a cue from the Vietnamese. Just like everywhere else, these guys/women/children are out trying to make a buck, targeting foreign tourists in particular. But unlike everywhere else I've traveled, the Vietnamese touts seem perfectly happy to walk away. For example, we were sitting on the open-air terrace of a coffee shop the other day when a woman approached with her box of cigarettes, gum, candies, and other sundries. She smiled, said "Allo," and pushed close to show off her wares. I smiled back and said, "No, thank you." To which she replied, "Okay. Bye, see you later!" And she moved along to casually proffer at the next table. It was remarkable!

We did find an interesting spot for dinner, Luc Camh, where we BBQed our own seasoned vegetables, beef, and squid on a little wood-fired grill that was brought to the table. Our order of spring rolls turned out to be a plate of nearly twenty little fried rolls. We ate like kings for less than $10. Precisely what I needed after lying in bed all day!

I hope to make better use of the beach tomorrow... maybe find myself a cabana... and after a bit more of this taking-it-slow plan, we'll get back on the road.

Dalat

A six hour bus ride turned into an eight hour journey over an extraordinarily potholed highway. We arrived in Dalat after midnight the night before last, and although the bus company provided a free taxi to our final destination, the hotel gates were closed and lights were off at the two places where we'd requested rooms. Finally the taxi driver suggested his friend's place, and we settled into the sorta clean twin beds of a pretty sparse, relatively overpriced ($10!) room. It was clean enough. Never mind the peephole in the bathroom door. I was tired, limping and bleeding enough that I would have slept on a comfortable moss patch.

In the morning we set out to find better housing, and under the influence of several Panadol, I felt competent to tackle the adventure. Dalat is a hill station, initially established by the French as a cooler respite from the heat of Saigon. Back alleys evolve into narrow stairways winding from road to higher road. There's a large dammed lake in the center of town, which was probably quite pretty when it had water it. This year it is a mud pit because they opened the dam to facilitate a bridge expansion project. All over are signs of an eclectic local spirit. There is a huge radio tower that has been lighted and outfitted with a ball to resemble the Eiffel Tower. Cafes cater to artsy tourists, and adventure companies offer rock climbing, hiking, and abseiling trips. I was looking forward to a bike ride to a trail head to hike 5 dormant volcanic peaks. By the end of the afternoon, it was clear I would be doing no such trekking.

We did manage to crawl and climb all over the "Crazy House," built beginning in 1990 by a Vietnamese architect who wanted to bring her people back to nature. The house is a 30,000 square foot exploding plaster tree, with branches and limbs providing the stairways and overpasses that allow you to navigate from pod to pod. Rooms (which you can book for $35 a night) are about as kitchy as can be. There are mirrors on all surfaces, ceilings especially, and creepy plaster animals with glowing red eyes serve as chimneys. I've attached a picture to jog your imagination, and I encourage a Google-image search to get a better of idea of just how nuts this place is.

We found ourselves fantastically clean and modern accommodations in the Dream Hotel, aptly named. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Dung, are wonderful people who run a tight operation. I was happy to hobble home to clean sheets and a well-appointed bathroom. I was even comfortable enough to make the dreaded call home: "Mom, don't worry, but I got hit by a motorcycle."

When I woke up the next morning I learned that my resourceful mother, had used scanty information to track down contact information and email Mrs. Dung. After breakfast, she instructed me to go get dressed; we were going to the hospital. The government-run hospital here in Dalat is tidy and bright, full of locals, many minorities hill tribes, all wide-eyed and strained-looking. They appraised my situation and couldn't figure out what was so dire about my situation that I was dragging my leg around like a ghoul. Mrs. Dung is an absolute saint. Without her translating, the whole attempt at medical aid would have been crazy. The doctors spoke little English, and the system for triage and patient handling seems as random as the use of accent marks in Vietnamese writing. I got an x-ray to verify the patella is intact (it is!), and then they ushered me into a little room for stitches. I've watched people get stitches in American emergency rooms. They don't look happy. I watched the clouds pass in the window as the doctor stuck me with the lidocaine syringe and I thought, "Well. Now I've really done it."

If there's one medical procedure I might trust in the developing world, stitches are it. Doctors see a lot of lacerated skin, and this particular man made quick work of the four stitches binding my knee back together. He iodined the wound, and sent me on my way with gauze and a prescription for painkillers, antibiotics, and anti-inflammatory drugs. And, I was surprised to learn, the whole experience was free, paid for by the Vietnamese government. I'm still limping pitifully, because the knee joint is swollen and bruised, but a few more days of sending Andrew on all my errands, and I should be functional again (thank you, Rew!).

Cu Chi Tunnels and Motorbike Missiles

The last morning in the Saigon area was spent touring the Cu Chi Tunnels, a 200 km network of underground rooms and passageways that housed the Viet Cong headquarters from which the 1968 Tet Offensive was launched. The tunnels, part of a subterranean system under much of the country, was a vital component of the guerrilla tactics that so hampered US forces. The Marines in fact specially trained soldiers as tunnel rats to go down into the mole-holes armed with a flashlight and knife. No wonder that some of the most traumatized veterans were the ones sent into the dark to kill with their bare hands anything that moved. The tunnels were never effectively infiltrated.

Our local guide, Mr. Thong (see right), is a proud native of Cu Chi and a wounded veteran of the fighting that took place. He described in detail the punji stake pits and explosive booby traps that the villagers devised from GI rubbish. "The American--big country, strong country--" he explained, "They bring lots of Budweiser and when they throw away the can, we pick up and put bomb inside. We recycle!" The jungle surrounding the village was rife with spear lined holes that were covered with brittle branches and leaves. Our guide explained that they wanted to maim, not kill soldiers, because "they go home to America and show the family, the friends. Look what the Vietnamese can do." So deeply satisfied was Mr. Thong with his peoples' war effort. Using clever ingenuity, they thwarted the most powerful of military forces.

The experience was a provoking juxtaposition to the War Remnants Museum, and was fairly nauseating in its own rite. I was somewhat appalled that Mr. Thong, knowing Americans were part of his audience, would be so blatant with his opinions. Of course he thinks of himself as a patriot against foreign aggression, so much so that he has rationalized beyond the humanity of his own actions. I was sickened by the pride in his voice as he described watching an American soldier die, even as I felt some sorrow for him when he told us about the death of his mother and siblings. He was happy to show off his battle wound, and tell us the details of his life in the tunnels. When we arrived at the half-blown up US tank, he encouraged us to climb aboard for pictures. He explained in gross detail the way spikes tear a leg when set at different angles in a pit. Ego loosens the lips better than any torture.

War is hell.
------------------------
Back in Ho Chi Minh City, we had an hour and a half to catch a bus to Dalat. We downed a noodle-soup lunch at Pho 2000 (which claims fame for having served lunch to President Clinton in 2000). I haggled for some tank tops in the marked (gypped again). We began to cross the last major street between us and our hotel, our bags, and our 6-hour bus ride up into the mountains.

Let's do this in slow motion (envisioning the classic Frogger format): I look to the left. I pick the perfect split second to skip between motorcycles. I dodge a dump truck. Hop across twenty more lanes of motorcycle madness. At the-rare!-concrete median I muse that it's not even rush hour. Traffic is coming from the right now. I do a couple more quick glances to the right, and begin weaving through the next twenty lanes. A truck is coming. I slow down. My moment comes... I step... I hear Andrew yell "SARAH!" I am blindsided by an Aussie tourist driving salmon-like against the traffic in the middle of the street.

They say time slows down in traumatic moments like this, but it wasn't until later when Andrew gave me his version of the play by play that I knew I'd been dragged for nearly five feet on my knee. The guy stopped long enough to yell "Are you okay?" And I screamed "No!" Andrew cursed the guy, and we continued our dash through the now-stopped traffic to the sidewalk. No sense hanging out in the middle of the raging river.

On the sidewalk, I took one look at the jagged gash across my kneecap, burst into tears, and was ushered by the street vendors into a nearby pharmacy. The pharmacist was a genuine saint. She took one look at the blood dripping on her tile floor, collected some first aid equipment and set to cleaning me up. We were on our way in no time, back to the hotel, into a taxi, onto a bus. It wasn't until a rest stop in the middle of absolutely nowhere that I looked at the wound and realized proper medical help was probably a good idea.

How's that for a cliff hanger?

Ho Chi Minh City

Midnight in Saigon.

I'm feeling sort of sick and achey, mostly in my swollen throat and head, which I'd like to attribute to the interminable dust and particulate matter kicked up into the city air by the relentless brigade of motorbikes in this city (see picture). The things are famously ruthless and everywhere, like hornets on wheels, with little regard for traffic light patterns, and no qualms about riding any which way on the sidewalks. The theme of navigating Ho Chi Minh is playing an advanced and cynical game of 'Frogger' as one hops across the street from safety to safety. The symbiotic chaos of pedestrian and vehicle traffic is sort of fun, so long as one musters up some grit, sets the determined jaw half a block in advance, and assumes the buggers operate on self-interest. They wouldn't actually hit me, would they?

By no means quiet at any hour, the city's frenetic pace does slow at night, and walking home last night (Saturday night), our little residential neighborhood was positively tranquil. We had been out people watching over Indian food and then beers at a bar geared towards unruly Westerners. 'Guess the nationality' was a fun activity, and the cover band's gritty-voiced lead reviewed all the hits from 'Oooo Baby It's a Wild World' to 'Brown-eyed Girl.'

We set off to the Cuchi tunnels today, and from there on to Dalat. Our two days in HCMC have been largely successful--museums, cafes, shopping, and wandering. I negotiated a rock-bottom price on flip-flops to replace the broken ones boring into my toe, and I snagged some knock-off Puma sneakers in the deal. We relaxed over iced coffees and hashed out itinerary ideas (firmed up nothing, of course).

Of more gravity in our schedule were our trips to the Reunification Palace (formerly the President's Palace, site of the famous helicopter evacuations in the hectic last days of April, 1975) and the War Remnants museum. Both obviously presented a starkly different perspective on the Vietnam War than the gloss-over I got as an American schoolkid. I wasn't really prepared for the guilt, though. To these nationalistic and proud people, the 'American War' was an absolutely unjustified, brutal act of aggression for the purpose of propping up a despotic and nepotistic leader, Diem. As you walk around the War Remnants 'War Crimes' section, viewing photos of the most atrocious and stomach churning acts of depraved violence, it's hard to see the American perspective. The pictures were just awful. A Vietnamese POW being chucked out of a flying helicopter. A GI holding the head and dripping skin of an obliterated peasant. A cleft-lipped girl holding her limbless brother. What the hell were we thinking with that Agent Orange stuff anyway? I realize there was a biased viewpoint at work here--the museum is owned and run by the government--and the goal was to shock and sober. Still I was surprised that I who was once a student of Vietnam media had never seen 98% of the gory, terrible images on exhibit. I was nauseous and had to go outside for air.

Back on happier notes, other HCMC highlights included drinks at the rooftop bar of the Rex hotel. Pho at the tiniest of street stalls in a locals-only back alley (not a breath of English here!). A great meal at the cavernous and bustling Quan An Ngoc restaurant.

I like the vibe of this town. It puts NYC's 'never sleep' maxim to shame. With breathable air, this could be a really nice place. Real sidewalks would be fun too.

More to come,
Sarah