Food. (or, A Weekend in NYC)

I love New York. Even when it's July steamy--stinking, slippery wet with summer--there's this frenetic movement of people and ideas that make the place pulsate with cool. I love seeing how people are dressing themselves nowadays. I love how shoes can give away exactly where certain people will get off the subway train. I love that you can have a $16 cocktail in a gorgeous bar, then go across the street for steamed dumplings. Five for a dollar. I love how anytime I come back, every little thing has changed, but all the big things, the important things, like landmarks, intersections, and people are all the same.
I would guess in fact that little has changed since Nick Carroway wandered into a drunken revelry at the Plaza. Even as every facade adapts its outward appearance to keep up with the times, the City at its heart remains: distinctive, robust, gritty, and gorgeous, with a razor-sharp and enticing edge. When I am not in New York, I feel like I'm missing something breathtaking; it is something beyond the realm of mortals, for which real life simply must be suspended.

And by "real life," I mean "normal diet," so bear with me as I recount the gastronomic exploits of the weekend... we did well for ourselves.

We arrived at LaGuardia on Friday morning, and went downtown to check into the hotel. It is the first time I have stayed in a nice hotel in the city, so that in itself was a special treat, certainly an upgrade from my old East Village apartment or my friends' couches when I was back for visits. First stop on the tour was a rustic little eatery near Gramercy Park called "Friend of a Farmer," which uses exceedingly fresh ingredients and is intended to evoke country inns from upstate. I don't think I've ever eaten such delicious carrots. From there we wandered south through Alphabet City before heading west to Greenwich Village. I mused along the way at the new shopfronts and favorite parks. The Village is great for interesting doorways, which make a good distraction on walks. From there we meandered into Soho, briefly braving the Broadway throngs to go smell cheese in Dean & Deluca and looking for jeans in a couple boutiques. We stopped for a Masala Dosa snack on Prince St. Delicious.

Friday evening was all set up to be spectacular. Back at the hotel, we decked ourselves out and took a cab up to Lincoln Center to see a fantastic staging of Rodgers and Hammerstein's "South Pacific." I was enthralled by the performance; lost in the music and I was transported back to my sailing days, melodiously nostalgic for those endless sunsets and the undulating blue upon blue.

After the show, we went for wine and cheese at Caselula, one of my favorite little spots in midtown. They have an extensive cheese list, paired with an equally interesting wine selection. Each cheese arrives accompanied by a nibble of fruit or nuts or sauce or popcorn... an assortment of flavors to set the mind ablaze. Add a charcuterie plate with cornichons and more nuts, plus some bread... I was in heaven. We ordered a leafy salad to aid in the digestive process.

Saturday we slept embarrassingly late in that luxurious, deep, feather bed. Around 2pm, we made our way to Chinatown and ended up lunching over mediocre Vietnamese food. The hardest thing about traveling in Southeast Asia is knowing that the Pho will never be as good again. I got stuck on a desperate, poorly-timed hunt for a dress, so after lunch we headed up Broadway trying to accomplish that. There are few things dumber than buying a dress (a) in New York (b) on a Saturday (c) in the summer (d) when you really need it (e) for that evening. In one store, to the beat of pounding hip music, I nearly succumbed to the multiple layers of wrapping and ties on a piece of clothing that looked devastatingly chic on the in-store model (possibly also the manager), but looked on me like a poorly-cut rag collection. Maybe I was just moving too fast because of the music, but I swear that thing started growing and tried to choke me. I emerged from the dressing room feeling like I'd snorted cocaine, had a seizure, and lost all my self-confidence. (nb. I know nothing about cocaine. I conjecture based on popular media interpretation.) As I exited, the statuesque dressing room attendant smiled condescendingly. "So, how did everything go?" Several hours later, we'd missed cocktails with friends (SH and RK, I am so sorry), and I was triumphantly sporting a new white frock... at a cost that makes me go as pale as the fabric itself.

We did manage to make it to dinner with my friends John and Marina, and catching up with them over good food and drinks got me back in an amiable mindset. I also wanted to see an old buddy/colleague(?), Brian, who's now cooking at a wildly popular and acclaimed place in Brooklyn. He bent over backwards to make our experience deliciously memorable, and we sampled through a menu including a zucchini tart, corn salad, beets, duck-crackling (!!) encrusted tilefish, and perfectly tender octopus served with olives and cauliflower. Especially notable was the tender braised lamb shoulder, which had a spicy rub offset by a delightfully sour yogurt and a Greek-ish salad. The house-made pasta, which we tried both as a primavera and with a bolognese, was a great lighter plate, offset by the rare-cooked pork chop with cheese grits. Apparently the pork has been getting a lot of positive press, so much so that people don't venture any further on the rather eclectic and earthy menu. Their loss. Even on that busy night, our service was stellar, the wine delicious, and the atmosphere buzzing with conviviality. I felt like I was perhaps in some friend's backyard birthday party in France. And that was before the desserts arrived: chocolate cake, a heavenly bay leaf and blueberry (panna cotta? pudding? mousse?), and a crumble...
The whole situation was unspeakably flattering and generous. We left suitably impressed and thoroughly satisfied, and for my part I was beside myself with happiness to be in the company of old friends.

After dinner we scooted into the Lower East Side to meet Matt, who was kind (and persistent) enough to procure a reservation at Milk & Honey, my favorite bar in town. It's a tiny little speakeasy with an air of reproachable cool, lit by candles and serviced by the most talented bar men one can hope to find. The waitress, perfectly hip in her own laid-back way, comes off as a bartender understudy. She's knowledgeable about the cocktails in the manner that a Civil War buff is conversant about personality traits of dead generals. This is not a place to order my usual "G&T." I was talked into a Sidecar, the holy-of-holy cocktails in a goblet as far as I'm concerned, and everyone else rounded out the orders with an East Side Cocktail, a Penicillin, Prescription Julep, and a Sazerac. Drinks for small sipping, particularly at $16 a pop. A couple hours later, feeling very posh and chic and cultured, cool, and broke, we traipsed out into the night for more drinks, revelry, etc. It's a city where anything can happen, and thank God, usually does.

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.

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?