Nescafé is the Answer

(Special to Mel Smyth, who is a favourite word-making inspiration, especially in txrt, FB, another short form. The Jonathan Swift of txt, Mel is. When Beth Orton asked Terry Callier how they might sing a duet together, he said: "Well, I guess, I just try to sing like you and you try to sing like me." [see her EP "Best Bit"] This is how I feel when I exchange written words with Mel.)

(And of course, it's really tastier to read this with all photos included at www.minglefreely.com, all you Facebookers.)

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OK, just made my own Nescafé at the bar, bitches. As always, I am the first to rise. Including the help. 

Me. 

The only other person up on this tourist, party boat Chris and I somewhat misguidedly signed on for, shambled into the bar/restaurant, hearing me tink-tink-tinkling around behind the bar, looking for the right gear. The timing was critical. Fortunately, I'd figured out how to boil water and liberally jiggle a pile of instant coffee into a cup, before acknowleding her correctly-predicted look of distinct worry: "Oh no. Wait," she begged, after surveying my heap of brown powder. I smiled cheerfully, and nodded perfunctorily, while she tried to figure out how to amend this critical failure to accomodate, but before she could wake the entire staff to be at my service -- blam -- coffee was happening in my cup. Vietnamese hospitality is great, but you cannot, must not, stop my roll, bitches. I was up first. That always trumps, world.

Ha Long Bay, after a funny touristy trip to "authentic fishing village." I jumped in. I didn't plan on it, but I did. Which is the best way, by the way. Yeah, it was brutally cold. I'd do it again. The rule: Never, ever stick your toe in.

On the topic of coffee: Some have been privvy to my rant about Americans and coffee and how, since the dawn of Starbucks we act like we invented drinking coffee, The fact is, like so many things, we as a culture took a peaceful, meditative activity and turned it into a job, a competition, the conduit being those spectacularly myopic cardboard rings (ooh, I've wanted to write this for a long time) that help us not burn our gentle little fingie-wingies. Fortunately, lots of other places haven't lost the Meaning of Coffee: Sit (or stand) still. Maybe have a chat. Get a little jolt. Live for a minute. Get back to what you were doing. 

I remember trying to get a cup of to-go coffee in rural England 16 years ago. Went into a pub and asked for some coffee in a to-go cup. Dude was like: "We don't have any." I was like: "Wha? But..." It seriously took me years to understand that it was just inconceivable to him that somebody would not sit down to drink a cup of coffee. So sit down and drink your coffee, my friend. Let the world stand still for A Moment or two.

Ha Long Bay: Soon I'll put up some wacky #hyperlapse videos. 

Anyway -- Nescafé rules the world, apparently. What I didn't really know is that it's also delicious. I'm not breaking down my espresso station at home just yet, mind you, but I might get a jar of Nescafé to keep around, you know, for Auld Lang Syne.

Thanks to brother for the photo.

Oh by the way: played "Hey Jude" on my #amahi in a cave today and a Viet tour guide felt moved to sidle up and sing a duet with me. And so -- Best Day of My Life, So Far. Obvz.

The top photos that I've been showing to people who make the mistake of asking me if they can see photos. #beloved #mygirls #mylife #yougotafewminutes #vietnam

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This is how I roll. #literally #amahi #ukulele #vietnam #motorbike #morning

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Vietnam Day 6: Our First Trek

(note! If you're reading this on Facebook, you may be missing a lot of photos! The cross-post app I'm using is kind of buggy. For best viewing, go directly to my blog, www.minglefreely.com)

This is all blurring together, and I'm frantically trying to keep that from happening. I'm blessed by exceptional jet lag, the very best kind, that wakes me up at 5am every day. Then I can go eat and write, and eat and write. 

Sunday night, after months of discussing, weeks of vaguely agreeing, days of supposing, and hours of transacting, Chris and I became the owners of a Russian motorbike (him) and a Taiwanese scooter (me). Yesterday (Monday), we packed our bags, spent some time learning the language of bungee cords, a small triumph having failed utterly to learn Vietnamese. Three old dudes had to help me start my scooter, resulting in much embarrassment, laughing, bowing, handshaking, and smiling, always smiling with these people. God, I love them.

With bags strapped on, we revved up and, after about 43 wrong turns, we rolled out of Hanoi, the craziest city I've ever loved. I was privately hoping for less air pollution once we got on our way. Boy, was that a funny thing to hope for.

Chris: Bungee Plebe.

My ride. Very very happy with my bags and packing choices by the way. The bag isn't big. The scooter is small.

Is that a look of mild terror in my eyes? Not exactly. I'm still trying to find the right adjective for "this is crazy and we're fools, but we probably won't die, and it's probably going to be a blast." Chris has really become a magus of this. My brother. :-) <3

So... yeah ---  Away we go.

We take out towards Ha Long, a popular upscale beach resort area that's maybe kind of like Florida's gulf panhandle? Or maybe Lake Tahoe? I don't know. What I don't know every day in Vietnam could fill an encyclopaedia set, but it doesn't matter because everybody is so amazing. The language, woo boy, the language. It's the first place I've ever been where I just ... I give up, unconditional surrender. I don't speak Vietnamese and I will not, at least not on this trip, so utterly different is it from any Latin-based language I've ever learned even crumbs of. So different is it's bizarre, ironically, Latin-based notation (in print), with a practically scientific littering of accidents and phonetic notations, that I can't remember any place names for more than a few seconds. 

Now you know Vietnamese. You're welcome. 

For instance, I've been writing all morning about Ha Long and every time -- including earlier in this sentence -- I have to look at Google Maps to remember "Oh, yeah -- 'Ha Long,' that's right..."

Anyway.

Rolling down the road. With many others. On bikes, scooters, motorbikes. In trucks, buses, cars, wagons. With them, boards, bags, boxes. Everybody getting from Here to There. All the time. Mostly we two wheelers stick to the right in what might be an actual lane or maybe it's the shoulder. Most combustion engine vehicles have horns and they're mostly used judiciously, not like in the US, where people honk as some sort of moral statement (America: "LONG HONK. You are WRONG and a BAD person"). In Vietnam, it just means "look out, I'm right beside you!" I love this. However, some of the big trucks have horns that are capable of sterilizing a mammal. Some of those truck drivers like their horns a little too much. 

Surprisingly as it may seem, the roads are pretty well paved, or, failing that, they at least are surprisingly free of potholes and loose gravel. How is that even possible? Must not have gotten there yet. 

This is hard on the ass, and we were warned. We probably haven't begun to learn how hard it is on the ass. We were also recommended to get Hondas, but the Jeffries boys are a little thick-skulled and we want what we want. (We come by that honestly, too --thanks Dad.)

Our first trek -- from Hanoi to Ha Long (yes, I DID have to scroll back up to see how it was spelled, thank you) was expected to take 3-4 hours and that was exactly our experience.

It's loud, it's windy. I have no idea how fast we're going -- it's pretty normal for the speedometer to not work on these bikes. We're going about the same speed as everybody else, which is maybe 30 mi/hr? All these motorbikes have 110cc engines so, yeah.  Again, yay, Communism, is what I say. While we in the west have a very very virulent opinion of the governmental philosophy, the word itself can be interpreted to just mean "We're all in this together," at least that's what I think. Because we ARE. 

And that's why Chris and I are OK. No matter what. 

Our first stop is at one of hundreds of shacks and shelters that have big signs outside that say CO'M (rice, I think) and/or PHO (the ubiquitous noodle bowls that make the world go 'round and which I eat sometimes 2-3 times a day, gladly). 

I'm hungry, and Chris is having some bike issues. You know, parts of the bike falling off, breaking, twisting, the possibilities are endless. The cool thing -- actually there are two cool things. 1. These are simple machines. I sure as fuck don't know how to fix/maintain them, but lots and lots of people do. We roll up and in no time, three gents are all over Chris's bike shoring up this and that. Meanwhile, I'm admiring the spring rolls being tried up by the smiling Vietnamese girl. (Aside Let me say this, as a happily and faithfully married man: I live for the smiles of pretty Vietnamese girls. They make my heart explode and are worth more than any amount of gold. The smiles of Vietnamese women and girls may be the fuel that powers the universe. Here's how you get somebody to smile: smile at them and hold their gaze. They will smile back, and look deep into your eyes. This is usually from 20 feet away and lasts for exactly A Moment. It's magic, I tell you.)

OK, so the spring rolls. 

NObody speaks a lick of English. I admire the rolls and they shake their heads offering me something else, probably Pho. My ears cannot understand this language, no matter how hard I try. I've heard the word "Pho" approximately 7 million times and yet somebody can be saying it to me and I'm, like, "huh? I'm sorry... what? say again." She and the two gents (brothers?) shake their heads, then one of them points first at himself and then at the other two. and I get it: it's their lunch. Then I point at me, raised eyebrows, nodding head. Next their pointing at me, raised eyebrows and the endless game of charades (thanks Mallory) has succeeded, and no amount of protesting will prevent them from plating up their dinner for me and Chris. 

Pepsi is drank. Pho is eaten, too. They eat at their table behind us, and I give my umpteenth ukulele concert, something that is just the core of joy for me, because the people love it so much. (And, selfishly, I think that spreading this kind of good will might lower the odds of getting ripped off)j. If the Vietnamese people are familiar much with Western popular music, I haven't made much headway into their preferences. I have been told that they have a peculiar penchant for "Hotel California," but I don't really like that song for ukulele. I've also heard "anything by the Carpenters" is enjoyed but Carpenters songs are HARD. The bang that I've been offering has been a steady stream of Elvis, Buddy Holly and Hank, Sr. This is partly because I can really really over-caricature the singing in a way that I'd be embarrassed to do at home. This is practice. They eat it up, like I eat Pho.

This guy got ukuleled.

On down the road, we stop to check directions, serendipitously in front of an old man hitting on a giant bamboo pipe. Once we make eye contact, he proceeds to pour us green tea, which is clearly complimentary, not a shill. A mom and her son walk by and I get out my ukulele, while Chris dazzles everybody with Google Translate. (Have you seen Google Translate, btw?) Amazing times occur in the course of 15 minutes. 

We roll on as the sky grows dim. It's very overcast here. Don't really see the Sun, and in the waning afternoon, it's like somebody just starts dialing down the sky. 

When we roll into the outskirts of Ha Long, it feels like a triumph. Our first journey! We made it! In no time, Chris has found us a smashing ... hostel? hotel? All I know is it's got a polished marble entryway (like every Other boutique hotel I've seen), we have a private room, and it costs $12/night. It's pretty dead here; it's the off-season and we celebrate by finding the backpack bar, a watering hole for vagabond travelers essentially empty except for three saucy Romanians who love to laugh and drink, and speak impeccable English. (BTW: Thanks, World, for putting up with Americanismo, which knows nothing of your "foreign" culture and just hopes and vaguely assumes that everybody else will just speak English)

I sneak off after a couple Negronis and as many beers, because I fear these people have The Party in them, and I don't. I throw Chris under -- or maybe into -- the bus of international partying and go for a walk on the calm yet mildly bustling streets of Ha Long before heading back to our hotel to turn in.

View out of our room. Careful with those blue doors — first step is a doozy. 

Once I get back, I kind of thrill to find that our mattresses make Tempur-Pedic memory foam seem like a bag of feathers. These beds are foam and "bed shaped," but hard like nothing I've ever dropped my bones on. Like, you could hurt yourself by plopping down. And you know what? I sleep great.

Best day of my life so far.

Vietnam Day 7: Jet Lag is Kind to Me

(note! If you're reading this on Facebook, you may be missing a lot of photos! The cross-post app I'm using is kind of buggy. For best viewing, go directly to my blog, www.minglefreely.com

First it was "The Chicken Dance" trickling over the PA, then an endless parade of Western xmas music, but not by the original artists. I'm talking about where I'm eating breakfast but not staying, let's just get that straight right away. The Muon Thanh Quang Ninh Hotel (http://muongthanh.vn/, if you're curious - pictures below) And if I sound a little defensive, it's only because I don't really expect to end up paying for this monster spread. 

I woke at 5am -- like ya do with jet lag; thank you, jet lag, for really maximising my exploits. Dark outside. Wanted to eat. 

Woke up the ever accomodating staff (accidentally) so they could light up the (dark) lobby, unlock the (locked and barred) front doors, raise the (battened down) riot gate, and release me with a bag of dirty clothes into the rainy pre-dawn and then lock back up and go back to bed. Great plan! 

Apparently I beat everybody else out of bed by about 45 minutes to 4 hours (in my brother's case). The streets (street, really, there are actually two, if you wanna mince about it) are dark, empty, stone quiet. In "Mick's World," (as my loving wife like to describe my improbable notions), I'm going to find a laundromat, something I've never looked for, but assume will present itself and welcome me with cheer and maybe breakfast at 5:55am. Not so much. 

Fortunately, my path (the street, walking in it) led me to a very giant fancy hotel, lit up, literally, like Christmas. I breezed in (no idea if there's protocol but I learned to "breeze" masterfully in high school, thanks to being on the newspaper staff, another story another time) and headed for the intoxicating sound of clinking silverware, which was coming from the top of a long escalator, that was not running. That made me think "Goddamn. It's so early they haven't turned on the escalator." Wrong. The energy efficiency over here is beyond. Because, as soon as I stepped on, the escalator revved right up, as ready to accomodate as everything else I've encountered in Vietnam. Have I mentioned how much I love it here?

After a 4+ hour motorbike/scooter journey, you see, we've left Hanoi behind and are now in the vacation town of Ha Long, a choice vacation spot, I think, for natives and tourists, alike. (I don't really know; I'm making that up. When you have no idea what anybody is saying, you develop a rich imagination). 

The Vietnamese love to eat, this much I've figured out. At pretty much any moment of the day or night, you're within mere feet of a group sitting down (really low on tiny plastic stools, gathered round) or squatting, usually with a bowl of Pho. It does occur to me this very instant that I've rarely seen any Vietnamese people standing and eating. But right now? I'm mackin' with a bunch of Korean tourists. At least that's the story I invented. I'm definitely the only Caucasian dude and so far I haven't been called out on the carpet. Or highly polished marble as is often the case in even the funkiest of local hotels. This place isn't one of the teensies we stay in, though. It's maybe 30 stories. 

What I'm struggling to say is that I'd happily pay for breakfast. Every breakfast I've experienced is a giant buffet of All The Foods, and it's always included in your stay. So my challenge, were I to choose to accept it -- and I probably won't -- would be to convince somebody to let me pay, since I'm not a guest here. I just feel like hilarity and confusion would ensue and I'd end up, I don't know, being taken to the boat that I'd accidentally rented or something. 

God, I love it here. It's finally getting light outside. Here's what it looks like. 

Later this AM, we're getting on a boat for an overnight cruise to visit those James Bond-like mountains out in the bay. There better be a breakfast buffet on that boat.

Just realised that the Viets make omelettes in a distinctive way --- basically  making scrambled eggs and then kind of rolling/nudging them into a fat spliff sort of shape. No flipping was involved.

I've got lots more to say. I always have lots more to say. But right now, I'll say: "Best day of my life so far."

Some pics of my ill-gotten eats:

PS: When slumbering brother Chris reads this he's gonna get a particular chuckle, knowing that this kind of behaviour isn't completely out of character for me. See "French Lick Resort" exploit, which remains classified. And secondly, lelt's pay homage to my dear Mom, from whom I'm certain Chris and I inherited a penchant for "honest snooping." (purely for curiosity's sake, in other words)

they're fierce friends

Ha Long, Vietnam: Back street doggies keeping it real — by barking from a safe distance at the American. Dogs are the same everywhere. 

I know it's breakfast time in KY, but it's bedtime beer and street sandwich snack time here (especially after 4 hours on the scooter from Hanoi). #vietnam

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it's like a whole different language here.…

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roadside #pho in #vietnam with #ukulele for dessert

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Vietnam Day 6: Hotel Breakfast #42

Because I eat the equivalent of about 7 breakfasts each morning. Who wouldn't? 

Monday breakfast: bacon, papaya, fried rice, spare ribs, an omelette, toast (not pictured, oops, still in the toaster, oops), coffee, cucumbers, potatoes, some kind of juice.

This morning, Phong (aka "William") is the latest hyper-accommodating Vietnamese hotel worker. So cheerful, so smiley, every one of them.

Best breakfast of my life, so far. Also, the answer to the question of Life, the Universe, and Everything. (of course) #42 #itswhatsforbreakfast

 

"Me-Oh, My-Oh…"

A particularly lively woman at my Bay Café gig in Hanoi, which was inside an airplane fuselage (in case you were wondering). While "Shake It Off" drew mostly blank stares, this woman and the others were quite pleased with selections by ole Hank. Turns out Hey Good Lookin', Honky Tonkin', and Jambalaya just kill in Vietnam. 

Vietnam Day 5: Let's Roll

(Note 1: If you're reading this on Facebook, it's prettier on www.minglefreely.com )

Preface -- MOM: DON'T READ THIS.

Ever since this trip started to hatch, the core idea was: ride motorbikes across Vietnam. To many this sounds absolutely bonkers, but let me assure you: it's very very popular, done by thousands and thousands of travelers every year. It is, in other words, A Thing.

We've been motor biking around Hanoi since Wednesday. It is surreal in the extreme. If you've ever marveled over the murmurations of starlings, let me assure you, there's a human parallel: motorbiking in Hanoi. Never have I experienced a more hysterical, ludicrous, life-affirming, attention-arresting, exhilarating, downright THRILLING way of getting from point A to Point B.

So, we've been practicing in Hanoi. 

The original iteration was Chris as driver and me, on the back, as navigator. (Mom, you're not reading this, right?! I'm serious) With an iPhone. Saying "turn left here -- No, no, don't... keep going straight... I mean -- slightly to the right... ummm... never mind, never mind... just ... give me a minute... " (also, let me be clear for those turning pale with concern: my brother and I wear helmets and boots. Every time. I have not one time ridden two wheels in Vietnam w/o a helmet and boots and have no intention of doing so.)

Every street, some more than others, is a spectacular, careening symphony of individuals on scooters, "motorbikes" (that is to say: 110cc motorcycles -- sort of what we called "dirt bikes" when I was a kid), cars, buses, bicycles, pedestrians and countless instances of "what in the world." Most of what we'll call WITW's are motorbikes or scooters laden down with things like (actual sightings): a half-dozen freshly slaughtered pigs; 8 or more cases of beer bottles; an entire office furniture set; an entire family; a couch; a Christmas tree.

Yes, that street is called "Hang Dong." Shut up. There are more important things to discuss. 

Unfortunately, there are no real words to express what it feels like to negotiate this kinetic landscape on a motorbike. But I'll tell you this: It's hugely invigorating. If you're a little bit ADD or have a very active brain, you feel like you've come home. Every minute, every second, every moment is full of challenge, promise and potential consequence. Oddly enough, and counterintuitively, the potential consequence "I might die," is not really at the forefront. And this is where words, almost fail: It's just ... not like that. 

In the midst of this chaos, this fucking bananas way of getting around, there is simply no "road rage" that I've yet seen. Imagine that for a minute: Everybody is simply trying to get where they're going. If you're in the way, there's the most subtle of negotiations, the tiniest of gestures, movements, somebody slows down, somebody goes around, a horn is beeped if "contact" looks imminent (hasn't happened yet). Nobody yells, curses, or glares; the closest thing that we've get seen to an asshole on the road is simply the occasional person who zooms down a road laying on their horn ("beeper" is more like it) constantly. And that's not common.

I can't account for it, but it's goddamned glorious. For all the perceived mayhem, I feel a calm, like everybody is working together to get everybody where everybody is going. And I might go so far as to observe this as another way of thinking of communism. Because I'll tell you this: the anger, the rage, the moral indignation which is directed at me (and which I sometimes dole out, let's be frank) in the US? It's simply not present here. It's somehow supplanted by the 

murmurations of a culture on wheels. Usually two of them.

Yesterday was my first day to drive a scooter, as Chris and I continued our investigation into buying the bikes we'll ride across the country. As he rented an actual motorbike to try out, I was promoted to sole driver of the scooter that I'd thus far only served on as navigator. 

We both meditated on this. 

He was losing a navigator, I was becoming a driver and we were doubling all variables for mishap and confusion. 

Deep breath. 

I told my brother: "OK, let me take a minute here, because if I'm being honest, I have to say that I'm just a little bit scared about this." The exhilaration I've felt as navigator was always bolstered heavily by the fact that Chris was, you know, doing the actual driving. Conversely -- absurdly, I'd say -- he claimed the same thing about having me as navigator. 

Let me say this: my brother has driven this scooter like he was born to do it. Through rush hour traffic that exceeds everything I've described here, with a steely calm that inspires the same in me, when I'm not giggling in raw disbelief of our situation, that is, either in the mire of rush hour main artery every-which-way traffic or the epic mystery of Hanoi's endless alleys, which, incredibly, are often represented in Google Maps. (You didn't forget, did you, that I'm on the back of the scooter, with an iPhone in one hand, and the other on the back rail or my brother's shoulder, Vulcan nerve pinch style, only a physical expression of  occasional moments of, ah, tightness, right?)

Anyway, I sucked it up. I took a few test spins in the relative calm of the baby duck alley streets around James Motorbike, where we've felt most comfortable "shopping." James seems like a standup guy. And we've seen him actually work on bikes which isn't as common of a sight as you might think)

And so now? I'm a driver. And, somewhat against my private fears, I love it. The thrill of it -- the micro decision making -- is deeply satisfying to my brain. Riding a motorbike (a scooter in my case, I'm sticking with a scooter) on the harried streets of Hanoi scratches a very deep itch that I have. I feel like I'm using my brain, my reflexes, and all my powers of Gladwellian "blink" decision-making to the hilt. And that's a pretty satisfying feeling, one that I think is increasingly elusive in the modern world. 

Put more simply: riding motorbikes in Hanoi is a spiritual JOLT. And sometimes a physical jolt. But we really strive for the former, I promise you. 

Best Day of My Life, So Far. 

(Note: Since I seem to be adopting this phrase, let me once again give full credit to the under-celebrated eloquence and aplomb of Mel Smyth, one of my favorite word users)

Vietnam Day 4: Just pushing a giant bundle of live wires off the top of the concrete mixer

Another amazing, impossible, everyday moment watching this worker climb up and unsnarl this concrete truck (which was out pouring concrete in a country "burb" of Hanoi at 10pm on a Saturday, like ya do) from a giant bundle of power lines — with his very own arms and hands. I'm happy to report that he still has all his body parts, and do Chris and I, the dumb gawkers who stood slack-jawed 20 feet away #readyourticket

Bay Cafe

Quang, thank you so much for asking me to play a ukulele concert in your cool, Free Thinking airplane lounge, for inviting me to an incredible feast and for sharing your heart, brain, soul and wonderful family and friends with my brother and I! Today has been definitely the Best Day of My Life, So Far. (more photos to come)

Vietnam Day 3: A Visit with Linh

I discovered the wonder and charm of Couchsurfing.com not too long ago. An online community and framework for benevolence and generosity, Couchsurfing.com has introduced me to new friends, allowed me to share my life and world with interested "strangers" and given me the gift of theirs. 

Nowhere could this be more true than last night, here in Hanoi, where, after extensive messaging across Couchsurfing, WhatsApp, Facebook messenger, and many. failed attempts at phone calls, Chris and I made our way in yet another hilarious, precarious motorbike ride to the high-rise apt building home of my never-met-in-person friend Linh and her 11 month old son, her husband and her sister-in-law. 

Linh prepared dinner for us all (see? thanks for the photo, Linh!), a delicious spread of spring rolls, fruit, a potato and pork soup and more, while her toddler, explored our knees and shoes under the table. Libby Lee sent along several carefully-chosen books to their family, (including some beloved favorites like Mr. Forgetful)

After that, as promised, I played a private ukulele concert for the family, even as some weird jet lagged stupor set in on me and I nearly dozed off twice while playing and singing. It wasn't the company, I assure you. 

Linh's family was wonderful and their hospitality and trust of two American dudes they'd never met are to be admired and modeled. Every day here, I see the kindness of strangers and the care taken of us, simply as "fellow humans," I guess. It's humbling, every time. And last night, at Linh's was just the latest reason why today is the best day of my life, so far.

This Post is Dedicated to Shayla

At 5:15 this morning I woke up frustrated. Just for the record, waking up at 5:15am isn't that unusual and I'm grateful for it, but waking up frustrated in I Vietnam is, well, it's just sad. 

My frustration stemmed from an incredible clusterfuck that had been unfolding around my phone for 48 hours. I felt disconnected it was starting to get to me. Not to bore you with the details, basically, my phone -- for which I had purchased an AT&T "Passport" plan to cover me abroad several weeks ago -- wasn't working and the plan was deemed -- let's be frank here -- worthless. 100%. Even worse, it had somehow made my phone 100% incapable of making (traditional) phone calls. Yes, if you're a geek, you're saying "you could use wifi calling" and you're right, but it's hard to express the anxiety and inconvenience of being out and about without wifi. 

This morning, after an hour and a half on the phone, sitting in the dark, pre-dawn dining room of our hotel, while Chris and every other guest slept, I was connected with an extraordinary AT&T CSR named Shayla, who got shit straight. She got the problems fixed, ironed out, resolved, and rectified. In short she kicked ass. Shayla, you listened, you learned, you understood, you acted, you resolved. 

You cannot imagine how you've eased my mind. Now I can get back to the wacky wonder that is Vietnam. 

And it's only 8am here in Hanoi. Phone situation resolved, I began to once again see the smiles of the staff, to see and bask in the boundless benevolence of the Vietnamese people and those visitors who, like me, are delighted to be guests in this country. I visited with genuine cheer with an Indian woman and a Canadian, over the traditional piles of hotel breakfast food. Here's (some of) what I had. Now I think maybe I'll go buy a shirt.

Outside it's Vietnam, and today is the best day of my life. So far. 

Gooooood morning, Vietnam Star Wars Fans!

The Famished Awakens. In honor of Star Wars, I ate breakfast like Jabba the Hut. Like, seven times. 

This is the complimentary morning spread at the Calypso Grand, one of countless $40/night hotel charmers in Hanoi's Old Quarter. So, yeah -- I'm completely Hutted up.

Brother Chris and I are going to see Star Wars: The Force Awakens at 2, Hanoi time. I fully expect to cry. Hopefully tears of joy. Please, JJ, please... (also please let it be subtitled and not dubbed, because then I'd be crying for entirely different reasons)

People here are plenty excited, if you were curious. Yesterday, after an awe-inspiring visit to the UN International School (where I taught and performed on ukulele), we spent time with a family of expat teacher who had made an entire day (week?) out of preparing their fam for Episode VII. Also, the school had a variety of SW themed classroom activities like this one.

The Force is strong in Vietnam.

Vietnam Day 2 part 2

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God's gift to breakfast bars. Noodles, endless fruit, melon juice, spring rolls, chocolate coffee, chocolate cereal, lemon grass shrimp. "please eat more," says Thuy who goes by "Hannah." 

Outside it's Hanoi, a rush. of scooters in every damned direction at the same time. Intoxicating. A walk around the block gets you lost among tiny stools and kids tables of men in slick down jackets eating Pho pho pho. Forever pho. Dark Concrete alleys lead to hidden racks of zip-up jackets.

On the scooters, you see everything, but the guy tooling down the highway with a dozen freshly slaughtered pigs draped across his lap might win today's prize.

Hours at the UN International School with "Mrs. Alexis." A dream; playing ukulele and singing for kindergarten kids. Teaching The Coconut to adult teachers and singing and playing both Bill and Elvis's versions of Blue Moon of Kentucky for them. 

Then dinner with Alexis's family and singing singing playing playing songs on beautiful joy-filled ukuleles (with percussion accompaniment). "Giving" Son of A Son of A Sailor to somebody who hadn't heard it and loved it. 

Best Day of My LIfe So Far. 

Vietnam Day 2

Hanoi: not a city where in going to lose weight. This isn't my breakfast. This is what's left of the buffet after I demolished it. This is for Chris who, tragically, slept in after our 2am street pho extravaganza. Thanks to Thuy (Hannah) for making this platter at the Calypso Hotel. (included)