Uncle Ho (Chi Minh City)

I haven’t written anything in eleven days [at the time of writing]. Eleven days. So very much can be squeezed into eleven days that I’m going to trade the typical SBO-emo recap for a greatest hits play by play and swap prose for photo. I don’t have a theme to peddle here, just a laundry list of life events that have been stewing in the waiting room for a week and a half and need to be processed. So here goes…

Professor Brown and I left Jungle Beach about 11am. The day and date matter not. What does is that our company for both the hour-long taxi to Nha Trang and our sleeper cabin on the overnight train to Saigon (aka Ho Chi Minh City (aaka Saigon (aaaka Ho Chi Minh City))) were two of the wildest wildcards one could hope for on such a leg. Pippa and Liam were hard living, hard laughing, and hard drinking free spirits from Manchester, England. The four of us bonded quickly in Jungle Beach and hitched our wagons together for the travel leg to Saigon. We arrived into the Vietnamese beach retreat of Nha Trang (think south Florida east side) around noon with nothing on the docket but a quest for good food, good drink, and reprieve from the routine of Jungle Beach. We raised our first toast at 12:30. By three that afternoon we were on a trajectory for greatness…and misery the next day. Our train was to depart at 8:30pm that evening so for some eight hours we lived it up – bought cheap sunglasses, bought pitchers of cheap brew, bought memories.

We created our own dance floors, did pushups on the bar, lost games of pool to 14 year old book sellers, laughed hard, hugged grungy street children, made friends, drew stares, set ‘em up and knocked ‘em down.

We made the train on time and could only laugh when our cabin contained not four bunks for the four drunkards but six bunks for the four of us plus two very frightened/alarmed/aggravated Japanese tourists. Intoxication + 3^rd world train travel = one of life’s great little pleasures. Liam and I would hang our heads out the window downing warm cans of Saigon beer for an hour taking in the streaming black void of Vietnamese countryside. When that lost flavor we found our way back to the cabin, tried to climb to our respective top bunks, and hilarity ensured. Clearly one of those you-had-to-be-there moments.

The word came from the railman like a 2×4 across the temple and jolted me conscious. “SAIGON!” We had arrived. We were still drunk. We were early. It was 4am. Quite an entrance. The spectacle that was the four of us gathering our possessions and exiting our cabin had all the necessary elements of a black & white slapstick comedy reel from the 1930s. Pippa, Liam, Meghan and I would say our goodbyes on the station platform, head off in different directions, and walk out of each other’s lives. Great times had by all…minus the two occupants on the bottom bunks.

…

The man needs no introduction. He enjoys long weekends in Japan and has graced the streets of Mardi Gras as The King more than a dozen times. He flies two-thirds the way across our country to eat burritos at Casa Bonita only to return home the same day all in the name of something he and his cronies refer to as a ‘mileage run.’ India, Australia, Brazil, Mexico, Latvia, Turkey, China, Vietnam, Ukraine, Argentina, France, Ibiza, Uranus, Sweden, Uruguay, Portugal, Germany, Estonia, Ireland, Scotland, England, Holland, Costa Rica, Norway, Poland, Czech Republic, Austria, Italy, and Romania…he’s done them all and I’m sure I’m missing a few. You know him. You love him. Thomas Francis O’Neil III. Better known to the masses as The Reverend.

My older brother Tom left yesterday afternoon after traveling with Meghan and I for the last nine days. Tom’s good friend Mary has enjoyed the expat lifestyle in Vietnam for over six years. And so it was that Mary would greet two weary, disheveled, and now-sobering travelers at her door at 5am. Meghan and I would crash hard on Mary’s couch, Tom fast asleep in the other room having arrived the night before. And just like that two became four…

Tom, Mary, Meghan, and I would spend three brilliant days in Saigon. We would eat. We would chat. We would catch up.

(Battle of the Tans – we won)

We would crawl in tunnels.

We would drink.

We would laugh. We would play air guitar.

We would witness a world record for most trips to the buffet during an exceptional brunch session at the Intercontinental Hotel by yours truly.

We would walk. We would talk. We would ride cyclos.

We would learn the real history of the Vietnam War.

We would squeeze off rounds from M-16s & M-60s .

The moments were rich but maybe none more than sitting back and watching Meghan and Tom becomes friends.

Saigon was the perfect end to a brilliant twenty three days in Vietnam. In the company of an amazing woman I was blessed to make memories I’ll cherish a lifetime.

Vietnam. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not next month. Maybe not even next year, but a day will certainly come when I long for the days of Vietnam so bad it will hurt. That much I have no doubt.

Four Days in the Jungle

…Beach that is. I’ve never had a nicer view from which to write about the world over here than I do right this second. I’m sitting on our patio, the beach fifteen feet from my chair separated by a rudimentary bamboo fence, early afternoon waves rolling in, blue sky clear to the horizon, and two puppies sleeping quietly in the white sand on the footpath not five feet to my left. I can see Meghan living life to the fullest in the waves right now alongside an English girl while I take a day off from the sun. Or I guess it’s my burnt belly that’s taking a day off from the sun.

Tonight will be our final night sleeping under a mandatory mosquito net, tomorrow our final day bathing in an outdoor shower. We’ve done nothing at all but have accomplished a great feat. We, more specifically I, were worn down upon arrival. The movement. The check in. The check out. The pack. The unpack. The repack. The cycle got too much and we needed to shut down the engines and recharge the batteries.

I’m sure that may sound incomprehensible given the stress-free, schedule-free, care-free lifestyle I’ve described over here, but if the mind isn’t in a place to appreciate where the body is then the body might as well pack up and go home. Much of what we’re experiencing over here is once in a lifetime. You may only get shot to float down the Mekong or climb the Himalayas or catch a wave in Indonesia, so if you’re burnt out or strung out or traveled out you sometimes need to stop, evaluate, recalibrate, right the ship, level the plane, and bring the bike to neutral. And only then when your head is screwed on right will you be in a place where you can witness Angkor Wat or the Killing Fields and appreciate all its profound glory or sadness and not treat them as just another box to be checked off from an itinerary that no longer has meaning. I wasn’t there yet but my train was heading in that direction, and thankfully that’s just the time we blew into Jungle Beach.

Today is the 119^th day I’ve been living out of a pack. During that time only once have I spent more nights in one specific bed than I have at Jungle Beach. And man did I need this. For four days now life has slowed to a crawl, a very welcome crawl. Life here pretty much flows like a constant. Like the Mekong I suppose. Life at Jungle Beach…

• You wake up somewhere between 5:30 and 8:00am, depending when the dogs start barking and how much sleep you were able to steal from the bonfire revealers the night before.
• After brushing teeth you wander up to the open air communal dining area and grab a seat at one of the thirty chairs along the long rectangular dining table. Breakfast is French toast or pancakes or noodles. Your choice and each dish served with a smile. You shoot the breeze with whoever happens to be downing their morning coffee and baguette when you stroll in. You might make a new connection with a new Dutch couple that just arrived (we did) or you might realize that you don’t actually care for the German know-it-all you thought you did the night before (I did) or you might just sit there in silence and listen to those around.
• You wander back to your beach front bungalow, grab the broom and sweep the sand off the red brick tiles that make up your porch. You tidy up your belongings. You take pride in your little hut. After all it’s your home. At least it feels that way.
• At this point you’re faced with the day’s first great dilemma. Is it time to apply sun tan lotion and begin lounging on the sand? Is it time to tap into the wifi connection at the main house and check email or write for a few? Is it time to take the long board into the drink to catch a few lazy rollers? Is it time to hike the twenty minutes to the waterfall? Is it time to kick the soccer ball? Is it time to seek shelter from the sun under a lean-to and attack the next book? Whichever choice you make you don’t settle in for long…
• At 11:45am a tiny Vietnamese woman walks out to the beach and proclaims “lunchtime” as if everyone didn’t already know that communal lunch is served sharp at high noon.
• Lunch is when the day really takes off. With anywhere from 20 to 45 people seated between two long tables, lunchtime is when alliances, clicks, and friendships are developed. It’s when information is shared. You been to India? You should go to Myanmar. How is Hoi An? You naturally sit close to those whose company you enjoy and far from those you don’t. With a revolving door of new comers and old goers you’re never short of new faces to engage and familiar faces to enjoy further. Lunch is always tuna, beef, rice, and veggies. Any culinary monotony is dwarfed by serving size. When all the dishes are cleared away you inevitably say yes to “white coffee with ice” like clockwork.
• With lunch in the bank you face the morning’s same dilemma: How to occupy the hours until the diner bell rings at 6pm. However it plays out I can almost guarantee that the warm turquoise South China Sea will play a prominent role.
• Between trips from your beach towel to the ocean to the surfboard to the outdoor shower to the main house and back to your beach towel, the afternoon sun will give you that sun-drunk feeling like you’ve accomplished something even though you haven’t…other than to darken your skin.
• Around 5:30ish you migrate to the actual shower along with the rest of the adult summer camp attendees. Washed and rinsed you don your clothes for the evening (never to impress), and make your way to the main house.
• At 6:00pm the dishes begin to land on your table. Tuna, beef, rice, and veggies. Looks, smells, and tastes familiar, but it is what it is. Dinner ends around 6:45 at which point you feel totally stuffed, spent from the sun, and laugh when the words “I may actually go to bed” escape your lips before 7pm. But that’s your choice. This is your trip. You’re the boss.
• For those night owls up after 8pm the night usually morphs into a game of Uno or Jenga or charades or pin pong before making your way down to the waterline for the obligatory bonfire.
• And when its finally time to call it quits at whatever hour that may be, you securely tuck the mosquito net under the bed mattress, lay your head on the pillow, and let the sound of the ocean waves do its thing and lull you to sleep.
• You wake up somewhere between 5:30 and 8:00am, depending when the dogs start barking….

When we leave tomorrow at noon for Saigon my batteries will feel fully charged. More important though is the fact that my head will be in a place ready to embrace, savor, and cherish the twilight of my experience in Southeast Asia. My clock is ticking and my hourglass is bottom heavy. My time in Indo-China is coming to a close but not before I live every remaining day in it to the absolute fullest.

With Jungle Beach to thank. Thank God we found this place. Thank God we found it now…

http://www.cnngo.com/explorations/none/indochinas-top-10-hot-destinations-064669

Getting Lost (& Found) in Central Vietnam

Yes, I’ve been very light on writing recently. Yes, the days and events have been piling up. Yes, I’ve been spreading my writing thin and shortchanging experiences that warrant much more detail. Yes, I have a good reason for all this. And yes, things will improve. But that’s more a pep talk for me than for you.

I left off in Hanoi…

What have you missed?

(I feel like bullets today…)

• There was an overnight train from Hanoi to Hue in which I found myself (as the lone westerner) in the bar car surrounded by railway attendants engaging in an extremely rudimentary game of Liar’s Poker. With No English Spoke Here…I won…I lost…I lost…I won…I left. Head leaning out the window, warm air blasting my hair back like a dog riding shotgun, the morning sun rising over the fields of central Vietnam, the view worth all the discomfort of an overnight sleeper bed. Ms. Brown will happily speak to that at length.
• Hue – some people spend days…we spent 17 hours…before heading south to…
• Hoi An. If ever there was a place to de-throne Luang Prabang as Most-Beautiful-Most-Romantic-Most-Lingerable-Place-In-Asia…Hoi An would be it. Proudly touting World Heritage Status, Hoi An’s preserved French architecture is the stuff of photographers dreams. The tiny alleys, the oil lanterns after dark, the lazy river front cafés, it’s got it all…and loads of tourists. Incorporating the best of Luang Prabang, Hoi An adds a few tricks of its own to give itself a well deserved seat at the Must-Visit table. Trick one ~ the food. The street food is gram for gram the best I’ve had in Asia. For mere dollars you can feast on mouthwatering spinach & duck, crispy battered shrimp, local wantons, spring rolls galore, tender squid, and on and on and on at the cutest riverfront picnic table setting imaginable. Trick two ~ the clothes. Hoi An is that legendary place where you get suits, shoes, jackets, pants, tuxedos, dresses, gowns in , and just about any design you can rip out of a magazine tailor made for a laughable price. I did some slight damage (just two winter jackets that fit like a glove and will put a smile on my face in Nepal). Meghan did some real damage. We spent four nights in Hoi An including a memorable New Years.
• New Years Eve day I picked up a motorbike and shimmied Meghan and I an hour north to Danang and China Beach. Under a brilliant blue sky dotted with few clouds, the ocean road from Hoi An to Danang was like the asphalt in front of the White House – perfect. With no traffic on the road it couldn’t have been a better ride. Having had a new pair of leather sandals made in Hoi An to replace an old pair which had been held together by duck-tape, I dug a hole in the fine sand of China Beach, thanked both for the fond memories, dropped both in the hole, buried both, and walked away. Sunglasses at the Metropole pool…sandals at China Beach…I clearly have a tough time saying goodbye to material objects. On a serious note though it was impossible to hold back tears as we rode past the heart of China Beach and thinking about all those American servicemen for which China Beach saw their final swim in the ocean, their final beach sunset, their final beach BBQ. I couldn’t help but think how much had changed in this corner of the world. About how special it was to be riding towards Monkey Mountain, which towers over China Beach, with arms wrapped around me that belonged to the daughter of an American officer who was stationed at Monkey Mountain forty years ago. Epic ride and an unforgettable close to the decade.  
• On January 2nd we packed up shop and headed south to Quy Nhon. The bus was 6 hours but it felt like 12 to Meghan. It felt like 24 to me. It was one of those days where you just hit a wall with all this. The honking, the loud in-bus movie soundtrack, the obligatory flat tire stop, the obligatory crappy bus stop food menu… it just got too much. And on those days you remind yourself that all things are temporary and that tomorrow will be a new day. And tomorrow was a new day…
• We did nothing January 3rd but lounge by a pool, frolic in the South China Sea, and eat seafood so fresh and cheap you pinch yourself.

There is much that slipped through the cracks in those six bullets above, and I honestly feel guilty in leaving it at that. Ever since I uttered the words “I like sharks” in reference to an ad for Shark Week in Alec Schweitzer’s basement in 1994, my nickname has been Shark to more than a handful of Baltimorons (thank you Spencer). Richard Dryfus’s character in Jaws once described the title character as follows:

“What we are dealing with here is a perfect engine, an eating machine…All this machine does is swim, and eat, and make little sharks. That’s all…”

I’m far from a perfect anything, but I can certainly relate with my namesake. My life on the road here is pretty simple…pretty perfect if you will.

I swim (travel), I eat, and make little blogs and videos. That’s all…

I like to record the world as I view it, I like to photographize (copy write Lucius Polk) the world as I see it, but I love to write about the world as I experience it. So when so much slips through the cracks and doesn’t find its way onto page or into one of the bullets above I feel a certain sense of loss in that I’m not performing one of my basic functions out here as a Shark on the Road.

Random digression over…that brings us to yesterday, January 4th. A day we needed. A day I needed…

At 5:30pm EST this past Sunday many of you were drinking beer, watching football, or changing diapers…and I’m willing to bet that a few of you were drinking beer, watching football, and changing diapers at the same time. While that was going on back home my alarm clock was going off at 5:30am Monday morning. By 6:45am Meghan and I were nestled into the rear of a 15 person mini van heading south out of Quy Nhon. Our destination that morning was the side of the highway. South Central Vietnam is all about the beach and with a massive coastline your options can be overwhelming. Yet we had read and both agreed that the tiny and secluded village of Doc Let was just what the Doc had ordered for us to break the cycle of guesthouse – bus – guesthouse – bus…that we had found ourselves in. The morning bus ride delivered the obligatory white knuckle session of Pass or Crash and after three hours of gazing out the window at Big Sur equivalent seascape scenery, the driver informed us we had arrived at the turn off to Doc Let. No hotels. No crowds of tourists. Just a petrol station and a handful of motorbike taxi guys. So there we stood with our packs as the bus drove off and the sun beat down on us from a cloudless sky above. Now we’re talking my language.

After a short negotiation Meghan and I found ourselves as passengers on the back of two motorbike taxis. It may sound crazy back home, but that’s just how things work over here. With not a taxi in sight this is just what you do. My hands clutching the pot belly of my jovial Vietnamese driver, we headed off on what would be a thirty minute bike ride down a single lane track that would eventually turn to dirt. When Meghan’s driver would pull alongside mine, we would trade ear to ear smiles and those this is crazy yet incredible looks. And then we arrived…

How to describe this place? JungleBeach is the closest thing to the commune of independent travelers from The Beach that I’ve found in SEA. Started by an aging Canadian expat named Silvio eight years ago, JungleBeach is that backpacker paradise that everyone tries to find but never does. Why so elusive? Because the masses (like the Nazi in Raiders of the Lost Ark) are “digging in the wrong place.” The masses are looking for this in Thailand, but we’ve found it here in Vietnam.

JB occupies an area that I would surmise to be two football fields stacked side by side. The end zones are the beach ~ pure, fine, white sand. The water temp is like a bath tub. The jungle interior itself is a maze of sandy paths shaded by a canopy of palm trees and bush. Scattered throughout this maze are the most primitive of accommodations. Bamboo frames covered by thatch roofs and straw walls. Add an overhead lamp and mosquito net over the bed and you have home. For $23usd/day you receive shelter, all the bottled water you can drink, and three meals a day. Breakfast is open anytime from 6am to 9am. Lunch is served at 12:30pm and dinner 6:30pm. The food is plentiful and the taste exceptional, but it’s the communal dining experience at a long table capable of seating thirty that creates the atmosphere of something truly unique. As rice, fish, meat, and veggies are served daily you trade road stories with an international cache of travelers all patient, interesting, and like-minded.

There was a young English couple that was just leaving when Meghan and I arrived. They had been here one month. They had apparently worked their way up the ladder over time because Meghan and I were more than happy to fill their void in the choicest of JungleBeach’s bungalow selection. Front and center, fifteen steps from the beach, we’re crashing in the top spot. If we had arrived on any of the previous thirty days, we wouldn’t have nabbed that real estate. Good luck? Good charma? Good times!

I knew I’d found that special place in Asia when I lifted my head last night at 1am to find, right out our front door, the beach bonfire still glowing with late night revealers. That sentiment was cemented this morning at 5:45am when my alarm clock went off to inform me it was time to check the surf report. Instead of moving I simply raised my head, processed the wave-less ocean not 100 feet away, and went back to sleep.

Vietnam ~ I’m starting to believe its where you find everything you’re looking for and much much more…

Hanoi! Halong! Hotels!

Hanoi is one of those cities (to paraphrase the great Tom O’Neil) in which you just be. It doesn’t have an Eiffel Tower or a Coliseum or a Golden Gate Bridge, but it does have charm. Mountains of it. It’s the kind of place you walk around and purposefully get lost in. You drink tea. You buy oranges from a 4’ 3” centenarian on the street. You smell the city, drink the atmosphere, and just…be. Meghan and I would be happily in Hanoi for December 20^th. We would find me a pair of jeans and get lost in an endless fabric market the likes of which most fashion conscious women would die to visit. For a few dollars Meghan would walk away with enough fabric to clothe me in a new toga each day for a year.

While she did her thing I would entertain old women and eat strange looking fruit straight from the pages of Doctor Seuss.

We would spend the night of the 19^th and 20^th at the Grand View, the first of five hotels we would collectively call home to in Hanoi. There wasn’t much grand about it though. The morning of the 21^st we would check out and hop a minivan for Halong City. Three hours later we arrived at the gateway to Halong Bay. Now I had the time, I had the desire, but I didn’t have the accessibility to write while adrift amidst the thousands of islands that make up the World Heritage Site that is Halong Bay. If I had had the accessibility I would have written at length about the unparallel natural beauty of Halong Bay. How Halong Bay kicks the snot out of anything that southern Thailand brings to the table. How Halong Bay belongs right up there alongside the Grand Canyon, the Great Barrier Reef, and the world’s other great natural wonders. How an hour swim in the emerald, placid, and warm waters of Halong Bay will go down as one of the great swims of my life. How for three days and two nights Meghan and I called a magnificent wooden junk boat home. How I played my first Scrabble game ever against an Indian family from Shanghai. But you really don’t care about any of that stuff so I’ll just move along to the slide show…

I am also very happy to report that Jon Voight’s character from National Treasures was with us for the duration. 67 year old Swiss painter Mark Edgar and his wife got the gold star for climbing every island, exploring every cave, and kayaking every bay alongside the twenty other passengers who averaged half their age (at best). I hope I still have the fire in me when I’m Mark’s age to climb the 218 steps to enjoy the view below (which he did).

Halong Bay. It’s the real deal.

We would return back to Hanoi the afternoon of the 23^rd. Having set our sites on Christmas Eve midnight mass at St. Josephs Cathedral, we decided to crash land at the adjacent Church Hotel for the night. We would have dinner that night at a tiny Italian restaurant a stone’s throw from our hotel. The meal, Meghan’s favorite in Asia, would help settle one open issue: where to enjoy Christmas Day dinner. And that brings us to the eve of baby Jesus’ birthday…

Fearing that hotel occupancy would be scare on the 24^th and 25^th, we secured a hotel room in advance while in Laos. For enough money to keep us afloat in budget accommodations for well into the next year, we splurged and upgraded ourselves at the ‘Grande Dame de Hanoi’…the Metropole Hanoi.

Before I kick this world I will again swim in its pool and enjoy its French Onion soap. The Metropole Hanoi – my favorite hotel in the world and the scene of my 50^th birthday party. All are welcome to join.

As the hotel swelled with international guests arriving for the holiday, Christmas Eve seemed very much in the air to me despite my distance from home. After dark we put on our Sunday best, which living out of a backpack meant little more than finding the least wrinkled shirt to go with jeans. We enjoyed cocktails and appetizers at two of the hotel’s four restaurants. With forty-five minutes till midnight, the hotel staff singing Christmas carols in English, we marched through the front lobby and onto the streets. Destination: St. Josephs. The street atmosphere outside the hotel was nothing short of euphoric. The streets were so filled with bikes and pedestrians you’d have thought it was the Lunar New Years.

Santa-hat wearing Asians. The air was alive. Motion everywhere. Fueled by a couple dry martinis, the walk was simply incredible. The surrounding streets closed, we arrived at St. Josephs and joined ranks with the anticipated mob. The final countdown to Christmas was brilliant. With ten minutes to spare I called home and left a message. When the midnight bells rang and balloons were released into the air, I could only pinch myself. A Christmas Eve I’ll treasure for all my days.

We would camp inside the Metropole all day on the 25^th after picking up a few DVDs for a dollar. The evening would bring an incredible Italian dinner with a window seat of St. Josephs. We would cry upon departure on the 26^th…for several reasons. Before leaving though I would say goodbye to a pair of sunglasses that had been traveling with me since Yogyakarta in central Java. Having no protective case the Ray Ban knockoffs somehow survived the arduous journey through Sumatra, Myanmar, Thailand, and Laos. They had broken just days ago but I could not bring myself to toss them in the trash. They deserved better. I thought the poolside at one of Asia’s great hotels was a suitable burial site.

Meghan and I would downgrade our accommodations considerably for the night of the 26^th. With our 4^th hotel secured by noon Meghan and I would each do our own thing for the day, with an agreement to meet at our favorite local restaurant at 7pm. Following the meal we would stroll back home through the Old Quarter. Stumbling upon a brand new boutique hotel, Meghan was lured off the street and into the lobby by a promotional special. For next to nothing a spotless new room could be yours for the night. When our 4^th hotel rightfully declined to let us off the hook for payment at 9pm, Meghan jumped ship. Pretty sure she wasn’t ready to downgrade just yet, and considering we’d spent all but a few hours in each other’s company since her arrival three weeks ago…we took a night apart. We’re making this up as we go. So with that we each enjoyed a bed to ourselves and a tally of five hotels in Hanoi over seven nights. The upside – it did afford me the chance to drop two dozen roses on her door at 7:30am this morning. Cost – $2.75usd. Got to love this country. I do.

So from the Metropole Hanoi to a sleeping bunk on this evening’s overnight train to Hue…so long Hanoi. It’s been grand. Until we meet again…or March 29, 2029…whichever comes first…

First Impressions…

Writing this blog is an interesting marriage of desire, timing, and discipline. So I guess to be honest it’s more of a Three’s Company-style arrangement than a traditional two person marriage. At times I’m in the mood to do nothing more than fire away on the keys for hours on end describing the most insignificant of smells, sounds, tastes, sights, and emotions of life on the road and sharing a bit about all that I’m smelling, hearing, tasting, seeing, and feeling. It’s at those times that I’m usually as far from an available computer as I am from an In & Out double double right now. Or conversely I’m close to a computer but the road is too bumpy…the sea to rough…or my time too limited.

However, when the desire to write hooks up with the accessibility to write…the offspring can be an interesting read and might even put a smile on your face and give you something to contemplate for a minute or two. That said desire and accessibility are for the most part unpredictable and out of my control to harness. I guess I could pick up a laptop and solve the accessibility issue, but the ultimate desire to write is not something I can turn on and turn off like a cold shower in Sumatra. The desire to write is akin to a train on its own track, on its own schedule, heading to its own destination – but sadly there is no timetable or ticket office. Unfortunately I can’t just hop on and ride whenever I choose. But those rare times when desire meets a blank screen and there is no bus, train, or plane to catch…when I do get to hitch a momentary ride on that train…that’s when my best work finds its way to your computer screen. That’s the stuff I’m proud to put out there.

So that takes care of Janet and Chrissy – desire & timing. Jack – discipline – is something entirely different. Discipline means forcing yourself to sit and write and continue this great story even when you have zero desire to do so. Sit and write because you know that too much time has passed. Sit and write because you know too much is bound to happen tomorrow. Sit and write because you value chronology. Sit and write because the computer is accessibility and free in the hotel lobby. Sit and write because it’s a Lazy Day. Sit and write because you feel you owe it to the 47 people that checked your blog three days before Christmas. Sit and write because JRS wants something to read. But ultimately sit and write because Vietnam has blown your eff’in socks off and you want to share. Discipline brought me to this chair, but I’m pretty sure desire will keep me here once I get rolling…

I’m not sure why I felt the need to share all that but I feel better already having done so…

Back to the early afternoon of Saturday December 19^th. Most of you were either knee deep in the mall or knee deep in a cocktail. Either way none of you were flying from Laos to Vietnam. Our Transit Day began at Vientiane International Airport which was, to my complete enjoyment, overrun with SEA Game athletes. I was overcome with excitement when a sea of grey blazers made their way into terminal A. It took about two minutes of watching them before I handed Meghan my bag of Kettle potato chips and marched over to the gold medal winning Burmese national boxing team. I dropped a mingalabah (hello), received a smile in return, and asked to snap a photo. God I miss those people. And God what I would have done for an official Burmese athlete’s members-only grey jacket. This guy could have taken my head off.

The forty minute hop from Vientiane to Luang Prabang was uneventful, as was the ninety minute skip from Luang Prabang to Hanoi. It’s worth mentioning though that for every regional flight I’ve taken thus far, the playbook remains the same:

• Arrive at tiny airstrip and proceed into terminal building so small it makes Long Beach airport look like O’Hare.
• Check bag, say prayer that said bag finds plane, proceed to lounge area.
• Lounge area separated from airstrip by non-guarded double doors, walk onto runway for a moment or two. Why? Because you can.
• Plane lands and parks on runway where you stood minutes earlier.
• When people start walking out onto runway you know its time to board.
• Board plane from rear. Don’t ask me why, but I’m 5 for 5.
• Sit. Buckle belt. Recline seat. Engines roar to life before doors shut.
• Minutes later you will taxi down the runway in what I’ll call 2^nd gear. When you get to the inevitable runway end the pilot will make an abrupt u-turn and without slowing down or missing a beat he’ll round the corner, drop it straight into 5^th, gun the engines and tear off down the runway. It’s the running start thing that puts a smile on my face every time. There is no come-to-a-complete-stop-before-takeoff-to-get-your-bearings like we do in the States. Hell no. Round the curve in 2^nd, drop in 5^th, and away you go…
• 5 for 5. Like clockwork.

I’d been enjoying a summer climate since May, but that glorious streak came to a welcome end as I emerged from the tail. 15 degrees Celsius and a Vietnamese night sky filled the frame as I did my best presidents d-boards Air Force One imitation atop the steps. I took a deep breath. Darkness. Cold. Damp. Vietnam. Yes.

The shuttle bus waiting at the foot of the stairs quickly deposited us at immigration. Waiting in line for a stamp, we approach a stern looking immigration officer…

Meghan: “He looks serious…”

Steve: “That’s because he’s a Communist…”

When it’s my turn the officer bombs a giant ‘entry’ stamp in the middle of a blank page in my passport. Hey jerk, I need every single blank page I can get. I’ve got just a few more full-page visas to pick up along the way…

Locked and loaded, cleared and collected, we proceed to the greeting area. Step 1: Change just enough currency to get our feet wet without falling victim to airport exchange rate extortion (AERE). With several million Vietnamese Dong about to find their way into my wallet, I paused to savor one of travelings great little pleasures: finding not one, not two, but three currency in your wallet at once. New Dong, leftover Kip, reserve Baht. In those momentary flashes I get as close to Jason Bourne as I’ll ever get. So sad yet so true. Step 2: Secure transportation to the Old Quarter of central Hanoi without getting ripped off. Having read too much ink about dodgy airport taxi scams we splurged and locked in a private car for the forty minute ride into Hanoi. Comfortably seated in the rear of a new SUV with what we surmised to be a suit-wearing 19 year old at the wheel, we sped off into the night to make first impressions…

I’ve spent five days in Hanoi and seven in the country, yet I only needed two to three hours on the ground to make up my mind. Hanoi is far and away my most favorite Asian city thus far, and Vietnam is looking so bright and promising I’ve had to wear sunglasses on cloudy days. As we all know first impressions are influenced by many variables. The weather, the time of day, the town/city./country you’re coming from, the mood, the food, the smell, etc. It’s appropriate to say Vietnam had everything working in its favor. I hadn’t so much as flirted with a cold day since spring in D.C. and I truly missed it. The cold was like a reunion with an old friend. Arriving at night, the city and its inhabitants were lit up like the Rock Center Christmas tree. Brilliant.  Laos is so slow you’d be forgiven to think its six million citizens had partial narcolepsy, and its pace had gotten to us. Vietnam thankfully suffers from no such lethargy, and that chaos was just the remedy Meghan and I needed that evening.

During our white-knuckle taxi ride with Mario Andretti at the helm, we quickly learned a few things about our new home.Vietnam is crowded. With a population of roughly 85 million, it’s the largest SE Asian country after Indonesia. You get your first hint of this on the highway into town. The number of motorbikes and cars is just so much greater than anything you’ve seen in Laos (obviously) and even Thailand before it. More than the population increase, the highway revealed another Vietnamese trait – unrelenting traffic chaos. Not since Sumatra had I witnessed the same wreckless passing and “my truck is bigger than your car so move out of my way” ego driving that rules the roads. And then there are the motorbikes….but more on them later.

(Christmas Eve – 11:28pm)

Meghan and I were ready for all this. Ready for the crowds. Ready for the hustle. Ready for the pace. Ready for the chaos. We were ready for it and hungry for it, and that first taxi ride into Old Quarter Hanoi served it up on a great big platter. It wasn’t long after we left the highway and found ourselves on crowded city streets, motorbikes whizzing past your door so close you could reach out and zip their jacket, that both of our windows came down. Like a lazy yellow labrador I rested my chin on the window sill, eyes darting too and fro trying to process the sea of color, noise, and motion that seemed to flow everywhere. It was the same feeling as I’d had on Day 1 in Bali. The overwhelming sense you’re in the middle of something special. Something great. Something unique. Cuz why else would everyone be in such a hurry and risking life and limp on two wheels?

We had instructed our driver to dump us in the middle of the Old Quarter and hit the Saturday night streets on foot around 9pm. Our plan was to wing it. We had no shelter lined up. Just go with the flow and find a crash pad for the night. Within minutes we had landed a cute hotel and dumped bags. You know how when you’ve been traveling all day and your body and mind should be tired but when you finally arrive into McCarran airport or La Guardia or LAX or Los Cabos Int’l you feel that bolt of excitement and adrenaline pulse through you and you’re suddenly wired like John Belushi live on a Saturday night? That was the feeling we had in our steps walking out the front door to first embrace Vietnam.

The Old Quarter in Hanoi is now a must see in my recommendation book. It’s a labyrinth of alleys and streets and one-ways and two-ways. A colorful mix of well-dressed bars and restaurants next to age-old shops and markets. A melting pot of the old generation and the next generation. The dirty and the polished. It’s incredible. It’s addictive. I could spend another week wandering the Old Quarter and never not feel like I was in the center of the Asian universe. Never not feel like I was standing at Ground Zero of all that is cool, and hip, and new, and progressive in Asia.

The Old Quarter is noisy. Motorbikes fill the streets at every hour. The Old Quarter is crowded. The sidewalks act as parking lots and restaurant real estate for street food vendors. The result is that cars, bikes, and pedestrians all share a tiny sliver of street. Meghan and I don’t walk hand in hand but rather single file. Drift too far into the street and you’ll hear half of dozen horns instructing you to either find your pedestrian lane or find my front wheel/hood.

The Old Quarter is frenetic. There are but a few traffic lights so on almost every intersection drivers do battle for right of way and road supremacy. It’s like watching two ants meet on the pavement. Both drivers stop wheel to wheel. Both look at each other. Both then go to the left at the same time. Both stop. Both then go to the right at the same time. Both stop. Both look at each other. One goes left. One goes right. Repeat. Repeat again. And again. And again. The Old Quarter is beautiful. With a number of green spaces, several lakes, and an airy feel (depending on which corner you’re standing on) the Old Quarter can take your breath away. That’s the setting before even touching upon the city’s two best attributes: its food & its people.

At 10pm Meghan and I headed off in search of something to fill our stomachs. It took but a few minutes to stumble upon a quiet and adorable café serving great food and smiling service. In short time having seen and experienced very little we both verbally confessed our blind love for Hanoi and Vietnam at the café table – a love affair that’s only gotten stronger with each passing day. Following a badly needed meal we took to the streets, turned a corner, and promptly got swept up in the Saturday Night Market along Dong Xuan. What a show stopper. Not in country for more than a few hours and suddenly we found ourselves in the heart of Hanoi’s famous night bazaar shopping for men’s jeans (I threw mine away long ago). The sea of people. The endless rows of vendors selling everything imaginable. The motion. The noise. The weather. The looks. The smiles. It had it all.

Talk about making an unforgettable first impression.

Vietnam. It was love at first sight.