Maybe it was the buzzing of motorbikes outside my window that caused me
to awaken that morning in Hanoi? Or was my thirst? Whatever the reason, it was my first day in the "Paris of Southeast
Asia."
I had rolled into town the night before with a pack strapped to my back.
The street vendors, motorbike drivers, and guesthouse attendents couldn't see the week old laundry and guidebooks that were
stuffed inside. All they saw were dollar signs. To them, the pack may as well have contained cold hard cash.
The blond hair, round eyes, and 6 foot body was a pretty good clue that i wasn't from their part of the world and the assumption
was that i had money and no idea of what was going on.
It was daylight now. Surely without a pack a some sense of direction
things would be different. I left the simple room on the second floor and braved the ladderesque stairwell to the office
or lobby, whatever they called it. As I took my first step out of the confines of the guesthouse it was sensory
overload.
Now I had had a couple of beers the night before, but it wasn't that kind
of overload, the kind where sunlight hurts your eyes and loud noises wreak havoc on you skull. This was sensory overload
of another kind. It was something I had never experienced before.
Imagine walking on to a street / sidewalk the size of a hallway in a dormitory.
Now imagine every fifteen feet or so a group of three to four Vietnamese people of all ages doing what I call the "Vietnamese
crouch;" Feet firmly planted on the ground, ass nearly touching the sidewalk, knees nestled underneath their chin and
arms crossed over their knees. The central focus of each of these groups was a steaming pot or fire of some sort.
Some chose a com pho, or rice noodles, as their dish of the day, while other chose the more labor intensive roasted corn.
The hope is to sell enough to make it to tomorrow.
Step off the side sidewalk as to not disturb the hardworking cooks and buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz,
be-beep! Motorbike drivers, that would make Dale Earnhart smile, litter the streets like paper at a ticker-tape parade.
Passing pedestrians or other motorbikes through spaces that mice would turn away from, is all in a days work for these guys.
Did I mention the the hundred of tiny Vietnamese women in the stereotypical
cone hats working the streets? If it's bananas or oranges you want, look no further than one of the two baskets attached
to the end of a yoke that seems to virtually crush the shoulders these tiny women.
If you try close you eyes to try to escape the chaos surrounding you don't
bother. The sounds of solicitation and negotiation combined with the mixture of delightful vial smells remind you that
&our not in Kansas anymore.
It's a shame that all I wanted was water.
