Up, Down, and All Around the City of Lakes

DAY: 26
LOCATION: Hanoi

My early morning routine meant that I was up in time to meet Jo, an Australian ex-pat, teacher, and Hang’s business partner. She’d been in the city for seven years, and while there were things that frustrated her, particularly the traffic and noise, she loved living in Vietnam. She gave me a rundown on Hanoi’s museums, neighborhoods to explore, restaurants, and coffee shops before leaving for school.

Her first suggestion was a morning stroll through Thong Nhat Park. None of the cafes she mentioned were open yet, so I hit a nearby Starbucks before my walk. I felt guilty patronizing the corporate mermaid, but I was kinda sorta really craving a soy latte, and believe it or not very few places in Vietnam had alternative milks.

Big mistake. It was hands down the worst latte I’d ever had - worse even than those cappuccino machines in car dealerships. The myth that all Starbucks taste the same everywhere is just that – a myth. I still drank it of course, I wasn’t about to throw the $4 caffeine fix down the drain, but I did so begrudgingly.

Thankfully the walk to the park was stimulating enough to forget all about the latte fail. Jo was not kidding when she said the park was popular with the locals for morning exercise. The place teemed with activity, from badmitton to soccer to qi gong to speedwalkers.

And I was the only Caucasian face in the crowd! For some reason I anticipated indifference or even some cold looks, perhaps still feeling the effects of the War Remnant Museum, but this was not the case in the slightest. I shared warm smiles with practically everyone, and one couple even waved at me to join their group of ballroom dancers.

When I returned for breakfast with Hang, I had a decision to make: I was either going to spend the following day on a 10-hour excursion to Ha Long Bay, the famed Unesco World Heritage Site, or I was going to continue exploring Hanoi. I needed to figure it out that morning, because A) the spots might fill up and B) it would affect my itinerary that day.

The pros and cons were similar to the Great Ocean Road Tour. Pros included stunning natural beauty and being on a boat. Cons included drive time, cost ($60 through Hang, definitely affordable but expensive by Vietnam standards), negative reviews about the commercialized and littered state of the bay, and one less day in Hanoi. The Germans on Phu Quoc had said it was incredible, but that it needed at least a few days for the real experience. The cons seemed to be winning…

I went ahead and booked it with Hang. I wished I’d had more time, but if it was anything like the Twelve Apostles I would regret missing it. Who knew if I would ever make it back to Vietnam? Besides, Hang was thrilled to arrange it for me, and if I could help her tour guide business in the process, then great.

This meant I had a jam-packed day ahead of cultural sites and culinary delights, beginning with the Vietnamese Women’s Museum. While the blaring pop music from the connecting café was a bit off-putting, the exterior welcoming exhibit “Hidden Smile” by French photographer Rehahn tore at my heart strings. Featuring elderly Vietnamese women as old as 103 in various states of amusement and joy, I couldn’t help beaming through tears at their absolute beauty.

Inside, the museum housed a collection of traditional garb, a floor dedicated to various rituals including marriage, and an exhibition on goddess worship. It honored the hard work women do raising children, maintaining the household, and cultivating the rice paddies. Their strength and fortitude humbled me, and seeing ordinary women being praised was inspiring.

Contrast that with my next stop, the Hoa Lo Prison, where John McCain was famously a POW. More tears, but certainly not the happy kind. The atmosphere was really dark, especially the room with the guillotine.* I always find it haunting seeing tools once used to murder others on display – all the more so as I become increasingly sensitive to energetics. Needless to say, I didn’t dwell long at the prison.

I made a pit stop for coffee at Oriberry, a Jo rec. It was SO good, and a third the price of Starbucks. Smooth, sweet, full-bodied – even black it tasted phenomenal (sorry purists, I always taint mine with creamy substances when available.) It did give me some pretty intense jitters, but it was worth it.

The Temple of Literature provided a serene oasis amidst the bustle of the city. A place of study dating back to the 11th century, it was the oldest and most beautiful manmade site I’d been to so far in Vietnam. I tried absorbing some Confucian wisdom as I circumambulated the successive courtyards, but I mostly just felt a sense of peace.

Which left me almost as soon as I exited the temple. My plan was to hop the bus to the Ethnology Museum, but the motorbike taxis would not stop harassing me. And I do mean harass – they kept accusing me of being cheap for taking the bus, even though I tried to explain I was taking it for the experience. But they wouldn’t quit. Fed up, I finally just agreed to go with one of them for about $2. Immediately he started going the wrong direction.

“The museum is here, this way,” I pointed to Google Maps on my phone. He completely ignored me and kept heading the opposite way. “This is wrong, we’re supposed to be going that way.”

Again, no reaction. I was starting to weigh my options: Do I jump off the bike and suffer a few bruises? Do I yell out and force him to stop? Do I see where he’s taking me?

Just as I was beginning to really panic, he pulled up to the Hoa Lo Prison, demanding payment. I told him this wasn’t where I wanted to go, that we’d agreed on the museum, and he suddenly jacked up the price. I tried to argue, but he started getting mean and angry.

“Screw this!” I jumped off the bike and started walking away. The driver yelled after me for his money, but I wasn’t about to pay him for taking me to the wrong place and trying to pull one over on me. A policeman watched the drama unfold. For a moment I thought he might take the driver’s side and arrest me, but he just looked on dispassionately.

The driver sped off and I broke down on the sidewalk. Nothing had really happened, but I still felt a bit traumatized and shaky. I gave up on the museum and went to a nearby vegan restaurant instead. I needed good vibes and kind food.

Minhchay delivered both. With “The world vegan – The world peace” as its motto, this cozy establishment served up satisfying dishes with a smile. I ordered a noodle and veg dish, and the meal more than calmed my nerves.

Re-energized, I headed to the Citadel, another site originally constructed in the 11th century and the seat of the monarchy for 800 years. While the structures currently standing are from more modern times (the royal palaces having been destroyed, like so much in Vietnam), there is an excavation site which visitors can walk over on a rickety boardwalk. It was pretty tough to identify anything, but I used my imagination to reconstruct the millennia old Citadel.

Truthfully, my favorite part was the photography of Vietnam around the museum. Many of the shots captured the breathtaking beauty of the countryside, and I knew I would need to come back for a different sort of visit, one focused on nature and rural villages.

But right then I was in the city, and determined to make the most of it. I paid a visit to Ho Chi Mihn at his large, austere mausoleum, then meandered past the Presidential Palace on my way to West Lake. Were I not going to Ha Long Bay I might have rented a bike and gone around the perimeter the next day, but I contented myself with venturing to the Tran Quoc Pagoda.

Walking back along the water front towards the Old Quarter, I watched the men huddled around playing card games. Moments like these were quickly becoming my favorite – activities of daily life bringing people together. The man with his tool kit on the back of his motorbike fixing something for a young woman, the father choosing an orange tree with his son for the New Year, the women dancing in their down coats and trainers, the coffee shop loungers, which I soon joined. I didn’t need anymore caffeine, but I did need to rest my legs over a cup of chamomile.

I ate dinner at the Aubergine Café, indulging in vegan fried rice and their house specialty, spicy eggplant. The tables were covered in messages of praise from patrons, mostly foreigners (this was the Old Quarter after all.) But it still felt pretty authentic to me – their bathroom upstairs was part of their home, complete with toiletries and a view into the family’s living quarters. Not something you’d find in the US!

I spent a little more time wandering the market and listening to street musicians before the last item on my itinerary – yup, a massage. I went to Jo’s recommended spot, and they quoted me at twice the cost of what I’d seen on the streets. I felt cheap and guilty for finding it “too high,” but more than anything it was about feeling taken advantage of. When I turned to go to one of the places down the street they instantly lowered their price, and so I agreed.

A good-looking guy in his 20s led me upstairs to a weird, creepy room that looked closer to an asylum than a spa. He instructed me to undress and lay on the table, then left. I carefully pulled off my clothes, a cold draft hitting my bare skin. I shivered as I laid face down. Don’t cry, you’re getting a massage. Don’t cry, DO. NOT. CRY.

He came back and placed a damp towel on my back. That did it – the floodgates opened and my mind unleashed a torrent of horrible possibilities. Sex slavery, murder, organ-selling – nothing seemed off limits for my spooked imagination.

“Are you okay?” the masseuse reacted to my stifled sobs. It knocked me back to reality.

“Yes, I’m just a little cold. Do you think maybe I can get a dry towel?”

“Oh yes, no problem,” he disappeared for a minute and I pulled myself back together. So maybe I was in a bit of a shit hole and having a male masseuse was making me a bit uncomfortable, but there was no need to freak out. Everything’s okay. Just a little PTSD from the motorbike taxi most likely. It’s all good, just getting a massage. I relaxed after a few minutes and focused on the release of tension in my muscles.

“Good day?” Jo asked when I got home around 9. She was in the living room with Hang.

“Yes,” I smiled. “Long, but good. I maybe tried to do too much, but I saw a lot of cool things. Your recommendations were great! Although the massage place could really use an updating on facilities. And I should’ve taken the bus.” I told her about the driver.

“Ah yes, the motorbikes can be notoriously sneaky,” she gave me a sympathetic look. Somehow this made me feel a lot better.

“You want to watch Trump’s inaugeration with us?” Hang asked, the TV turned to CNN.

“I think I’m going to just go straight to bed, to get rest for Ha Long Bay tomorrow,” I replied. Truthfully, I couldn’t think of anything worse in that moment than having to sit through Trump basking in the glory of his presidential victory. Except for maybe watching it in a creepy room naked with a damp towel covering me.

“Ah, yes yes yes! Sleep well!” Hang gave me a huge smile that reminded me of the Rehanh portraits. A perfect image to end the day on.

“Good night!” I smiled back. “Enjoy my country’s lunacy!”

*Super random side note: guillotine was the 666th as I typed this post. THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES ;)