So I arrived at Ho Chi Minh airport shortly after 11pm and approached passport control with some trepidation, but made it through with no questions asked.

The airport is brand new, and just as generic as Tokyo-Narita. In fact it was built by the Japanese as part of their Overseas Development Aid program.

Yonna was supposed to arrive 30 minutes before me (from Hong Kong), and told me to wait for her. I was trying not dwell on what would happen if she had missed her flight. But as I approached the baggage carousel for my flight, I saw her waiting with her own bags. What a relief. We went through customs together (our bags were fed through a large machine) and stepped out into the thick, humid air of Vietnam. It was approaching midnight, and yet there was a massive crowd of people pressed against barricades, waiting for friends and family to arrive. I was too overwhelmed to get a photo at the time, but as we waited for a taxi, I snapped this.

The 15-minute ride was astonishing. The predominate mode of transportation in the city is the motor-scooter. They are everywhere, and they out-number cars by at least five to one. They also go slower than the cars, and everyone is weaving in and out of their lanes. This leads the car drivers to use their horns almost constantly, just to make their presence known.

As I mentioned in my last post (from two nights ago), I got in, showered off 24 hours of travel, and went to bed. But not before taking in the view from Yonna’s kitchen window. She lives on the top floor (5th) of her building, and there is no elevator.

The next morning I put together this less-than-stellar panoramic mosaic of the same view.

This is the Death Racket:

It’s a bug zapper built into a tennis racket, and it’s rechargeable. There’s a flashlight in the handle to attract the mosquitoes, and lure them to their loud, flashing death. It is used before bed, and there are always one or two satisfying snaps and flashes in the dark.

When I was finally able to drag myself out of bed, it was after noon, and time for lunch. We made our way out of the building, and into the small side street where Yonna’s building is located. Before getting into the cab, I saw a number of street vendors squatting and selling food to locals and a couple of barbers cutting hair on the sidewalk. But as soon as the cab pulled onto a main road it was all about motorbikes and horns again.

We stopped at a restaurant, and the taxi let us off across the street. I then learned that crossing a street in Vietnam means stepping out in front of a river of motorbikes and hoping for the best.

Yonna took me to a wonderful restaurant serving a huge variety of local “street food.” I’m not going to try to name any of the following dishes. But they tasted as good as, or better, than they look:

It was so easy having someone there to order, chat with the wait staff, and catch the 40,000-dong error on the bill (about $3). The total bill was 180,000 dong, just a bit over $10.

From the restaurant we walked to the central part of Ho Chi Minh District 1 (the central district of the city). I stopped to take the requisite “oh look at the authentic apartment building” shot.

A few blocks further, and we were in the posh, heavily-touristed center, where shops offered art and designer clothing.

Our destination was Royal Massage, where Yonna introduced me to the foot massage. She convinced me that this would be so relaxing, I would be able to sleep for the 90-minute massage that cost about $15. She ordered a young woman for me, and opted for a guy with big hands for herself. We sat side-by-side in a row of overstuffed chairs, along with about 10 other people (many Westerners).

The massage was focused on the feet, but started with the application of scented oils to the perimeter of the scalp as my feet were soaked in very hot water. Then each foot was — well, to put into bluntly — attacked with pointy little fingers. I began to understand why a man with big hands would have been better. As my masseuse was digging her bony knuckles into my tender foot-flesh, I couldn’t keep my mind from drifting to he recent “waterboarding” discussions going on in the US. I think I might have preferred a little waterboarding to the intense pain I was experiencing. All I could think of was “this goes on for 90 minutes? and I’m supposed to fall asleep?”

Well, the torture didn’t go on for 90 minutes. I survived, and my feet actually feel pretty good. After the foot attack, there was a less viscious working-over of the hands, legs, shoulders and arms, then some vigorous pounding on the skull with a small fist (that went on for too long). And finally I was brought out of the chair, turned and sat forward in the “bracing for a crash” position from the airline safety manuals as my tiny attacker climbed on a stool and brought all of her weight down onto various parts of my back, through her elbows, knees, or maybe it was a set of steak knives.

As I hobbled out, wondering if my body would recover from the assault, Yonna asked if I had slept. “You slept through that?” I asked. She had. Next time I’m going with big-hands guy too.

It was starting to get dark, and we decided to visit the market before heading home. We passed an advertisement for the recently-passed helmet law.

I didn’t want to draw the comparison to the image and the way my skull felt after the “massage.”

The market was inside a building with many openings to the outside, but the humidity and crowds made it a trial. It was too overwhelming to take in at once. I won’t even try to describe it. Plus I was half-asleep by this time.

Dinner was a vegetarian roll and a small salmon roll at a sushi bar near Yonna’s place. Then more sleep.

It’s now noon, and I’m just getting ready to head out for another (hopefully longer) day of exploring.