It’s amazing how on trips like this, time gets so compressed that events taking place just 11 days ago seem like they happened a year ago.

When I left off the narrative, we had just spent the night in some border flophouse and then caught a crowded bus for the three-hour trip back to Ho Chi Minh City.

We arrived, around 1pm, both tired and sweaty (actually, Yonna doesn’t sweat, I think it has never been hot enough for her here). But we officially had no place to rest and clean up, since all of her belongings were either in transit, or still stacked in the lobby of her former apartment building.

We called for a large taxi, and somehow managed to get all of the boxes in, and to the central post office in one load. I looked like a complete wreck by this time.

The Central Post Office in Ho Chi Minh is a major tourist attraction. And all of the tourists hoping to snap pictures seemed put out by the legitimate post office business that involved boxes stacked on the front steps of the building as we unloaded the taxi. It was weird. But once we’d gotten them all inside, we had to go through the long processes of having each box re-opened to check for contraband of some sort. It was “Woman’s Day” in Vietnam. I think this may be analogous to Valentine’s Day in the US. All of the men had taken the day off work to buy flowers and chocolates for their wives and/or girlfriends. Ironically, this left all of the women behind to do the heavy lifting.

When the last box was accounted for, we went back to the apartment building, were all of our combined luggage remained. I went to the Vietnam Airlines ticket office to change our flight, while Yonna stayed behind to consolidate the baggage so we could leave two large bags behind in Ho Chi Minh, for retrieval before our departure to Tokyo later in March. When I left the Vietnam Airlines office it was suddenly pouring down rain. I caught a cab back to the apartment one last time, using one of the few Vietnamese phrases I’d learned very well, “so high, no vahn nahm” (Number 2, Ngo Van Nam, Yonna’s former address). I’d learned to say it in the sing-songy way a parent would point out a particulary high-flying kite to their young child, “How high is that kite? Soooo high!” The trip back was quite lovely in the rain.

Yonna had an idea. We would take our bags to the Park Hyatt Hotel. This is the most upscale hotel in HCMC. We’d pay $32 each for a day’s pool membership, and ask them to hold our bags in storage while we swam, then “forget” to pick our bags up when we left for the airport. Sounded like a plan to me.

Even though it was raining, the $32 was money well spent. Pool membership included access to the changing room, showers, jacuzzi, sauna, and the outdoor pool. I started with a 10 minute shower, using the luxury gels and shampoos. Then grabbed some of the complimentary water and hit the jacuzzi. Then, wrapped in a light dressing robe, I napped for a few minutes in a cozy lounge chair before meeting Yonna in the outdoor pool for a rainy night’s swim. It was extremely relaxing.

Then I shaved, showered again, and changed into my fancy new duds.

We raced to the airport by taxi and arrived about 40 minutes before our flight to Hanoi.

We were about to buy some food at the airport, but they closed as we approached the little shop. No meal on the flight either. Luckily I had some chocolate and a crushed sandwich that Yonna had bought for me that morning while we waited for the bus back from the Cambodian border. It was so hard to believe that this day had started that way.

Finally we were on the plane, looking exhausted, but I was happy to be on my way.

We arrived in Hanoi around 11:30pm, and after waiting for luggage, we were on the sidewalk around midnight.

Unlike our arrival in Ho Chi Minh (at around the same time) the reception outside Hanoi airport was bleak. The few taxis that had been there had already filled up with multiple parties and driven away, and new taxis were arriving at the rate of about one every 10 minutes. These guys were charging high rates for the 50-minute drive into the city. Apparently, Woman’s Day was having an impact here, as most cabbies were home with their wives/girlfriends. But then, Hanoi is the heart of socialism in Vietnam, so there is never the race for buck that you experience in HCMC. The cabbies wanted to be home in bed, not driving out to the airport.

Finally we managed to get a cab for ourselves. Yonna negotiated a price with the driver. I was too tired to even remember what the details were. But I was happy that the weather in Hanoi was much cooler. Almost to the point of being a bit chilly (or maybe that was just the carry-over from the muggy heat of HCMC).

As we drove, she explained that in Ho Chi Minh, there would have been a lot of back and forth in negotiating a price, but Hanoi, being so strongly socialist, the driver named a price, she went lower, and he didn’t even counter her. He just grimly drove us for 50 minutes into the heart of a maze of narrow streets and bleak buildings light by cold streetlights. At one point, Yonna pointed out a place advertising dog meat for sale. I felt my heart sinking a little.

When we arrived at her apartment, she asked the driver to back up a little and wait for us. We were confronted by a big, green, metal gate. This gate was chained and padlocked, and Yonna had about 50 keys on various key rings. The real problem was that the key she was almost certain was for the gate wasn’t working. Eventually the driver got fed up and drove off. I can’t blame him — he’d been waiting for at least 10 minutes by that time.

But we were still locked out, and it was becoming obvious that the lock had been changed. It was after 1am and we were standing on the sidewalk in Hanoi with our luggage. Yonna sent a text message to the building owner, who was currently travelling out of town. A few minutes later she got a call. Thankfully, the owner was awake, and had called another lodger to come and open the gate. This turned out to be a young woman from New Jersey. For some reason that struck me as really odd.

We took off our shoes at the foot of the stairs and walked up to the second floor, where Yonna’s apartment is. It is a small landing that is open to the general traffic of the house. On this landing is a piano, a bookcase, a couple of chairs and a shrine to some deceased member of the owner’s family. There is a small door leading into the bathroom opposite the door to Yonna’s small room. We conked out for the night.

I woke up to the sound of a dog squealing and crying like I’ve never heard before. I immediately thought of the place we’d passed in the dark the night before. I didn’t want to be lying there listening to a dog being killed for food. It made me really sad. But it turns out that the dog across the street is just deranged. It squeals and cries almost constantly throughout the night and day. I didn’t see any evidence that it was being mistreated. Maybe it was just retarded, or maybe it was trying to immitate the sing-songy way of the Vietnamese language.

I climbed out of bed and peaked out the window at my new surroundings.

It was pretty drab after what I’d seen in Ho Chi Minh City.

We left to find some breakfast. Yonna noticed that the first shipment of her boxes had arrived and were stacked up in the little architect’s office immediately across the alley from her building. The gate that had confounded us the night before was meant to close off this entire alleyway of apartments, offices and what I think was a daycare center.

A couple of buildings down the little side street was a restaurant called “Le Petite Bruxelles,” where we enjoyed a very large (and somewhat pricey) lunch of salads and pastas. After a very short stroll we walked back towards the apartment, turning down an alley just a few dozen meters from the green gate. We came to a hidden café where journalists had gathered to write pro-North articles during the war. Now it was a quite place for students (and dogs) to hang out and drink delicious iced coffee with sweetened-condensed milk (another thing I eventually learned to pronounce correctly).

We went back and unpacked a few boxes until it was time for dinner.

Then we took a taxi (the driver was just learning to drive!) to a small shop that Yonna wanted to visit. It had some pretty cool stuff, including a lamp that I really wanted to bring home (only $50).

Dinner was at an Indian restaurant (Tandoor, I think it was called). The food wasn’t nearly as good as what we’d had in HCMC, but it was pretty OK.

I’m writing this while offline, so I don’t remember exactly what I had said the plan would be in my last post, but I know that the plan changed a little.

Yesterday morning we woke up early and finished packing. Miraculously, by 10:30am, all of the boxes and suitcases were down in the lobby, and we turned over the key to Yonna’s apartment.

I know she was sad to be moving out. She had only been living in this particular place for a few months, but this move marked the end of her residence in Ho Chi Minh City. In the course of the last few years, rents in District 1 have tripled (at least). Her previous apartment was around US$350/month, but the owner had sold the building in October and given her less than two-weeks notice that she needed to move (she was actually in the US when she found out). Luckily she found this latest apartment right around the corner, but the rent was already US$600/month and it was the cheapest she could find.

It’s not just the rising cost of living. The traffic has become a real problem. We often would take a taxi just to go to the center of District 1 (about 0.6 miles). While these trips were pretty zippy in the evening, during the day we would sometimes find ourselves crawling along more slowly than we could go on foot. Of course, there was air conditioning inside the taxi. There is a subway system due to be built, but it seems unlikely it will be finished by 2013 (even with construction crews working around the clock as they often do here). It’s difficult to imagine the sort of gridlock this city will see in the next three years.

So, with the apartment vacated, and all of our belongings stacked in the lobby, we were left to deal with Yonna’s expired visa. She needed to leave Vietnam and then re-enter. As a Japanese citizen, she is granted a two-week tourist visa at no charge any time she enters. After talking to some other Japanese expats in Saigon, she learned that the quickest way to accomplish this is to take a bus to Moc Bai, then cross into Cambodia. She was told that there was a casino there, just inside the Cambodian border, where you can stay on the cheap and do a little gambling, with meals included. Since we had already booked flights from Hanoi to Luang Prabang, Laos, before my own visa expired, I should have no trouble getting back into Vietnam from Cambodia. And according to her sources, a Cambodian entry visa is only about US$25.

But at the bus station, when Yonna explained to an agent what we had in mind, some guy standing nearby told her that the casino had been torn down a year ago and they wouldn’t let an American through at all. I was too tired from moving boxes around to care. I just wanted to sit on the bus and watch the scenery go by.

We picked up some food and water for the 3-hour drive and climbed aboard. The bus was mostly empty as it left the bus station. But it filled up very quickly as we stopped at two large markets on the way out of Saigon. It wasn’t just passengers we were taking on, it was bags and boxes of goods being transported to the market in Moc Bai. Sometimes the back door of the bus would open as we moved, and a courier would jump on board just long enough to hand a small parcel to the bus conductor, then jump back off.

The route was mostly the same as the one I’d taken to the Cao Dai temple, so I didn’t take any photos along the way. Sometime around 3pm we passed Moc Bai and went on about 10km to the bus terminal, where everyone bundled off the bus. As soon as my foot hit the gravel a throng of men wearing motor-scooter helmets surrounded us, offering to drive us the remaining kilometer to the border crossing. I suppose I could have handled all of this on my own, but it was so great having Yonna there to negotiate the transportation. She chose two likely guys with new-looking scooters, and told them they would get no more than 5,000 VND (which I’ve learned is the most common way of writing Vietnamese Dong) apiece for driving us. As there really were no other options for getting to the crossing, besides on foot, they really had all the power. But, they agreed, and we climbed on the backs of their scooters.

The trip was very short, but as we approached the imposing-looking set of official buildings, my nerves started to jangle. As we came to the small guard booth into the compound, the drivers shut off their engines and we continued on foot, with them pushing their bikes. Our passports were checked, and we were waved on to the a large building about 500 feet further along the widening road.

I should point out that this border crossing is in the middle of nowhere. I imagine that if you saw this area from the sky, it would look like a dumbbell, with the Vietnam customs compound on one end, a long two lane road through the “no-man’s-land,” and then the Cambodian customs compound on the other end.

We entered the central building and I worked up the nerve to turn back and snap one photo of the entrance to Vietnam, which now seemed so safe and secure to me. (I’m a bit nervous about taking pictures in highly controlled areas, ever since having a bad experience — involving a sub-machine gun and my film being exposed — in the Milan airport when I was 13.)

We presented our passports to a guy standing behind what looked to me like a coffeeshop counter. I would have thought he was a bartender. It turns out that he was a kind of information counter clerk. Yonna talked to him for what seemed like hours (since I had no idea what they were discussing and all of my greatest fears involve being thrown into some secret prison in a communist country). Finally she told me that as soon as she spoke Vietnamese to him he’d become quite friendly, and told her that there were indeed a number of casinos across the border, and we wouldn’t even need Cambodian visas if we just wanted to go to gamble.

We passed through passport control with no problem and left the building. There were our motor-scooter escorts, waiting to take us through the no-man’s land and to the Cambodian passport control. We wanted to pay them and let them go, but they insisted on following us (along with a small group of people who seemed to think we were going to start handing out money, apparently). So we made our way to the last checkpoint before entering the zone between countries.

Off in the distance was the Cambodian compound, looking very elaborate and traditional in comparison to the stark strength displayed by the Vietnamese architecture (not pictured yet). I wasn’t fooled though. I knew that the moment I handed my passport over I would be whisked away to some dank holding cell, and then on to Room 101.

We continued, followed by the scooter drivers, et al, jostling for a chance to make a quick buck, and telling Yonna who we should talk to to get a visa. Luckily, the signs were also in English, and “Passport Control” was clearly marked, even though it was in the opposite direction of the place the mob was telling us to go.

Inside the Cambodian building was a large group of men and women in military dress uniforms, all sitting around tables as if they were in a cafeteria. We were approached by a woman who looked like she ran a female soldiers’ dormitory, both matronly and commanding at the same time. She asked if we were here for the casino, and directed us to a small shuttle bus parked outside. I pulled two 20,000 VND notes from my wallet to pay our drivers off, but the majorette took one of the bills out of my hand and pushed it back into my wallet, indicating that I was offering too much. Yonna went out and handed them the remaining 20,000 bill, and they immediately started complaining and yelling. She gave them another, and we walked off towards the shuttle bus, which was painted with the words “Las Vegas Casino” on the side in a stylish script.

The driver started off, but asked for our passports. I was more than a little nervous about handing them over, now that I was inside Cambodia, but I didn’t see any option. He pulled up to a booth and handed our passports to a guy inside who handed him two slips of paper. These were our receipts for our passports, redeemable when we left Cambodia. This made me unhappy.

We drove on for probably less than a kilometer and reached a strip of casinos, with more under construction. There was really nothing else in this area. No town, no shops, just a few apartments (probably for the workers and officials), a handful of food stands in the dirt along the road, and the casinos.

The Las Vegas casino wasn’t much too look at from the outside.

Inside was a foyer with a metal detector and armed guard. They asked Yonna to leave her camera with them, as photography was prohibited inside the casino. Yonna argued with them in English, and was allowed to put her camera in her backpack and carry it in (she is very good at getting her way). I prayed that my camera wouldn’t set off the metal detector. But since they sent us through wearing our backpacks (mine contained all sorts of items, including my laptop) we both set off the detector, and they didn’t seem to care.

Inside was the weirdest spectacle I’ve seen since my arrival. A sad-looking casino by all accounts, with a massive bar lined with American booze, but no patrons. Behind the semi-circular bar was a stage with a small band and women singing to nobody in particular. In all, the floor was the size of an ice rink, and with about the same ambience. I was the only Westerner in the place, and was keenly aware of this. There were perhaps 200-300 people gambling inside, but the over-all feeling was still one of a party that had been elaborately planned, but to which only a few invitees showed up.

We checked the room rates: $60/night for a double. Yonna asked to see the room, so we were taken up by a guest-relations agent. He explained that the owner was Korean, while the other casinos were Chinese and Vietnamese owned. The rooms were decent looking. Nothing too fancy, but quite comfortable. Nicer than a Holiday Inn, not quite as nice as a Hyatt. Yonna asked to see the spa, and then the restaurant, and then we decided that the price didn’t make sense. She had been told that some of these casinos offered rooms for about $10.

We walked outside to see if perhaps we could do better at another casino. I wasn’t sure that we were allowed to leave the casino at all, considering that we had no passports, no visas, and the papers we needed to reclaim our passports had the Las Vegas Casino name printed on them. But I’ve learned to trust Yonna in these matters, so went along with her. Outside was a road leading into Cambodia, lined on one side with little food stands. We walked over to get some lunch, while a new casino was being built in the background.

The food arrived, and it was quite tastey. I didn’t even mind that the grilled chickens still had their heads attached, and one of them had an egg sticking out of it (which Yonna seemed to consider some sort of bonus).

As we ate, a small herd of cattle wandered along the road, and it began to look like a rain.

When the rain started, the proprietor moved our table under the canopy and we continued to eat and drink coconut juice as we waited.

I felt so much more at ease there, under the cover of the road-side cantina. I felt safe and hidden away from government officials. But the rain passed and we decided to head back to Vietnam and spend the night in an inexpensive hotel inside the border.

It was already dark, approaching 7:00pm by the time we walked back to the casino and flagged down a shuttle for a ride back to the border. Contrary to my fears, our passports were returned to us as soon as we arrived, and we didn’t even have to go through passport control (which means I didn’t get a Cambodia stamp in my passport). Again we were confronted by scooter drivers offering to take us on, but we ignored them and kept walking into the no-man’s land. We stopped halfway between Cambodia and Vietnam to take some pictures and reflect on the oddity of boundries. Yonna pointed out that Japan, as an island, has no borders, so border crossings are always very interesting to her.

Eventually we moved on, and came to the Vitenam customs building once again.

We made it through with no trouble, and were soon back in Vietnam, but many kilometers from the bus station, in the dark. There were still a few scooter drivers there, hanging around outside the barricade but we weren’t sure what we wanted to do. Yonna talked to the last official, sitting in a chair outside the guard post. He indicated that there was a hotel right there, behind the small row of shops that was the only building outside the compound.

We walked around behind the shops, and sure enough there was a small, squat building that was clearly a hotel. I was a bit relieved about not having to ride pillion on a scooter in the dark. Yonna went in alone to ask rates, having learned our lesson about me showing my Western face before prices had been negotiated. They quoted 150,000 VDN (just under $10) for a double room. I joined them as the young man showed Yonna the room.

It was pretty bleak, filthy really. The bathroom hadn’t been cleaned. There was half-used soap in the soapdish, no toilet paper, no towels. Only one of the beds had a sheet on it. No blanket. I’m pretty sure the sheets hadn’t been changed since the last person slept in the bed. There were dead insects all around the perimeter of the walls. But we were both exhausted, so willing to overlook everything for a chance to sleep.

The kid gave us a key and took my passport, bringing in a blanket (with cartoon rabbits on it) and promising to bring towels shortly. We rested for an hour or so, with no sign of towels. Since we hadn’t packed our toothbrushes, we decided to head back to the customs building, where we’d seen toothbrushes for sale (10 for US$1.30). But the same guard wouldn’t let me back in because I didn’t have my passport. So we went back inside to find someone in the hotel to talk to about our needs.

Oddly, there wasn’t anyone in the hotel. There really wasn’t even a desk.

Yonna found some peope sitting outside and asked about getting our towels. An older man, who was a guard for the building, came back inside with us and knocked on the door across the hall from our room. The young kid appeared at the door, no shirt, looking like he’d been asleep. Yonna talked to him about towels again, this time there was obvious annoyance in her voice. The older guard wandered into our room and looked at our stuff layed out on the bed (we had taken a lot of things out of our backpacks while trying to assess what we had with us). He smiled at me, as if to say, “this is a pretty crazy hotel, huh?”

After arguing for a few minutes, Yonna explained that we weren’t actually in a hotel, we were in some sort of guest house with no maid service. The kid wasn’t an employee, he just lived there (good thing he had my passport). He was giving her a hard time about expecting things like towels and blankets. At one point, as she told him she had no intention of paying for such lousy service, he asked “who are you, my mother?”

That’s when I lost my cool. I told Yonna I wanted him to give me my passport back, and we would leave. She got it for me, and I went off on a profanity-filled rant about about the filthy conditions of this place. We packed our bags and we walked out.

By now it was after 10pm. There were no guys with motor scooters waiting to drive us some place. The shops were closed. The border was closed. We were 10km from Moc Bai and the nearest hotel. I looked down the long, straight road into town and wondered how safe it would be to walk. It was basically a deserted stretch of road until the town, which made me more nervous. But I was feeling too indignant to give up and go back to sleep in scum-city.

The old guard had followed us out and was talking to Yonna as we walked. Then he broke off and entered a building. She told me has was going to drive us to Moc Bai. I was so relieved. The idea of climbing into a car and being delivered to the doorstep of a hotel sounded so wonderful. But he reappeared with a small motor-scooter than looked like it was left over from the war.

He insisted that we all climb on. I could barely get any seat under me, but I was determined to go ahead with the adventure. Unfortunately, his scooter wasn’t up to the challenge, and I don’t think Yonna was either. We gave up and went back to the weird guest house, were Yonna intended to get them to call a taxi for us from Moc Bai. But when she knocked on the kid’s door and told him what she wanted, he just muttered something and tried to close the door on her. But he was dealing with Yonna, who simply pushed the door back open as he was trying to close it (he was a small guy, and she had him out-matched for size and strength). I just stood there looking like I was ready to rip off any limb necessary to prove my point. The guard was still with us, and kept smiling at me. The kid looked really put out, but eventually said that we could have the room if I gave him my passport. I refused. Yonna explained that I would not give him my passport since this was not a hotel, and did not trust him, but that she trusted him and would give him her passport. She said “I trust you, and I know that you will do the right thing.”

He gave us back the key to the room and we went inside to sleep as best as we could.

The next morning I was up just after 7am, and ready to get out of there. The kid knocked on the door and handed me a ratty old towel from some Japanese hotel. I took it, but I had already “showered.” I was so happy to leave that place.

We grabbed rides on scooters back to the bus station.

We missed the first bus back to Ho Chi Minh at 8:00am. (Well, we didn’t miss it. Yonna went to get some food and I didn’t notice that the bus had pulled up. By the time she came back and asked why I wasn’t on the bus, it was completely packed, standing-room-only. My bad.) An hour later we were back on the road on the next crowded bus.

Three hours later we were back in Saigon. Then we just needed to ship all of the remaining boxes, sneak some of our luggage (that we didn’t need until we got to Tokyo) into the luggage room at the Park Hyatt, find a place to shower, and catch our flight to Hanoi. All that will be covered in the next post. (Oh, I finished writing this post from Yonna’s place in Hanoi…)

Today we are moving Yonna out of her apartment in Ho Chi Minh City.

Three days ago, I was making final preparations to meet with software companies in Vietnam. The only thing left to do was print up some business cards I had just designed. Yonna took me to a bustling street of low-rent shops.

I followed her into one of the shops, typical in that the front is completely open to the street. This was a full-service print shop, believe it or not.

The young man loaded up the images I’d brought on a USB drive. He had every concievable software title related to desktop publishing. All of it pirated. Soon he had a proof for me, and Yonna paid for 100 cards apiece. She explained that since she’d been doing business with them for a while, she had to pay in order to keep me from getting a higher price. That’s just the way everything works in Saigon; the locals get one price, visitors get a higher price, and nothing is set in stone.

Looking over this blog, I noticed that I haven’t been taking a lot of scenery shots, so during the cab ride back to the center of District 1, I snapped a couple of photos, including one of a truly amazing private home.

Later, we checked on my clothing and Yonna asked for a few more modifications. To be honest, the rest of the day was a blur. In fact most of the previous three (or four) days are a blur and I’m just piecing everything together from the photos on my camera.

What I do know is that three nights ago, Yonna took me to the North Korean restaurant in Saigon. If you ever make it to Saigon, make sure you have dinner at the North Korean restaurant.

When we walked in, the atmosphere reminded me of a German beer-hall. There was live music and singing women, and a boisterous audience eating and drinking.

The waitresses were also the stage performers, brought here from North Korea. Many of the guests were South Korean, having a laugh and a good time. It was like some sort of theme restaurant, where the theme is how great Kim Jong-il is. But the food was really something, and they began bringing it to our tables immediately, and in large quantities.

My favorite was the green-onion pancake-bites (left), and the rectangular egg-puck (top middle). But the spicy potatoes (top right) disappeared pretty quickly too. I wasn’t so much a fan of the spicy greens, and the cucumber salad was more of a palate cleanser than anything else. The great thing was that as soon as you finished off one bowl, they brought more. They also had the coolest place setting I’d seen so far in Asia.

Apparently, iron chopsticks are de rigeur in North Korea (possibly South too, I forgot to ask). Yonna contrasted the Japanese dining style, where the host brings just the right amount of somewhat bland food to the guest, to the Korean style, where the guest leaves the table with plenty of highly-spiced food still unconsumed. I like Korean-style. And the waitresses looked cute in their little outfits.

I really enjoyed our rice pot, KimChee pancake, and especially the giant platter covered with Australian beef, sliced thin and mixed with onions and garlic.

We had arrived late for dinner, so by the time our beef platter arrived, the only other people in the restaurant was a group of four men from South Korea who were having the best time ever, especially when the live music started up again. Each of them took turns running up on stage for photos, or to give the singer a bouquet of fake flowers, set up near the stage just for that purpose. (I have video of this stuff, but my connection speed is so slow that uploading it to YouTube is nearly impossible. Maybe in a future post.)

It wasn’t a cheap dinner. But at about $20 (including a beer) it was a steal, considering that we couldn’t come close to finishing everything.

After dinner, Yonna ducked into a very brightly lit shop full of young people.

It was a CD/DVD shop, but on closer examination I noticed something odd about the titles.

Harry Potter vs Lord of the Rings?

Then I realized that the entire shop was full of pirated media out of China. I could buy the entire existing set of Harry Potter movies (1 through 5) and get all three Lord of the Rings movies in one box. I didn’t even check the price, but the stickers says either 85,000 or 185,000, so it’s either about $5.50 or $11.50.

Here’s another classic:

These were nicely designed boxes. Somebody was putting a lot of effort into selling these pirated movies and music. I opted not to buy anything, on account of wanting to get back into the US with minimal hassle.

Afterwards we walked around a bit more, and I took a photo of an old cathedral built during the French colonization.

The next day (I think) Yonna cooked up some seaweed and mushroom broth with noodles for breakfast.

The remainder of the day was devoted to business meetings, and I have no photos. But the meetings were very good and I learned a lot. (Yonna is exerting a lot of energy to make a businessman out of me.)

Which brings us to yesterday. The day that packing began.

Boxes were taped up and filled with belongings, then sealed and carried downstairs. Yesterday we only did seven boxes.

Carrying boxes down stairs isn’t a big deal, but walking back up the five flights to get the next box is a real hassle, especially since it constantly feels like I’m in a sauna here.

We got the first set of boxes down to the lobby, and then went out for some food. More importantly, we went out for some drinks.

Almost everywhere you go in Saigon, you find a drink list including a number of fruit juices. These typically include orange, apple, lemon, and pineapple, although I often also see papaya, sugar cane, custard apple, mango and others. Usually, these are fresh juice with water and a lot of sugar. And I’ve become addicted to the lemon juice (which is basically fresh lemonade). You also never see glasses of water unless you specifically ask for one. At the little restaurant, I ordered an orange juice and a lemon juice right off the bat, and I was so happy that I went ahead and ate the bitter, boiled pod thing stuffed with pork that Yonna had ordered.

The restaurant was another typical place in Saigon, where the entire front of the shop is open to the street. As we were sitting, a little bike cart laden with small bananas stopped out front. Yonna grabbed the camera and took a few photos.

After lunch it was back to the apartment in a taxi mini-van to pick up the first set of boxes, take them to the post office and ship them on to the apartment in Hanoi. By the time were were through it was nearly dinner time. Yonna was exhausted and wanted to get her hair washed and styled. We took a cab to a lively section of town where a lot of young people were hanging out. It reminded me of the same energy levels you experience in San Francisco’s Mission District at night. I wandered around for an hour while Yonna did her thing. At one point I came to a busy intersection of three streets and snapped some pictures.

I found myself outside the New World Hotel – an upscale place where a lot of Japanese visitors stay. I decided that since I had time to kill, and a wallet full of 2 million dong, I could afford a drink in the lounge before heading back out into the heat. The drink was milk, apple juice and grenadine, and it cost 84,000 dong (about US$5). I nursed it as long as I could, to enjoy the air conditioning. Then I used the posh restroom and made my way back to the beauty salon to meet up with Yonna.

On the way, I was greeted by the usual old men on the motorbikes, asking if I needed a ride someplace. But this time, when I said “no thanks,” they all followed up with “I know nice lady.” I indicated that I also know nice lady and kept on walking. At one point, a “nice lady” pulled up along side me and tried to get my attention, but I pretended to be caught up in taking a picture (of one of the many storefronts converted to motorscooter parking at night).

When I got to the salon, there was still some time to kill, so I took this photo of the electrical outlet. I hope that someone planning a trip to Saigon sees this photo, because I couldn’t find anything like it during my search, and if I had known that the outlets here take both French-style (two pin) and US-style (two blade) plugs, I could have saved myself some hassle.

Luckily for me, my camera charger and laptop can run on 220 Volts, so I didn’t need a power converter. But just before I left, I bought a Netgear switch, and when I got it out of the box I found that the adaptor only runs on 110 Volts, so I had to run out to Radio Shack for a $30 converter after all. Stupid Netgear.

We were both famished, and went down the block to a hopping little restaurant (it was about 9pm, and most shops stay open here until 8, 9 or 10pm, while restaurants are open until 11 in general). Now that I’ve eaten at a number of places here, I have to say that this place is very representative of the quick-food dining experience.

The food was tastey, and super-cheap. We ate two dishes plus extras, and three fruit juices, all for exactly the same price as my one drink in the hotel lounge two hours earlier: $5.

The only problem was that the pig-ear loaf was back on the table. Yonna insisted that I try it again, since this one was much better.

I was tempted (as always) by the banana-leaf wrapped extras on the table. Yonna destroyed my dream by opening one to reveal a pink little sausage, containing yet more pig’s ear. No thank you.

A few more pictures of the front ‘window’ cases on the way out…

And then it was home for a little more packing, a little work on the computer, and a little bit of Lost in Translation, which Yonna and I love watching together since we each get to laugh at jokes that the other doesn’t get.

This morning was more packing. A lot more. And carrying more boxes down. Heavier boxes.

Yonna’s visa expired yesterday, so she really needs to get to Cambodia to get it renewed. We need to be out of this apartment today (although she’s going to try to talk the owner into letting us stay one more day for a small fee). If all goes according to plan, we’ll finish packing tonight, get up early tomorrow and take a bus to Cambodia. Stay over night, come back to Saigon, ship her boxes, and then fly to Hanoi the day after tomorrow.

So, to catch up, I’m going to cram a bunch of stuff into one big entry.

After the tour with John and Jane, the four of us met up at a restaurant just a few doors down from Yonna’s apartment. The name of the restaurant is Cây Gòn, which is the name of a variety of tree that grows in Ho Chi Minh. Yonna believes that the name Saigon actually derives from this tree’s name. Just outside the restaurant, and up and down the street, are a number of these trees (more on that later in this post).

For dinner we had a plate of ribs with watercress and fried rice cakes, followed by a hot pot of seafood heated over an old paraffin-burning hot plate. If Jane looks a bit worried in the photo, it’s because she had just realized there was a feral cat under the table, watching her intently.

The next day it was time to prepare for the business portion of this trip. Yonna would be introducing me to a number of software company owners who may be interested in sub-contracting on projects out of the US and Japan. Before these meetings, I needed to give myself a bit of a polish. But first we stopped for a set lunch at one of the sushi restaurants near the apartment. I had the pork cutlet with miso paste for dipping. The set lunch comes with salad, pickles, miso soup (in the covered black bowl), rice, and egg custard with vegetables, chicken and shrimp (in the covered green, ceramic bowl).

With some food to keep us going, Yonna led the way to a shop where they make clothing to fit. She has a number of outfits she’s had made at this establishment, Zakka, which is Japanese owned. They sell all sorts of Indonesian Batik textiles, which they can then cut and tailor into clothing.

Here I am being measured for a shirt. I am not standing on anything, those are just really tiny Vietnamese seamstresses. One of them then took measurements from the shirt I wore into the shop. I think she could use it as a blanket on a chilly night.

Afterwards I went home, feeling a bit under the weather. Yonna had dinner plans with her former boss, a highly-respected businessman from Japan, who had spent considerable time in Ho Chi Minh researching the investment potential of local companies. I slept like a rock for a few hours until she returned with great news. Ito-san had promised to give her a list of all of the reputable software companies that he had personally visited in Ho Chi Minh.

With that, I decided to stay up for a few more hours (it was already 1am) and put together a plan for the upcoming meetings.

The next day I was still struggling with a bit of a cold, so Yonna took me to eat Shanghai Chicken Rice. She order both roasted and boiled chicken, as well as plenty of fruit juices for me. I wasn’t too thrilled when my first bite of chicken contained a nice bone. The chicken was OK, but not too interesting, and pretty bony. The rice was yellow, which Yonna explained was due to the chicken fat added after cooking. And since I wasn’t feeling 100%, I couldn’t bring myself to touch the pineapple soup with the big fillet-o-fish floating in it.

We agreed that this was the least appetizing meal we’d eaten together since my arrival, which is a shame, because Yonna had been talking about Shanghai chicken rice for a few days.

I went home to try to sleep, and Yonna went off to run some errands for the day. Later I met up with her and her friend, Túy, for dinner. Afterward, Yonna took me to the Rex Hotel, which was the first 5-star hotel in Saigon. From the fourth-floor promenade I snapped my first photo of the Peoples’ Committee.

The next morning I worked a bit more on the business proposal stuff, and then we went back to the Indian restaurant for lunch. Yonna suggested that we pay to use the pool for the day at the Park Hyatt. I had been suggesting that I shave off the two-week-old beardlette she’d been having me grow, so as we passed a barber shop, she pushed me in. It turns out that this was a men’s salon, offering massage, manicures, pedicures, shaving and who knows what else. She gave them some instructions and left to run another errand, but not before snapping a few pictures.

Yes, that’s right…Three women tending to my beauty needs. Later another woman gave me a pedicure (no discount for having only eight toenails). And then when Yonna returned it was time for my first Vietnamese ear cleaning.

How many times have you been told that you should never stick anything, especially not sharp things, in your ears? I think I’ve been told at least two dozen times throughout my life. So the rebel in me was really looking forward to this experience, especially here in the relative calm of the salon, rather than in reclining chairs on busy sidewalks where I’d first seen it done.

An older woman arrived and set up her light source, than began to delicately shave my earlobes with a razor-sharp, tiny tool. This was then inserted deep into my ear, and I felt it shaving around the ear canal. Later she used small hooks and cups on the end of long, thin shafts, to remove built up wax. And last she inserted hot swabs to melt and absorb any remaining wax. As she finished each ear, she showed me the fruits of her labor. Don’t worry, I didn’t take photos.

Yonna paid (I still needed to change money) and we headed out. Only outside did she tell me that the women all became angry when she didn’t give them the requested tips. Sometimes I’m happy to be oblivious about stuff like this. I’m never setting foot in that place again.

The treatment took longer than expected, and it was already 4:30 by the time we made our way to the Park Hyatt. The cost to use the pool for a non-guest is US$32 for the day. We had a dinner appointment at 7:30, so I didn’t want to pay for only a few hours of relaxing. Yonna went to the pool, and I went back to the apartment to do a little work and change before dinner.

I made it back to the pool around 6:30, and enjoyed the stolen comfort of a padded lounge chair as Yonna leafed through a fashion magazine. She came upon a photo of a guy that she tried to convince me looked like me. I don’t know, you decided for yourself:

I’m going to go ahead and say that the guy on the right is just a little better looking.

At 7:30 I was still waiting for Yonna to emerge from the women’s changing room. Our hostess for the evening (let’s call her Mrs. P___) was already waiting in front of the Park Hyatt in her personal car. Car ownership is fairly uncommon in a city where few can afford anything more than a motorscooter. Yonna had met Mrs. P___ about six months ago, and had received good business advice from her on a number of occasions. Mrs. P___ drove us in her white Volkswagen Beetle (new style) to the restaurant where we met her husband (who was parking his SUV as we arrived) and daughter.

The P___ family is a very successful family here in Ho Chi Minh. They are well connected with the police force and the government. Mr P___ said that he could easily take care of my visa problem for me. It’s stuff like that which makes me hesitant to post photos and names. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but remember that this isn’t America.

Our dinner was at a very nice restaurant specializing in mushroom hot pots. I watched as many interesting varieties of mushrooms where added to the broth, followed by what were unmistakably a dozen pairs of frog legs. I didn’t have time to think about it though, because I was the focus of attention at the table. Mrs. P___ was talking about her websites, and Mr. ___ was requesting that I drain my wine glass with him every 20 minutes or so. So I switched over into “sanguine mode” and ate my frog legs (yes, it’s true, frog is completely indistinguishable from chicken, thank god), drank my red wine and listened with rapt attention to everything my hosts had to say.

Over the course of the meal, more items were added to the hot pot, but nothing else that I was unfamiliar with. So after working my way through the legs of two and a half frogs, I was left to enjoy mushrooms, thinly sliced beef, and noodles.

After dinner we were invited back to the P___ household. Theirs is a lovely, ultra-contemporary, multi-story home in the best residential district. I was given brandy imbued with bear bile and tiger bone. Mr. P___ explained that the bear bile comes from Russia and costs about US$3,000 per unit. I have to assume that the unit in question is a gall bladder. Mr P___ made me lick whatever the heck it was. It tasted like salty panic. Yonna was forced to lick it too. And I think her expression immediately afterwards says all that needs to be said.

We had a very interesting visit with the P___ family. Their teenage daugther was quite charming, and spoke American English with no hint of an accent. They plied us with fruit and gifts and advice about doing business in Ho Chi Minh. Their house, which they humbly called “small” is quite large, and all deocrated and designed by Mrs. P___.

There was an uncomfortable moment (for me) when an old black and white photo was pointed out. It was Mr. P___’s father, killed by an American during the war. But then, Yonna’s grandfather was killed by American soldiers too.

Mr P____ drove us home around 11:30pm. I was more than a little drunk by that time, and gulped down as much water as I could lay hands on in the hopes of avoiding a nasty hangover this morning.

Luckily, I was only a little groggy when I came around.

We left the apartment and were on our way to Zakka for a fitting (my shirt and pants were ready to be tried on) when we noticed some commotion around the base of one of the cây gòn trees in the street. A man was high up in the branches, knocking down the brown pods that hang from the tree. On the ground, a woman was gathering the pods and stuffing them into large sacks.

Yonna grabbed one of the pods and broke it open, revealing a soft, cottony down inside. Each tuft of down is attached to a large black seed. This faux cotton is used to stuff furniture, among other things.

We made it back to Zakka, and I tried on the shirt and pants (still under construction).

Yonna stayed on for a few hours to talk to the Japanese women who work there, and play with the textiles. I went on to the Internet café I mentioned in an earlier post. There I drank and ate and created the previous blog entry.

Yonna joined me and we fiddled with our computers for a bit. We finished our cappuccinos and she took me to a Vietnamese restaurant serving all manner of rolls. I guess it was a bit like a tapas restaurant, serving small dishes of flavorful foods to share. My favorite were the dried, seasoned beef with green papaya rolls. But there was also something omlette-like that was placed in a rice paper wrapper with fresh greens. Each type of roll was accompanied by its own particular sauce for dipping.

Before we left, Yonna was attacked by a massive cockroach. The waiters made a big show of driving out of the restaurant.

We walked home and I spent the next three hours putting togther this latest entry.

I only made it out after 4pm yesterday. It was a beautiful, sunny day (it has been overcast here most of time, and rained yesterday, which is unusual for this time of year), so I took a couple more pictures of the Saigon River from the kitchen window.

When I finally left the apartment, the sunlight was already the warm orange of late afternoon. I took this picture of the open walkway outside of the apartment, looking out into the heart of District 1.

Yonna took me to a vegetarian restaurant in the area where are the backpackers stay. We climbed an extremely narrrow spiral staircase to get to the second floor where we could sit on the small terrace. We were the first people there for the dinner service.

Directly across the narrow street was a Chinese temple. The characters say “Ease and Comfort Temple,” but Yonna pointed out that the characters for “ease and comfort” mean “assisted suicide” in Japanese.

The food arrived, and I was really amazed at the flavors. We had pineapple soup, fried tofu with mushrooms and rice with lotus seeds (wrapped in lotus leaves). Yonna demands credit for the first photo, because she said that the one I took had no style.

The black pepper on the mushrooms was so fresh and flavorful…I wished I could come back every day just for more. The rice had so many subtle and complicated spices going on…

After staring longingly at the empty dishes for a while, we made our way out to stroll for a bit. It was already dark by this time.

We stopped in a used bookstore, where Yonna knew the owner. She asked for the camera and took the following pictures. The first is of the owners girls (one is wearing fake hair extensions, I think you’ll know which one). There is also a photo of one of the many gecko that are ubiquitous here in the city. We have at least one who visits us in the apartment in the middle of the night to explore my luggage.

Now it’s 10:20am and we’re heading out to eat noodles.

I realize that I’m devoting a lot of time to food here. That’s probably because we haven’t be going out to “see the sites.” Yonna has been living various parts of Ho Chi Minh since about 1992, and so far hasn’t indicated that there is much to see in the way of tourism other than the city itself. And I would argue that the most import part of any city is the food it offers. Then again, I like food.

So when we finally made it out yesterday it was well into lunch time. After our short stop at Như Lan yesterday, I was curious to go back and try the food, as it had looked very good in a simple, unpretentious way. We both got plates of rice with meat (I’m guessing pork, but I didn’t ask) mixed into a salad of both cooked and raw vegetables (and I still haven’t needed to use the Cipro). As we were eating, and sharing another glass of custard apple drink, a few employees sat down nearby to eat their lunches. Yonna struck up a conversation immediately (she’s one of those kind of people). One of the guys had a bowl full of what looked like little radishes that he kept adding to his main plate. Yonna ordered some for us too. She said they were “cracker eggplants” because when you bite into them, all of the little seeds crunch in your mouth. These were pickled, and really tastey.

We finished and I wandered around, checking out the cakes in the refrigerator cases. Most were birthday cakes featuring animals (a lot of mice, to coincide with the Chinese year of the mouse).

I snapped a few more pictures of the shop, including the sandwich-making station. And on our way out we bought a little mini-cake to try later.

But as we were leaving, Yonna asked if I wanted to try Vietnamese Milk Coffee. I said I’d love to, and asked where we should go for some. She turned around, went back into the shop and sat down. We ordered the coffee and decided to try our cake, as well as some local sweets made from a chewy gelatin with shredded coconut and sweet bean paste inside.

As we were enjoying our dessert, I realized that there was a heated arguement going on a few feet away. A customer was apparently very upset about something and was letting the employees know. I was surprised when Yonna suddenly joined in, saying something to the irrate customer. He continued to rail at the employees for a few more seconds and then wandered off.

Yonna explained that he was upset because the wait staff had been much more attentive to us than to him. Basically he was saying “everytime she asks for something you run straight over to get it for her, but I have to wait.”

It’s true. When Yonna wants something she calls out “Hey, younger sister!” quite loudly, and she doesn’t stop until someone comes to see what she wants. While I’ve read that this isn’t considered rude in Vietnam, I have to say, I don’t see anyone doing it with quite the same vigor. I’m hoping that some of this assertiveness will rub off on me.

We left a second time, and grabbed a passing cab. There is a constant supply of modern, clean, air-conditioned cabs circulating throughout the city, and with extremely low rates. If the meter reads less than 15,000 dong you can give the driver a single US dollar bill. Yonna wanted to take me into a neighboring district to see the sprawling Chinese Market. I tried to take some video with my camera, because I can’t possibly describe the insanity that is driving in this city, but every time I started the video, we would hit a well-regulated segment of the street, with boring results. And then my battery died.

We didn’t stay long at the market. I had not planned to be out longer than it took to eat and get some water, so I hadn’t dressed for the oppressive closeness inside the crowded marketplace. We decided to come back tomorrow (which is actually today, even though it’s nearly 1pm and Yonna is still sleeping). So I’ll bring my camera today, fully charged, and hopefully have some really interesting images to upload.

After a little work in the afternoon, we went back out and walked along the Saigon River (well, you can’t actually walk along it because the entire riverfront is closed for construction in most of District 1) to get some Indian food for dinner. The restaurant was very fancy, and yet among the well dressed patrons there were a number of young Americans and Brits sitting around in their t-shirts, shorts and flip-flops. The food was amazing (and un-photographed, since the camera was still charging, but who doesn’t know what Indian food looks like?) and while familiar, definately had different flavors than I’m used to in the US. We ordered two entrees: Bhinda Masala (the okra was grilled!) and vegetable curry, two lassis and two naan and two chai after dinner, and the total was about $17. (And there’s no tipping in Vietnam…at least, Yonna said there isn’t.)

As we walked home, Yonna pointed out the French language school (started by the French government) where a theatrical performance had just ended. We walked in and watched them striking the set. It looked like a European bedroom circa 1950. Yonna said that she really likes the old French style with the Vietnamese flavor. I asked what about it made it French style, as it didn’t look particilary French to me. What followed was a 15 minute discussion, that nearly became an arguement. It turns out that in Japanese, a phrase like “French Style” doesn’t apply only to architecture or color or some physical attribute, but to all of the things that take place in the building, the architecture, the lighting inside, the pictures on the wall, the purpose and uses of it, etc. This led to an hour-long discussion of language and word origins, philosophy and science. But like I said, the camera was still charging, so no photos.

I’ve been running about a day behind on my entries. Mostly because the last two have taken over two hours apeice to put together (surprising, I know, based on the quality of the writing). I probably shouldn’t spend so much time in Photoshop resizing and adjusting the levels of the photos.

Looking back over what I’ve posted so far, I realize that it’s barely scratched the surface of my experiences. For example, I haven’t really mentioned how hot and humid it is here, and how that means making as few trips as possible up to the 5th floor (technically 6th). Basically once we leave, we stay out all day. I also haven’t mentioned that Yonna is perfectly happy with the apartment being 90° most of the time, which seriously impacts the operation of my brain and my laptop.

It’s 6:30am now, and I’ve been up for the last hour or two, catching up on news from the US, the stock market, my credit card statements, etc. I’m about to start into a day of work. So I probably won’t leave the apartment except to get some food and cold water.

I worked most of the day yesterday too. So not much happened. When we did step out, I snapped a couple of pictures of the side street and alley leading up to the apartment building.

These are the views from the end of the alley, looking left and right respectively.

I didn’t think to take a photo straight ahead for some reason. There’s a car repair shop directly across from the alley.

We were headed to a late lunch at an Indian restaurant yesterday, but we arrived too late and they were closing until dinner. Apparently most places close around 2-2:30. So we walked to a restaurant that caters to Western tourists who stay at the upscale hotels nearby. Apparently, it’s Yonna’s mom’s favorite place to eat in Vietnam because she can get steak. In fact they have everything from eggs and bacon to hamburgers. We split an order of stir-fried seafood and vegetables and a Chinese sausage clay pot. The food was pretty good, but I’m really starting to miss the ubiquitous glass of ice water that gets constantly refilled in most restaurants in the US. I think I’ve lost 10 pounds since I’ve arrived, purely through dehydration.

As we wandered back in the general direction of the apartment, we stopped at Như Lan, a bakery that has been around since the French colonial period. We weren’t hungry, but Yonna introduced me to a drink made from Custard Apple. It was basically a smoothie made from a very delicious (and custardy) apple. The shop is open 24 hours, and offers full meals and ready-to-eat food to take away.

And before publishing this and moving on to work, I have to say for all its flaws, sometimes technology can really help you put things into perspective.

After another late start we decided to head to the Internet café Yonna frequents. It’s in what I would call the ‘financial district’ of Ho Chi Minh’s District 1. She called a cab for us and we carried our shoes down to the entrance of her building, put them on outside, and the cab was already waiting for us.

The café is Italian, and serves food. I had a rolled sandwich of arugula and Gorgonzola. I needed to do some work for a client (I’m a little behind on my work schedule, oops), but in the short time I was connected to the wi-fi, I got two notifications from my antivirus software that my machine was being attacked. I decided against anything that would require sending passwords, which ruled out the work I was planning to do.

The café was filled with Westerners, since it was too expensive for the average local. Most of these people work for companies who have moved branches into Vietnam in the last 10 years. It was a little depressing.

Yonna explained some of the Vietnamese pronouns to me. I noticed that she used “em” with  our waitress. This means “younger sister or brother.” With women who are contemporaries or slightly older, she uses “chi,” which means “older sister.” When speaking of herself she also used “em.” When the waiter started to take away a plate she said “em dang ăn” (”younger sister is still eating”) to tell him she wasn’t done yet. I started to realize how nice this arrangement is. Everyone in Vietnam is your sister, brother, grandmother or grandfather.

Throughout lunch I’d been trying to forget that Yonna had made appointments for us at a Seitai massage studio she likes to visit. After the nearly unbearable pain of the previous day’s foot ‘massage,’ I was honestly dreading this new experience. The little I knew of Japanese massage told me that it was going to be painful. Yonna didn’t reassure me we she told me how people tend to cry out in pain during the process, but feel so much better afterwards. Yes, I was dreading the experience.

During the cab ride on the way to the studio, I noticed that a lot of the scooters around the car were carrying not just one or two people, but entire families, including very young children. And it looks like the new helmet law doesn’t apply to them.

We arrived at the studio, which was elegantly decorated, and very impressive. We were taken up a few flights of stairs by the hostess, and I was introduced to Kitahori Shinji, the Seitai Master. He handed me his business card in the two-handed, Japanese fashion. I took it from him correctly, but stupidly forgot to say my own name back. But he was extremely nice, and we all laughed about it; I felt much of my anxiety disappear. Yonna translated as he asked me some questions about existing pain or historical problems with my frame. He noticed right away that I had been pigeon-toed and treated for this as a child. He said that I was still carrying my weight unevenly as a result.

As he began to work on me, there was some minor discomfort here and there, but nothing in comparison to the foot ordeal the day before. I know nothing about massage or chiropractic therapy, but I could tell he was a master. He warned me before doing anything that was certain to cause pain, and then we both laughed after the excruciating bits were done.

When he finished all of my joints felt more free and loose than I can ever remember.  He then worked on Yonna, who seemed to find it more painful than I did, even though she comes here regularly. I am looking forward to going back.

Another cab ride brought us to a street lined with electronics shops. Each shop was small, but very tidy and organized, with all of the latest hardware and accessories for computers. I saw 4GB USB sticks for under $25. After stopping in a few places, we walked into a shop where the owner was just making the final preparations for his grand opening the next day. He was very friendly, and sold the adapter for less than we had expected to pay for it. Yonna explained that when a new business opens, or on the first day of the new year, or even the beginning of the business day, the first customer is very important, and the “right customer” can bring luck. While women aren’t particularly lucky, a foreign woman might be considered lucky. A prestigious older man would be ideal.

As we walked out of this collection of shops we passed a restaurant that was mostly open to the street. Yonna ordered some food for us while I sat down.

She explained that what looked like a slice of loaf was something like quiche, containing “pig’s ear,” mushroom, pork and fermented shrimp paste and eggs. I wasn’t paying very close attention, and assumed that “pig’s ear” was the variety of mushroom. After eating a bite or two, I asked if this was vegetarian. “No! I said it has pig’s ear in.” She later told me that the variety of mushroom used actually translates to “Jew’s ear.” Good lord, the possibilities for unhappiness.

On the way out I noticed some bowls of meat waiting to be charcoal grilled. They were sitting there on the street. Probably wouldn’t pass muster with a US health inspector.

At the end of that block we came to a shop selling motor-scooter helmets. The law was passed in December of 2007, and already there was this amazing variety of helmets to choose from.

Just around the corner was a little produce stall. Yonna was surprised to see prices on display. Generally you have to ask the price of everything, and depending on whether you are a foreigner or a local, you will get a higher or lower price. So to see fixed prices like this is unusual.

We watched as a man open a durain for a customer and packaged it in plastic for her. Yonna asked if I’d ever eaten durain. I’ve seen them, but never eaten one, so we went ahead and asked him to prepare one for us too. It was surprisingly tough to open, even for a seasoned pro, as evidenced by the husks on the ground.

But after a few minutes, and one false start with an unripe fruit, he had it open, and packaged the meat up for us.

I won’t really try too hard to describe the flavor. Yonna said it was like ice cream. I think that if they made fried-chicken ice cream she might be right. Definitely sweet and creamy, with banana undertones, but something savory going on too. Completely unique. The smell on the other hand…There’s nothing pleasant about the smell, especially after a night in the refrigerator.

We left the market and waded through the river of motor-scooters. It turns out that crossing the street isn’t so bad. You just have to wait for an opening and then move cautiously, but with a constant speed, so that the drivers can plot a course around you. It works surpisingly well.

Suddenly I was insanely thirsty. The kind of thirst where you can think of nothing but opening a bottle of cold water and drinking it all in one gulp. The problem is that cold water isn’t easy to find. A lot of people sell bottled water on the sidewalk, but it is usually warm. I’d paid 7,000 for 1.5 liters of water the day before (about $.55) but today everyone was asking 10,000 dong. For some reason I just couldn’t bring myself to spend that extra quarter. Then Yonna mentioned that there is a little market near her place. It’s a Western-style market that a lot of foreigners living in the area go to. I immediately pictured refrigerator cases full of cold water, and could think of nothing but getting to this market.

During the entire cab ride I couldn’t pay attention to anything else, I was so fixated on the mental image of opening a water bottle and drinking. So I was thrilled to walk into the market and see chilled water…and for only 6,000 dong! I bought it as fast as I could, ran outside and fumbled with the plastic seal for what seemed like hours.

But finally I was rewarded with cold water. And I’m not ashamed to admit how much I needed it.

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.

I made it. I’m too tired to write anything now. It’s 1:45am here. I’ve showered and I’m going to sleep for about 16 hours.