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.