I'm up early and wearing long sleeves and pants despite the 100-degree heart in order to enter the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum. The complex houses the Vietnamese forefather ("Uncle Ho") who is embalmed and available for view. It's funny, Ho requested cremation but his disciples disobeyed and insisted on embalming. But he may have gotten his way anyways since rumor has it that the body is more Madame Tussauds than Six Feet Under. I take a photo outside the mausoleum (which is allowed, just not inside) which angers the security guard who refuses my admission. He points to the camera drop off, but even after I do so, continues to block my entry. This man needs to lighten up. He does not know I'm American, plus I'm about as threatening as Dora the Explorer. He must not have had his Bun Cha for breakfast. Oh well, at least I've lost five pounds wearing jeans in this weather.
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| One Pillar Pagoda |
I grab a quick morning snack at Cam Chi Street, a small food alley a few minutes from the mausoleum. The street is narrow and hard to find, yet rewards travelers who make the quest. Small restaurants line both sides of the streets and locals sit outside reading the paper and eating spring rolls, pho, and bun cha. Several of the chefs sit right at your lunch table, preparing your food and acting as mealtime companions. As with most off-the-beaten-path street food destinations, I'm the only local in the alley. I get several flat noodle rolls, filled with beef and topped with fried onions. The discrete chef, who I thought was a patron due to his table location and casual checkered button-down shirt, delicately folds together the rolls almost like origami. As with most noodle dishes in Hanoi, they're served with a sweet, vinegary broth (almost like pickle brine) for dipping, raw minced garlic, and chilis. I enjoy it alongside a cup of potent Vietnamese coffee (Ca Phe Nau De). Two glasses arrive: One with a small amount of freshly brewed dark coffee, almost like espresso, with a thin layer of beige condensed milk at the bottom, and a separate cup filled with ice. Step 1): Combine. Step 2): Consume. Step 3): Feel hair stand on end.
Lunch is at Quon An Ngon, a large restaurant that takes modern Vietnamese street food and transports it to a comfortable, clean, upscale setting with waiters and wine. The restaurant is outdoors, under large yellow tarps that are practically buckling under the thunderstorm above. Large wooden communal tables are shared between Vietnamese locals and tourists. The perimeter of the restaurant is lined with several dozen small wooden food stalls. You start the experience by exploring the stalls, taking mental notes of what looks best. Each are staffed by around 1-3 smiling Hanoi locals, sauteing, frying, and chopping away. The smells of noodle soups, frying spring rolls and frog legs, roasting chickens. The giant menu reflects the diversity of the surrounding stalls and it takes me forever to decide what to order. I finally land on a large bowl of pho with roasted duck as its really hard to resist a comforting bowl of noodle soup in the pouring rain.
I leave the restaurant and head to the Museum of Ethnology, but forget to pre-negotiate the cab fare. Thus, the driver hits the hidden "foreigner button" so the meter sprints up like a thoroughbred in the Kentucky Derby. Vietnam's cab drivers and motorbike taxi drivers are merciless in their desire to scam money off tourists. They've almost turned it into an art. For my ride to the museum, I'm paying roughly 237X what the locals do for everything. In hindsight, I should have just exited the cab. Nearly all prices in Vietnam are quoted in US dollar, which makes them seem cheap when compared to American prices, when in reality they are small Vietnamese fortunes. It's almost as if an American diner quoted a Japanese tourist 2300Yen ($30) for a burger, saying "it's so much cheaper than Japan!"
Scams aside, the Museum of Ethnology is brilliant - a sprawling center highlighting the religion, culture, dress, food, architecture, history, customs and rituals of all of Vietnam's ethnic tribes. It reminds me of NYC's Museum of Natural History, minus the animals. Plus this museum has a giant garden with recreations of the temples, homes, and meeting houses of all the tribes, some of which are three stories tall. The museum also features a horrifying exhibit on the history and current state of AIDS in Vietnam, with detailed first-person accounts and graphic photos. My neighbors and I leave the exhibit nauseous and practically in tears.
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| Get a room. |
After the fake meter took all my cash, I leave the museum penniless and am thrilled to find six broken ATMs in a row. On my way to the bus station, I strike up a rapport with a young Austrian couple. As I cannot seem to find a working bank, I meekly explain my situation and ask them if I can borrow the 3,000dong for bus fare ($0.15). I feel bad asking, but it's the amount of money I may not even bother picking up off the ground if it fell out of my pocket. I tell them I will pay them back quadruple when we arrive back in town and/or buy them a round of drinks. The tall boyfriend looks and me and says, without a shred of irony, "sorry, but we're leaving tonight and may not see you." Their ancestors clearly sided with the Nazis during WWII. Luckily I find a working ATM right before the bus arrives as these two wouldn't give a hand to a drowning child.
I really wanted to spend the evening visiting Hanoi's Snake Farm, but not enough people signed up, and the tour was canceled. My fellow backpackers don't know what they're missing. I mean where else do you get to rip out a live snake's beating heart, consume it as the still-beating python muscle pulsates down your throat and stomach, take shots of freshly killed snake blood and bile, and finish with a seven-course snake feast including snake baby-back ribs and snake meatballs?! Well this week's crop of hostel guests clearly have broken backbones. I head for noodle soup instead, which is delicious, yet does not beat inside one's esophagus upon ingestion.
Dinner is around the corner from the hostel with Katie from San Francisco. We both grab large, piping hot bowls of Pho. The scalding broth cooks the raw beef and I add in onions, scallions, cilantro, basil, and fresh lime juice. The broth is light yet eternally complex, tasting of ginger, garlic, pork and beef. We both sit there, loudly slurping our noodles and washing down the hot soup with ice cold beer.
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