Ho ho ho, it's magic (Hà Nôi, Vietnam)

A warning dear reader, this day was jam-packed and it is, therefore, a long read. It is also our 400th post. Grab a glass and settle in. I acknowledge the gratuitous use of photographs to break up the text. So sue me.

The next day was the first fully organised day. We gathered in the foyer prior to boarding the bus at 8am. First stop was Uncle Ho’s Mausoleum. Déjà vu, except today it was open. Then to the Temple of Literature and cyclo ride back to the hotel via the old quarter. We opted out of the Temple tour and ride because we spent plenty of time at the former on Monday and the latter, well, just no. Instead, we would explore the Women’s Museum.

The now open museum in the background.

The way in to the mausoleum was long and circuitous. I imagine this is to help with crowd control as much as it is to replicate the concept of pilgrimage. Jayne referred to it as Vietnam’s version of the Hajj. Apparently, every citizen makes the journey to visit Uncle Ho at least once in life.

Imposing and a little ostentatious.

And lo, there was Ho. Lying in state. He looks remarkably well for someone who has been dead for 54 years. Much better than the corpse of St Bernadette in Lourdes, but then she has been dead a lot longer and hasn’t been afforded the luxury of returning to Russia for frequent embalming touch ups. We all filed past in respectful silence, some locals bowing as they reached Uncle Ho’s feet. The soft, muted light on the body gives it a kind of glow and makes the skin look waxy almost, like a … oh, no, I’m sure he’s real. Although it is magic. Hence today's title all the way from 1974, Ho ho ho it's magic by Pilot.

Out into the sunshine and humidity, well, haze and humidity, we walked towards Ho’s house. There were many more people here today now that the mausoleum was open. Including many troops in training, visiting from Cambodia and Laos.

More training required.

Tea related many amusing anecdotes as we wandered the grounds, but this post is already long enough. At one point, we picked up a stray tourist. An Englishman with “England forever” tattooed on his forearm and IQ equivalent to his shoe size. “What is this place?” he asked Tea. Seriously? Who just wanders aimlessly off the street into a major tourist attraction and doesn’t know where they are and why they are there? He did. And then tried to hang with us to get the benefit of Tea’s knowledge. Tea outsmarted him, well it wasn’t difficult, and dropped to the rear of the group and slowed our progress until he went away.

The Presidential palace.

The Temple of Literature was the next stop and we stayed on the bus to be delivered to the Women’s Museum. No long-distance treks for us today, although we would walk home from the museum.

The museum is four stories tall. The first level was the entry foyer which displayed a statue of Vietnamese womanhood and some photo portraits by a famous French photographer to set the theme of the exhibition.

Daughters read this closely to ensure the re-writing of the will.

Level 2 focussed on marriage and childbirth. It had representations of the marriage process and ceremonies from each different ethnic group in Vietnam. Some were differentiated by matrilineal as opposed to patrilineal customs. It was quite fascinating, even if the differences between some groups weren’t that major. At the entrance to this exhibit was the statement: ‘Wife and husband are as inseparable as a pair of chopsticks.’ No further comment.

The wedding party. The bride is under the canopy.

Level 3 covered the role of women in the workforce which was combined with their role in the resistance and/or revolutionary forces. This section of the exhibition was particularly interesting as it conveyed the North Vietnamese perspective of the various acts of “possession” and the people’s (women’s) determination to refuse to be possessed. It provided additional layers to the reading we have already done to try to overcome the educational censorship we experienced back in the 1960’s and 1970’s.

The marital chamber used to divide the room.

The final level was women’s fashion, through which we passed pretty quickly so we could ensure we were back at the hotel in plenty of time to re-join the tour group for the afternoon programme.

After a bite to eat and beers by the pool, we gathered to walk around the lake again to the water puppet extravaganza in the afternoon.

The water puppet stage.

Water puppets! I’m not really sure how to describe them or even where to begin. As the title suggests there were puppets and water. There were also musicians, singers and a narrative that emanated from behind the temple façade. We were in the second row so we had an excellent view. Perhaps too close because beneath the surface of the water we could see the rods on which the puppets were impaled. 

Some of the musicians and singers.

Many photographs were taken because I couldn’t believe (a) that this was a thing, (b) the theatre was sold out, (c) the performance lasted for almost an hour, and (d) I was there despite being warned not to go.

In brief: puppets were on rods and were whisked around the pool of water. There were numerous scenes utilising different puppets and portraying cameos of Vietnamese life. The musicians accompanied the performances with music. The entire narrative, was, as expected, in Vietnamese. One female puppet had totally exposed breasts. I did not understand the reason for this. The puppeteers work behind a screen in waist deep water, five performances peer day, 365 days per year. Female puppeteers were only a recent addition because they could wear trout waders and not get their bits wet. Apparently it was OK for the males to get their bits wet, although they now wear waterproof pants too. If you can explain this piece of latter-day sexism, please let me know.

A scene depicting ... I have no idea.

Puppet torture complete, we walked back to the hotel to change for dinner. In a moment of separatism, Jayne and I were the only one’s dining at Koto. Every other member of the group had chosen another restaurant, the same restaurant. A taxi was ordered and instructions provided to the driver. I was given 200,000 VND and a card that instructed the driver to return us to the hotel after we had eaten. So far so good.

It went on.

We drove through the chaotic traffic with sharp intakes of breath every time there was a near miss. It’s a wonder we didn’t hyperventilate. The driver was much bemused by us and made an attempt to joke about the Hà Nôi traffic. We chatted to each other until I realised the taxi had stopped and I began fishing in my pocket for the money. Our destination, Koto, was clearly visible on the other side of the street. Something wasn’t right and there were several failed attempts at discussion. He then resorted to Google translator and kept coming up with the name of another restaurant further down the street. No, I reinforced, Koto.

Not content, he crawled the car further along, horns blaring behind us. Koto I kept repeating. Finally, he relented when I handed him the cash. Then, “Oh, oh!” Back to Google, no change. Card? I inquired. No. A lot more circular discussion. Like Sydney trains, we were going nowhere. A spark, he phoned the hotel concierge, a brief chat, and then hands the ear piece to me. “We are at the restaurant,” say I. “He has no change.” I pass the phone back. We crawl further along the street. The driver gets out and approaches shopkeepers and people on the street to get the required change. We pay. We are finally allowed out of the taxi and walk back to restaurant, breathing a sigh of relief. The scene has movie potential from comedy through to horror.

Two of the puppeteers.

Into the restaurant. The comedy continues. Please use the lift. The doors open and the lift is full of trolleys and trays. So, sorry, please take the stairs. Onward and upward. Literally. It wasn’t a spiral staircase but it could have been. First floor were the toilets. On we climb. The doors open on the second floor and we go to walk in. No, no, please up again. Jayne is looking for oxygen as the atmosphere gets thin. We reach the next floor and the doors open. Please, says our host. We step forward and are beckoned to a table. As we move, no, she says and calls through two men from behind us.

Sorry, sorry, she says, this way. We commence the climb back down from the lofty heights of the 3rd floor back to the 2nd floor. Hmm. Déjà vu. We are seated. It is a set menu and it looks like too much food, and it is, but it is very good. Jayne orders a glass of wine, (for some reason - they serve by the bottle in many places) and says, you know one glass won’t cut it tonight? Agreed.

The wine is French and passable. There was De Bortoli on the list. Travel to Vietnam and drink wine from Victoria (probably the Riverina)? No thank you.

Interesting wiring.

Koto is a restaurant that trains disadvantaged Vietnamese teens in all levels of hospitality. They are at varying stages of their training and some are more comfortable than others. The dishes arrived and one was fish wrapped in banana leaf. I asked the young server whether the leaf is also eaten. “No.” he assured me and then as he turned to walk away, he paused and turned back and pointed to the clam dish. “You should eat the clams but not the shells.” he counselled. Good advice.

The taxi trip back to the hotel was uneventful. We contacted Daisy and asked could she deliver the last dress to the hotel as we weren’t going to get to the dress shop. “No worries.” came the reply. The dress arrived at 9:30 pm.

We repacked the bags ready for our departure to Ha Long Bay in the morning and called it a day.

Until tomorrow, assuming there in internet.

I feel possessed (Hà Nôi, Vietnam)

Hello again dear reader, it has been a busy couple of days. Currently we are on a bus, heading for Ha Long Bay, but that is the future. Let’s return to the past.

It is officially our last day of freedom, tomorrow evening the tour commences. While an organised tour has its benefits, we like our freedom, so today we decided we would tie up a few loose ends and have a relaxing day.

The historic tour of the hotel was interesting but it didn’t allow enough time for us to read all of the information on the boards. After breakfast, that is where we headed. The posters detail a potted history of the Metropole Hotel from its beginnings in 1901. It covers French occupation and wars, international and civil. One of the more interesting posters listed ‘famous visitors’. Generally, they were politicians and celebrities like Brad Pitt or more classically Somerset Maugham.

One of the posters

The Metropole became a pseudo activist centre during the American War. Famous American anti-war activists like Jane Fonda and Joan Baez stayed here. As did war correspondents from many different countries. It has been the centre of social and political life in Hà Nôi for many years.

An historic phone still in use.

Happily there were some Australian names on the ‘important persons’ list. Distressingly one was Scott John Morison. He was full-named. When your mum does that you know you’ve been bad, so it’s quite fitting, I guess. He was a bad PM. If I’d been his dad, I would have wiped that smirk of his smug little face when he was still a child.

Sorry, I digress. One excellent quote from Alfred Cunningham (I have no idea) was, “After a visit to Hà Nôi one is curious to learn what the French would have done with Singapore or Hong Kong if they had possessed them”. He sounds impressed and I love the colonisers’ use of the word ‘possessed’. Which of course inspired today's title. I feel possessed by Crowded House

A painting by Joan Baez completed while staying at the Metropole.

I haven’t checked, dear reader, because the hotel was booked for us as part of the tour, but I assume it is 5 star. The giveaway is that the staff hover like ringwraiths, waiting to swoop without notice. They can be walking down a corridor and will change direction to open a door for you, or push the elevator button. At breakfast, after selecting some delectable pastries, they stealthily sneak up behind you and pull your chair out as you are about to sit. Everywhere you go, you are met with ‘bonjours’ and ‘bonsoirs’ and bowing. All a bit disconcerting for a working-class boy. Sometimes for amusement value after I’m greeted in French, I continue with “ Comment ça va”? Usually I get a smile, but occasionally there is mild panic. Very few Sofitel staff speak more French than “hello”.

Jayne, not known for her powers of observation, is able to spot a Pandora store from 500 metres through haze, heavy traffic and crowds. Not here and she actually remarked on it. A quick question to Dr Google suggested the Pandora store was next door to the hotel and that we would have walked past it a dozen times. No way. I was shocked. Armed with our trusty paper map, we went in search for a trinket to represent Hà Nôi to commence the next bracelet (the original one is now fully occupied).

Oh what an adventure! Around the block and around the block we wandered without success. It appears that the Pandora store that was next door is no longer. Renovations. Jayne’s Pandora-detection sense had not failed her after all. Relieved, we adjourned for a beer, although we were probably drinking for different reasons. Ho Chi Minh City will have to be the first Vietnamese city to grace her new bracelet.

We found a wedding.

The afternoon was still ours to determine, before the tour officially commenced in the evening. On the food tour yesterday, we had asked Sinh, our guide, where we might find a place to purchase an Ào Dái as a birthday present for our oldest granddaughter. In the course of our meanderings around the Old City, Sinh took us down a street that contained a number of shops jam packed with these Vietnamese long dresses. He waved at all of them and then said, “We would go to Vinh Thang if we want one. Made on the premises from top quality silk.” This became the focus of our last free afternoon.

And another wedding.

We set out around the now very familiar lake to retrace our path to the Ào Dái street. A quick reconnoître of the other ready to wear shops led us into Vinh Thang’s shop, with sewing machine positioned right at the front door and the walls festooned with samples of silks, all colours and intricately embroidered, hanging from the ceiling, ready to be selected and sewn into the elegant Ào Dái.

And a car, but no Pandora.

A little elderly lady greeted us animatedly, waving her hands around and offering to retrieve samples from up on high. Unfortunately, she spoke no English and trying to communicate that we were shopping for our granddaughter, not Jayne, became a comedic but unsuccessful charades exercise. Jayne tried French to no avail and so we were forced to leave without securing the coveted order.

Luckily, we were also en route to collect the dresses from Daisy, and when we arrived at her shop, we asked her whether she could make an Ào Dái before we had to leave Hà Nôi. She showed us various designs and colours (on her phone this time – no trip to paradise) and we settled on something we liked. It would be delivered the next evening to our hotel, our last night in Hà Nôi.

Another walk around the lake and back to the hotel for a quick shower and change of clothes before dinner. We had a briefing with Tea (not Thi as I had assumed) and went to the Spice Restaurant in the hotel with the rest of our travel companions or family as Tea refers to us.

Then it was bedtime. I’m not sure whether the early nights are a product of the time zone shift, the humidity, the distance walked each day or a combination of all three. 

Until the next time I have an internet connection.

 

Rules of the road (Hà Nôi, Vietnam)

Hello again my dear reader. Today is day three in Hà Nôi. The weather has been relatively mild, top temperatures of around 27° and 70% humidity and the occasional light sprinkling of rain. It certainly hasn't stopped us getting out and about.

Breakfast this morning was in the main room, the one we weren't able to access yesterday. The offerings were the same and we double dosed our coffee today which provided a much better outcome.

The first part of today's expedition is to Uncle Ho's mausoleum and then to the Temple of Literature, via Train Street. Before we set out, Jayne decided to clarify the dress code for the a visit to the mausoleum and museum. She had three-quarter pants on and I was wearing shorts. Following the discussion we repaired to our room and changed into long pants. Jeans are not the fashion in this weather but must be endured lest we be locked out of the mausoleum. I don't understand what Uncle Ho has against knees and ankles. Unless you are some sort of fetishist, they can hardly be considered attractive or sexual.

Before taking our leave of the concierge, ever the optimist, Jayne inquired about changing her pillow for a firmer one from the hotel pillow menu. "Certainly, Madame. Which pillow would you like?" "The excel please and the my room number is...." "574, Madame. I remember your details from yesterday."  Clearly, the concierge staff quickly get to know who the trouble makers are.

Once again we stepped out into the rule-defying, death-defying, anarchic, chaotic Hà Nôi traffic. Even understanding how it works, it is not something to be trifled with or taken for granted. Motorbikes or scooters as they are referred to here, are in plague proportions, think food delivery drivers in Sydney. And they demonstrate as much respect for the road rules. One way streets are not. Scooters will come at you from any direction. Traffic lights appear to be mere suggestions only but have timers to show how long before the next change. The scooter riders pay no attention and weave in and out of cross traffic to continue their journey. The footpath or sidewalk is not either. It is a place to park your scooter or ride your scooter if the road is too crowded or a place to sit on stools and talk, drink and eat. And smoke. There are a lot of smokers beecause Uncle Ho was a smoker and "he is our father figure so we must follow his lead".

Yes, this is a footpath. At a major intersection.

Obviously the traffic inspired today's title. An absolute classic from 1962 by the late Tony Bennett, one of the best crooners in the industry. Enjoy. This is the sort of music I was brought up on. Cheers Dad.

Bravely we press on while attempting to ignore the persistent calls from the cyclo drivers and taxis that cruise beside you as you walk. Both make offers that remind you of paedophiles and kidnappers in B-grade movies. Side-stepping the fan and straw hat hawkers is also a thing.

Without warning, we arrive at Train Street. Literally without warning. It crosses a major road, maybe 6 lanes wide, no lights, no gates, no warning signs. Interesting. There is no such thing as WHS here and maybe that's not a bad thing - certainly the pendulum has swung too far the other way in Australia. However, I expected some sort of signage to say that a very large train passes across this major road.

WHS? Ah, not here.

The tourist area of Train Street is closed. There is a barricade which I assume is removed before the train arrives. It clearly states: STOP. NO ACCESS. In fact, the Train Street experience is actually banned by the government. Standing next to the sign is a woman who offers to take us to the other side of the barricade to enjoy a coffee and wait for the train. Yeah, nah. We push on.

Not too close to the bedroom.

The Mausoleum is located in an area that also contains the Botanic Gardens, the Presidential Palace, a museum and the one-pillar temple. It is quite vast and can be entered from a number of different streets. We arrived at one entrance to be pointed to another further down the street by a guard dressed in black. No worries, we continue on in the sun, agreeing to find a shady spot to sit for a while once inside the 'zone'.

Rather imposing.

As we arrive at the entry point, the couple in front of us, in shorts and ankle socks, is turned away. We exchanged glances, maybe our concierge gave us the good oil. Down to the security checkpoint. My backpack was x-rayed and we walked through the metal detector, safely into the park. The streets are decorated with flower boxes and are extremely wide. They need to be to cater for the military parades.

The sign in the background says no photos.

The Mausoleum stands out from its surrounds. I snapped a couple of photos under the watchful eye of a soldier in white dress uniform. Then we headed for the shade, avoiding the "no chewing gum" signs that are more prolific than the scavenging sparrows that inhabit every bush, shrub and tree.

Self-explanatory.

While Jayne read the map to get our orientation, I wandered around the immediate area. There was not a lot of signage. Indeed, there were not that many visitors. The souvenir shops were open and there were a few small tour groups being led by the nose, sorry flag, around the various sights. That will be us soon enough. Today we are enjoying our freedom.

Rested and re-hydrated, we turned our attention to the museum. Again, a building that dominates the immediate area. After being momentarily distracted by a squirrel (what a fluffy tail), we headed for the walkway around the building. We followed the signs that directed us to the main door and ticket office. Curiously we ended up right back where we started. The ticket office was closed. As was the museum. We later learned, it, like most museums in Hà Nôi, is closed on Monday and Friday, which is not what the notice board stated in the tourist shop area. 

Cute and fluffy.

Ah well, another Mont Saint Michel moment. Do you remember that, dear reader? Does your memory stretch back to 2011? May 1, in fact. Mont Saint Michel in France is closed for ONE day of the year. May 1. The day we visited. Much like today it had its benefits, there were no crowds. Although we have both suffered the stupidity of wearing long pants for no purpose. The concierge has failed. She should have told us the museum was closed. Instead, ill-informed, we trudged way across the city. As it turns out, we will be able to see the museum and mausoleum with our tour group later in the week, so all is not lost.

We checked out the (unimpressive) single pillar temple. Jayne described it as a one-beam temple. Not really said I. Checks notes, oh, one-pillar. Whatever.

The one-pillar temple. Buzz buzz.

Despite our unsuccessful attempt to see the monuments to the founding father, we continued onto the Temple of Literature which happily was open. The temple, built in the 11th century, is actually dedicated to Confucius, and housed Vietnam's first national university until the 18th century. Located in the middle of a busy quarter of Hà Nôi, the gardens, pools, pavilions and shrines are set out behind high stone walls, creating an atmosphere of tranquility and contemplation that celebrates wisdom, virtue and intellectual pursuits.

Arty shot from one area of the Temple gardens to another.

There are halls of stelae, stone slabs that record the Doctors and their academic achievements as well as shrines where offerings are made to scholars and sages. The stelae looked remarkably like headstones and were set atop stone turtles - the symbol of wisdom and knowledge in many Asian countries. The turtle not the headstone.

I wonder if ACU is planning to do this?

After this oasis of calm had been explored, we re-entered the chaos of Hà Nôi's streets to wander through the craft area with its array of shops, all selling similarly garish artworks, as we made our way back to our hotel in the heat and humidity. Time for a rest before tonight's food tour with Sinh. He was recommended by Glenn - cheers, excellent recommendation.

The king's walkway to the main gate. Students and common people to the left and right please.

We met Sinh in the foyer of the historic part of the hotel and set off at 4:30. We had been warned by Sinh (and Glenn) not to eat lunch. Good advice. We wandered down to the lake and across to the old town, Sinh providing commentary on the way about various sights and linking them with the history of Hà Nôi.

The food was divine. Small shops that sell the one dish. No booking. Turn up and eat the speciality, the recipe of which has been passed down through the family. We began with fried rice flour pancake. It was wrapped in rice paper with green salad leaves and dipped in a mixture of fish sauce and lemon juice spiced with chilli. Absolutely delicious.

Bánh Xèo (I think)

The next dish, as you can see from the photo, was also delicious. Probably too much, which is why one plate is completely empty. Two dishes, one pork, the other chicken, mixed with wood ear mushroom wrapped in rice paper and steamed. Again a dipping sauce based around fish sauce.

Bánh Cûon

Then it was time for pho. No need for an explanation. Noodles, meat, green leaves, carrot, papaya and crunchy onion and garlic. And the soup of course. Yum.

Pho.

The 'main course' was charred pork belly, noodles, leaves, green mango in a broth. By this time we were both struggling to finish what was in front of us, despite not having eaten since breakfast. This was the dish that was famously enjoyed by former US President Barack Obama when he visited Hà Nôi. Good choice, there was nothing to fault here and it was washed down with the local Hà Nôi beer.

Bún Cha

The next stop was dessert. Well, two actually. The first was sticky rice balls stuffed with mung bean in ginger syrup, topped with peanuts. Interesting and probably not for me. The texture is very glutinous and chewy. The syrup is refreshing. It is certainly a collision of flavours and textures.  The second dessert (sorry, no picture) was ice cream with rice that had been cooked with pandanus leaves to make it green, topped with fresh coconut and fried coconut flakes. This was more to my liking but I had already eaten way too much.

Ché Nuoc.

There was one more stop to make to sample the "best spring rolls in Hà Nôi" but neither Jayne nor I could eat another bite. They are just small spring rolls, assured Sinh, but when I saw the size the answer was obvious. No thank you. We turned toward the hotel and waddled home to bed. 

What an excellent experience. We saw the old city after dark and it is a very different experience. The roads are still deadly, but the night changes the feel. There are more tourists out wandering around looking for food or shopping and the cleaners appear after a particular time when the shopkeepers are permitted to put the rubbish out for daily collection.

Back home in our room I checked my watch to see that we had walked over 15 km. And it felt like it. Time for a shower, lots of water and some blogging before bed.

Until tomorrow.

How far have we really come? (Hà Nôi, Vietnam)

A restful night's sleep proved elusive due to the required adjustment to a different time zone and the arctic rated doona that covered the bed. Despite the air con, I defy anyone in the tropics to sleep under a bed cover that belongs in a winter climate. Otherwise, happy days, or nights, as the case may be.

As we are in total control (said in a deep, powerful, thundering voice) until the official tour commences, we felt no need to rush anywhere. A leisurely morning to dress for breakfast, into the lift and down to the foyer/lobby where we were met with chaos. Many, many people and much noise. It was almost as if we has descended in Dante's inferno, level 1.

A quick side step manoeuvered us towards one of the breakfast venues. There are two. We were rejected from the first option. "Sorry, we're full". I thought I was at a white Australia rally in Cronulla. Onward we went to the pool area where we were finally accepted. 

Breakfast is interesting because, as with most major hotels, they attempt to cater to the sensitivities of multiple nationalities. For the Australians, there were mini ham and cheese croissants. Unheated. The French influence ensured croissants (no ham and cheese), pain au chocolat, other pastries and baguettes. There were the usual egg fetishes and bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms et al. And the Vietnamese section, banh mi, dumplings, spring rolls, fresh fruit and many things I was not able to identify. Perhaps many is an exaggeration.

Coffee. Always a sticking point for us. There was choice. They had plunger coffee! WTF! Americans, I reckon. We ordered double shot long blacks. An automated machine gave it life. It was passable.

Over breakfast, we reconnoîtered a map of the old district and located the dress shop where we hoped Jayne would be able to get some dresses made. Quickly. She had brought two dresses that she wanted copied. It looked about 20 minutes walk from the hotel, should we survive Hà Nôi's traffic. Before we departed on our mission, we approached the concierge again to tell her that the sheet we had requested had not arrived, she had passed the message on to housekeeping but clearly something had been lost in the translation. "Room number, madame?" "574." We requested she try again and then left to locate the old city and its lake.

The Opera House and traffic.

It is Sunday and I am uncertain if that is a good thing or bad thing, as far as the traffic is concerned. As it turned out, it was a no thing. It made little difference. It was still anarchy on the roads. And footpaths too. Having grown up in Sydney where the car is king and pedestrians are an annoyance, I was ready for the battle. At least I thought I was. Thankfully the Ao Dai festival was in full swing and many roads had been closed to allow pedestrians to take over the roads.

Food delivery of a different kind.

Ao Dai is the traditional dress for women and there were many examples of women in their Ao Dai. There were, however, more brides. Sunday must be the day to get married. There were, literally, brides on every corner getting photographed with their bridal party. Photographers were wired for sound and there was rarely less than two or three for each party. They waited patiently for traffic to pass to get the right shot. It was a spectacle. 

Ladies in traditional dress.

Most of this occurred around the Hoan Kiem lake area, an expanse of water that contains the Ngoc Son Temple and the turtle tower. Stalls surrounded the lake, selling everything from Ao Dai to fruit to other produce, children's toys and food. There were also presentation/performance and games areas. It was like a school fête spread over a vast area.

War games for kids. 

Despite the allure of the guessing game, 'What is that they're selling?', we continued to navigate to Royal Silk, the dressmaker's shop. Unsuccessfully. Getting lost in the old city has similarities to wandering the streets of Venice. If you haven't been lost there, you are lying or you didn't leave your accommodation. Anyway, we saw lots of interesting things that we may never find again and eventually zig-zagged our way to the dress maker.

The shop is tiny and it was already crowded with three people and Daisy, the dressmaker. Jayne decided to be polite and stand outside on the footpath. We wait. We wait. The women inside are not looking like they are emerging any time soon. "Go in," I suggest. "It's too crowded," is the response. We wait some more and then two other women walk down the street and straight into the shop. We exchange glances, I roll my eyes and we decide to circumnavigate the lake and return later.

Loved on TripAdvisor and by Jayne.

Back into the festival we go, taking the opportunity to walk on streets that are not filled with cars and motorbikes attempting to take your life. We hadn't been walking long before we were approached by a young woman who said she was an English teacher and asked could we spare a few minutes to speak in English with some of her students? "Of course," we replied. How could we not? Particularly given my last line of work in international education.

Lost in translation, or just a rip-off?

The three Year 6 students had an excellent grasp of English. We chatted for a while as the teacher filmed us and the proud parents looked on. We congratulated the students for the excellent English and the teacher for the great work she had done with her students and continued our journey around the lake.

I was confident I could find our way back to Royal Silk. Too confident perhaps and another wrong turn had us exploring streets we had not intended to visit. And then, we were back on track and we were standing outside the shop. The women who had walked in as we waited previously, were still there but left shortly after Jayne went inside the shop.

Space is at a premium.

Daisy looked at the dresses, spoke with Jayne about options and suggested they travel together to fabric market to select what was required. When Jayne inquired where the market was, Daisy informed her that it was about 1.5 kms away and that she would transport Jayne on the back of her scooter. "Thank you but no thank you." "I am a good driver," said Daisy. "Nothing personal but that is not in my comfort zone and besides my husband is with me," said Jayne. "No problem," said Daisy. "We will go by taxi and your husband can come too." Disappointed with this outcome I climbed into the taxi. I would have paid to see Jayne as a pillion passenger on one of the scooters that buzz around the streets.

Taxi summoned, dresses in hand along with another customer's order, we jumped into the taxi, paid for by Daisy, and left the old city precinct to go to the markets, "a dressmaker's heaven" as Daisy described it. Or a moth's nightmare, so much choice, too much choice.

We wove through the manic traffic and stopped on a non-descript street corner. The only concession the locals seem to make in regard to preserving life and limb on streets is that you must get in and out of the vehicle on the curbside - presumably to avoid unexpected doors opening onto pedestrians, scooters, cars, trucks, buses and whatever else is vying for a piece of the road.

Turtle Tower.

We followed Daisy up two flights of stairs to a landing that suddenly opened out into a mezzanine, around which, as far as you could see, were literally thousands and thousands of bolts and layers of fabrics stacked from floor to ceiling. Each bolt hole (sorry, couldn't resist) on the mezzanine was the province of a different proprietor who happily pulled out as many samples as you wanted to see. Equipped with wooden rulers, they deftly measured off the required amounts of the chosen fabric, depositing them into a bag. Each selection was paid for by Daisy using her phone to scan a QR code. I was so overawed by the never ending stacks of material I neglected to take a photo - even though the camera was in my hand the entire time.

Once one fabric was secured, it was onto another proprietor, edging past ladies who were having their lunch break, sitting on little stools in the middle of their allotted section of the mezzanine. 

Once our business was complete, Daisy said she would have the dresses ready the day after tomorrow - they could be picked up at her shop or she could deliver them to the hotel, whichever was easier. We said we would come to her on Tuesday afternoon and we left her to continue shopping for fabric for her other customer. No money changed hands - this will be sorted when the dresses are ready in a day and a half's time.

Looking toward Son Ngoc Temple.

Still reeling from the experience, we made our way back down the stairs and out into the daylight to walk back to the hotel - a shorter distance than the taxi ride from the old city. Just near the hotel, we met Thi again who had collected us from the airport. After a quick chat about our first day, we headed into the hotel for a well-earned drink at the poolside bar.

I was warned, dear reader, that I would have trouble finding decent wine in Vietnam. This has not proven to be the case. The hotel has a delightful wine cellar and many French wines on offer to slake my thirst.

Despite a jam-packed day, we were not done yet as we had booked in to participate in a guests-only tour of the hotel which included hearing about its history since 1901 and a tour of a wartime bunker that was built during the American War only discovered under the hotel in the 2011 when they excavated to build a new bar and the pool.

The history tour was quite brief but we are welcome to go by ourselves to read some of the information on the walls of the "History Path". After the walk along the path, we were led to a flight of stairs near the pool area that is kept locked but leads underground to a series of cement rooms that were used to keep guests safe when the city was under bombardment during the war. The air was quite stifling and the feeling was oppressive and claustrophobic, despite there only being about a dozen guests and the guide. We spent only about 10 minutes in these confines in which guests had had to spend hours, waiting for the all clear. The lack of oxygen was palpable and I wondered how they ventilated these spaces particularly as there were up to 50 people sheltering from the American bombs, sometimes for whole days.

Cosy. And without a lot of oxygen.

After we were mercifully above ground, we finished the tour in the bar with a cold drink. No, it was non-alcoholic, dear reader, but delightfully refreshing. At this point the half of the group that was American, all checked out which part of the States they were from and one lady quizzed the guide on her thoughts around the relative merits of capitalism, communism and socialism, declaring that the States were becoming socialist. She said it like it was a bad thing. This vastly amused the guide who vividly remembered the war as a ten year old child. She declared the time for an "us and them" approach was over and that globalism was the credo now. I disagree, I think the current form of globalism is nearing its end and will need to be reborn in a different style.

Water constantly ran down these stairs.

The American woman who had made the socialist comment intrigued me. I desperately wanted to ask why she thought America becoming more socialist would be a bad thing (after all American capitalism has been such a stunning excess, sorry I mean success). In an out of character moment I stayed silent. Then she declared why she is in Vietnam ... she's involved in a group that raises funds to construct a Ronald McDonald House in areas where they are needed. Now that is socialism at work I thought and again I wanted to point this out, but I could feel Jayne's eyes burning into the side of my head. No comment. 

The Americans moved on leaving the Aussies behind. We are all part of the APT tour and chatted for a while about the forthcoming journey and other places we've been, before it was time to be elsewhere.

We re-appeared at Le Club some hours later for dinner, opting for French fare, a croque monsieur and a bottle of French Chardonnay. A most civilised way to conclude a long day that included over over 10 km of walking. What's more, the elusive sheet had been installed while we were at dinner so sleep without suffocation was a distinct possibility!

Ok then, you've made it to the end dear reader. Well done. I will have more to say about the American War as it is referred to here. I was going to title this post Where are you now my son? a song written by Joan Baez after she witnessed the aftermath of a bombing in Hà Nôi. She was staying at the Metropole, but at 21 minutes it tested my endurance more than completing this post. It is relevant and poignant but also depressing given the current climate. So, I opted for Powderfinger's How far have we really come? Their 2003 classic is still as relevant today, twenty years after it was written, as it would have been in 1973. Sad really.

Until tomorrow.

Lover, you should've come over (Hà Nôi, Vietnam)

Another adventure begins dear reader, and this time we're off to the previously unvisited countries of Vietnam and Cambodia. To be fair, I have been to the former for work but I'm not sure that counts. Flying visits for trade presentations or 'meet and greets' for prospective students (and their parents), demonstration classes and the like. I really didn't see much of the country and have been keen to return, so when APT offered us a discount trip on the back of some minor problems with our European River cruise last year, the answer was swift and in the affirmative.

This cruise. It was hard to take.

Of course Qantas wouldn't come to the party and wanted some ridiculous amount of money for the airfares so we jumped ship, so to speak, and booked with Singapore Airlines. More on that later.

As with our previous blog posts the title will be a song. Generally the reason for the selection is obvious. Sometimes not. Where possible I'll hyperlink the music somewhere in the post as I explain my choice. Not only does it allow me to share my excellent taste in music, it also provides a window into my thought processes. Probably best not to dwell too heavily on the latter.

Another trip commences with the perennial problem of how to get to the airport. No chauffeur this time. APT thought they had been generous enough. The train to the airport costs around $30 each and we have to travel into Central or out to Wolli Creek and change because, ridiculously, the airport line skirts around Redfern. An inconvenient first world problem and not the last we shall encounter I'm certain. An Uber was projected to cost around $52ish, cheaper than the train and a limo was $80. Then Jayne scored an email from Uber offering a 25% discount for pre-booked fares. Bargain. Uber it is. Booked for a 6:30am pick-up, door-to-door and cheaper than the train and less hassle with the bags.

Despite having booked the ride a week earlier, Richard our driver was only made aware of it that morning. He was on time in his new car that was purchased through SPLEND. Google it dear reader. It's a lease-to-own scheme that ties in with car-share companies like Uber. Richard was spot on time and we were at the airport and heading through customs before 7am. 

On the drive we discussed how Uber actually works. It's quite interesting and certainly not for me. As it is a US based company the pre-booked rides all come through the central program at the same time. Regardless of country. Super keen Uber drivers need to be up and ready to go before 4am when the day's fares come through. It wouldn't take much to tweak the software to ensure a more effective and timely delivery of information.

Sadly there would be no Qantas First Lounge today, but the Singapore Lounge was fine and we settled in for breakfast and the obligatory glass of champagne before we boarded the plane.

It was going to be a long day. Sydney to Singapore, change plane and terminal, then Singapore to Hà Nôi. The layover time in Singapore you ask? Less than an hour. I wouldn't have trusted Qantas to make that narrow window, let alone transit our luggage as well. Spoiler alert. Singapore Airlines nailed it.

The second flight was as uneventful and nowhere near capacity. We discovered "Book the Cook" a little perk of flying Business Class where you can pre-order meals from a much more extensive menu than is usually supplied. Good one Singapore Air. Perhaps Qantas ... nah, not in the current climate, it might shave 1 cent off the dividend.

We breezed through customs. Almost. The official I had seemed intent on reading every stamp in my passport. It's new, I replaced my old one last year, so if all my China visits came up on the screen there was no evidence on the pages before him. After what seemed an eternity the open page was stamped and I was allowed to join Jayne in Vietnam.

Bag collection was also fast and efficient. Unlike Qantas, who promise the world and rarely deliver. The Business Class bags were tagged and actually arrived first. Through the doors and out into the humidity and cigarette smoke, towards the man waving the APT paddle. Thi guided us to our car, outlined the program that would begin in a few days, pointed out some sights and made some recommendations of places we might like to visit.

At the hotel, we were handed over to Long, a former academic who looks only about half of his 50 years. He will be our Tour Director as we cruise down the Mekong.

The room.

The hotel is the Sofitel Legend Metropole, recently refurbished and definitely holding onto its French heritage. We scored a room upgrade because of my years with Accor. Bonus. Waiting in the room were a fruit platter, macarons, chocolates and a drink voucher. More importantly, after being in transit for around 16 hours it was time for a hot shower and then to test out the King sized bed.

The bathroom.

And to the title of this post. OK, I struggled finding a song (a) that was suitable for this post, (b) hadn't been used before and (c) wasn't about the war. In the end I just went random. Surprised? If you've been looking for the link to Jeff Buckley's Lover, you should've come over and found one, I'd love to hear it, because the only reasoning behind it is I like it. A lot. Anyway, have a listen. A great talent gone too soon from this world.

Until tomorrow.