Walking The Streets of Hanoi

The week that followed passed by more or less routinely.  I'd wake up later than everyone in the house, well after Mike had gone to work and the kids to school.  I'd then either hang out with Tinh for lunch or go into town to explore Hanoi on my own, before heading home to play with the kids, have dinner then chill with Mike.

Maybe it's a result of my underdeveloped sense of direction, but one of my favorite ways of exploring a new city is to get lost.  In the Old Quarter of Hanoi this was particularly easy to do, surrounded on all sides by the ubiquitous vespas and motorcycles, the principal method of transport in Vietnam.  The collective and ever-present buzz from their motors is reminiscent of a giant beehive, and it's taken me some time and effort to be able to cross any street in Vietnam amidst the sea of two-wheels.  Helmets are mandated by law, though I question the structural integrity of many of those helmets.  Especially those with holes in the back of the helmet where girls can conveniently pull their ponytail through.    As in other developing Asian cities, honking is a way of communicating and not an act of anger; this at least was not new to me.

The advice I was given was, "If it's a motorbike, keep walking.  If it's a car, proceed with caution.  If it's a bus, get the hell out of the way."  But even with this in mind, it's counter-intuitive to plunge into an intersection with forty bikes crisscrossing at every angle and honking to boot.  But the alternative is to never cross any busy street,  because it's a concrete jungle with pedestrians the lowest on the food chain--nobody is going to stop for you.  

The prospect of cowing to traffic offended my pride as a Hong Kong street-walker, so after watching a local or two stride confidently into the street undeterred, I proceeded to do the same.  I walked slowly but steadily in a straight line, trying to avoid stutter steps and abrupt stops and trusting the motorcyclists to calculate my trajectory weave around me. 

Traffic lights were another culture shock, because I had no way of knowing when they would be obeyed.  At one intersection I'd see an army of vespas lining up on a red light as if at the start of a race; the next red light would be ignored completely by everyone.

Evidently my swagger belied my nervousness and confusion, because on one especially busy crossing an old Vietnamese man casually took my arm, expecting me to lead him through the chaos.  Like everyone else here he mistook me for a local, so overcoming my initial shock I happily obliged and guided him through.  When we reached the other side, he gave me a smile and we parted ways.  Since then, I've grown more accustomed to moulding into the traffic, but somewhere in the back of my mind is still a nagging doubt that every crossing is a gamble.  

Baby Jesus Rio

Entrance to Old Quarter

Second Verse, Similar to the First

Though we had a late and eventful night, there was no sleep-in the next day.  The kids simply wouldn't allow it.  We got up and the whole family went to an incredible authentic northern Vietnamese lunch at a concept food market, where the owner had leased a large space and invited all the legendary street food vendors to come in and set up shop.  Until that point I didn't know that the Vietnamese food I'm used to is mostly of the southern variety.  Though similar, the northern cuisine has its own distinct tastes, and instead of the meal consisting solely of a XXL bowl of pho, the portions are smaller allowing the tasting of more dishes.  Though I'm a tea man, one can't be in Vietnam and not have their coffee with sweet milk every single day.

Afterwards Kang drove the family and I past the monument within which rests the body of Ho Chi Minh (or 'Uncle Ho' as he's affectionately known in these parts) and other bright orange colonial-looking state buildings to Hoan Kiem Lake, where we took a relaxing stroll under the sunny blue sky.


Mike has been having a spate of bad luck recently, beginning with a vespa accident that damaged his knee and left him crippled for 6 weeks.  Things worsened with a rare attack from a poisonous ant that had crawled into his room, onto his bed and stung his left eye, leaving his face looking like he'd been brutalized in a fistfight.  He'd mostly healed from these unfortunate afflictions by the time I arrived, but still in need some more good karma. Thus when we visited Ngoc Son temple near the lake's northern shore, Mike bought some incense to pay respects to the deities there in hopes of changing his luck.

I'm used to the Chinese way of only holding three incenses, so when Mike made his offering with a pack of about fifty it was rather comical.  Hopefully more incense works more in his favor, though somehow I think my being in Vietnam helps both our karma.

After heading home so the kids could nap, Mike and I took the vespa out to the nearby park to catch some sun and chill.  As luck would not have it, he left the key in and the battery had fully drained by the time he realized his mistake.  So I stayed and watched the bike while Mike went to go get help, coming back a half hour later and bringing the whole family.

While a local mechanic recharged the battery, Mike and I took the time to play with Didi and Krichy, climbing trees with them and throwing an Angry Bird toy around.  To say we played catch would be a stretch, because they were to young to.  It was half fetch, except the boys would fight to grab up the loose toy then run back to throwing or kicking distance and then return it with gusto.  The genius of this game was soon clear: it took minimal effort on our part and the kids had an outlet to expend their frenzy.  I soon realized that if you didn't tire them out, they would tire you out.  

Mike later said that this was the most fun he's had with his kids in a while, so it seems like an initially bad situation turned into a great one.

Leaving the kids at home with Tinh's sister Thom, we went for a tapas dinner with some friends of Mike's, followed by a second trip to Rooftop.  We got a table, and were halfway into our bottle of vodka when a fight broke out right next to us, this time involving the fairer gender.  A psychotically drunk Vietnamese girl decided to have a fit, and ran across the room to bumrush another girl near the bar.  When a bystanding waitress tried to intervene, Drunk Girl switched targets and slapped the poor waitress around pulling her hair viciously.  Two other waitresses had to pull them apart while the waiters stood at the fringes, uninvolved and amused.

5 minutes later, there was hair on the floor

As they escorted Drunk Girl away I decided to follow to see what would ensue, and I needed the washroom anyway.  Not only did they not kick her out, but I later saw her in the ladies room, waving her shoes around jumping and screaming along to the music, oblivious to her prior actions and wilding out.

Given two fights occurred consecutive days at the same place, I was under the impression that it was just another weekend in Hanoi.  Mike later told me that this certainly isn't the case, and he's convinced that I'm apparently the magnet for drama.

Somehow we ended up back at Solas after making new friends an ex-Wall Street banker.  The hustler's pool table was now covered and people danced on top of it, adding to the menagerie.  However, the bottle of vodka we'd chugged was only enough to fuel twenty minutes of dancing to the mishmash of electronic sounds, after which we headed to Chicken Street to eat some of the best post-partying food I've ever had in my life.

Though the chairs we sat in were evidently designed for medium-sized midgets, the food soon had us ignoring all other senses and each other.  Roasted chicken wings, chicken feet and ribs were aplenty, with a tantalizing Vietnamese boss barbecue sauce for dipping.  To top it all off, they had this toasted bread dripping with honey that was ridiculously delicious.  If you're ever in Hanoi, do yourself a huge favor, visit Chicken Street and order that bread.

Eagle One Has Landed

Hanoi seemed like as good a place as any to start my travels.  I'd never been there before, and it was long overdue that I visited a member of my inner circle, Michael Piro.  Mike and I go way back to primary school days in Vancouver, and in the last several years he's carved out a very comfortable niche in Vietnam both professionally and personally.

In typical fashion Mike met me at the airport with his driver Kang in tow, and from then on Vietnam has felt like a second home.  I've always found visiting a friend in a foreign country a great way to travel, as it gives you an angle on the 'local' lifestyle through a familiar lens.

Blaring some contemporary hip hop tunes in the SUV, Mike rode shotgun with one hand extended on the back of Kang's headrest, subtly and comfortably in control of the situation.  We made a brief stop at Mike's house to drop my bags off and say hello to the family.  It was a long awaited meeting with Mike's two boys Damiano (aged four) and Christiano (aged two and a half); the last time I was in Vietnam was when Mike's lovely wife Tinh was pregnant with Damiano.  To set the tone and make a good impression with the kids I quickly gave them their presents: a toy Gundam for Didi ("Transformers! Transformers!") and Thomas the Train Engine for Chritchi.  It's impossible apparently for the Vietnamese to say anything remotely close to Christiano so Chritchi is the nickname that resulted.


Taking our leave, Mike and I then went for a high class Viet dinner with ever-flowing red plum rice wine, followed by a drink at the Metropole Hotel--a classy, French colonial white building that sits on the corner of an intersection covering two blocks in a massive L-shape.  The raucous table next to ours was occupied by locals, and Mike listened in on them while breaking down the situation for me.  The men were all in their late-30's or early 40's, rich second-generation sons of government officials and big businessmen.  The girls were all in their 20's and most certainly the mistresses.  At the end of the table was a big shot visiting from Saigon, with toasts being made in his honor.

As upscale as the surroundings were, it was a bit too quiet for our liking.  After a drink or two we marched out into the midnight streets of Hoan Kiem until we reached the building that housed a swanky club named Rooftop.  At the lobby Mike bumped into a drunken associate named Nam (I kid you not), whose family was 'big time', having built some Empire real estate project somewhere.  To complete the profile Nam had a particularly young, attractive and well-endowed lady companion.  Mike recognized her as a bonafide gold digger who has dated several other associates of his.

Another fella joined this friendly gathering, and the atmosphere soured as he evidently had some tension with Nam.  Because of Mike's presence they continued to speak English, telling each other in barely controlled tones to be calm.  But the shaky peace dissolved and the situation escalated the instant another guy piped in.  Nam lost his cool and threw a girly wrist-flick of a punch at the newcomer.  Two factions immediately squared up with Mike holding Nam back and myself caught in the middle.  I tried to contain my excitement because I hadn't seen a good ol' fashioned brawl in a while, though being from Hong Kong I had my reservations about how this scuffle would end.  Either way it had nothing to do with me, so I took a few steps back and watched the action unfold.

The quarrel quickly permeated the steps outside with close to twenty guys involved.  Through the glass I saw one wannabe combatant attempting to pick up an ashtray/trash can as a weapon, failing miserably in doing so.  Two uniformed security guards were literally less than useless.  After pretending to break it up they promptly retreated from the fray to become observers like me.  Mike later informed me that because of who these guys were, they couldn't be touched.  Money is power in Hanoi and if anything happened, strings wouldn't even have to be pulled for the security guards to lose their jobs and livelihood or worse.

As I'd half guessed would happen, the commotion died down after some melodrama and some truly fervent shoving.  Mike took Nam aside to remind him that he's a businessman not a ruffian and Nam came to his senses, apologizing.  Ms Golddigger had a more direct approach, slapping Nam in the face and following up with a kiss.  We left them in the lobby with the aftermath and headed up to the club, amped up from the fracas and ready for a party.  Though the place was bumping, only two songs played before an olive-green communist uniform walked in, full hat and brim.  Police raid, party over.

We wandered on trying to sniff out the next place to be, only to find the police sweeping many other  typical Friday night hotspots and forcing early closures.  In a last ditch effort Mike took me to 'the place you go when all else fails in Hanoi': a seedy after-hours joint named Solas, or Lighthouse, or Feng Dong depending on who you talk to.  We walked off the end of one street, past the late night vendors and other signs of human activity, down a slope and across a narrow, rickety wooden dock.  As we approached the dark and shoddy cabin-like structure we were met with the growing sound of bass from the thumping music inside, mixed with the dank, acrid smell of the dirty water all around.

Inside wasn't much better, but at least there was a crowd.  A pool table was positioned near the entrance, where it was soon evident that the local boys were smugly hustling the abrasive western tourists.  Once I walked in and started exploring the place seemed like a normal albeit run-down establishment, something I would perhaps find in Wanchai back home.  After a pair of watered-down drinks and a chat with the crowd around the pool table, it was time to make an exit.

Mike had a particular enthusiasm for the last stop of the night, street roasted chicken wings at a street vendor looking out over another body of water.  The woman running the business kept it bare bones; with no tables or chairs in sight we sat atop cheap mats on the steps next to her stove.  There were also no lights, and we consumed the delicious wings and Hanoi beer in the shadows.

It's only now that I realize the evident and steady decline from drinking at Hanoi's classiest and most historic hotel to being ravenous bums wolfing down street meat in the flickering streetlight.

Not the worst way to start a trip.

Farewell Hong Kong!

Sitting in business class for the first time in my life (thanks to Asia Miles), I’m finally afforded the opportunity to reflect after a two-week torrent of farewells and long distance calls, errands and last-minute preparations.

More than anything, I’ve been humbled by all the love and affection I’ve been shown by everyone around me. The well wishes and advice, presents and lai see packets, and of course the heart-to-heart discussions have all been so positive, reminding me that I will never truly be alone with such amazing people in my corner.

I'll keep this short (it's only a one hour and forty minute flight) but I'd like to express my sincerest love and respect for the whole Cheung and Chan families, as well as to all my brothers and sisters in Hong Kong and all over.  I'll be thinking of you all wherever I go, and hopefully repay the kindness you've shown by sharing my experiences as best I can.  If a man can be judged by his friends, then I can't be doing too bad!

Business class is overrated.