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.
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.
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