Panic on the Streets of Hanoi

The following is my account of the scariest moment of our travels. It came at a time when we were travel-weary and trusting, just wanting to get to the next point in our journey.

The day had been a long one, starting with an early wake-up call on Monkey Island. We’d been roused early just to wait on boats and harbors all day long. The disorganization of our tour was beyond ridiculous, and Chris was taking ardent notes to post online to warn other travelers. Especially stressed by this misadventure was our tour guide who was openly announcing that he was quitting this company to start his own business. Despite our early morning departure, the van to take us back to Hanoi was late and we risked missing our sleeper bus to Laos (arranged by the same travel company). Our sleeper bus was to leave at 5:00, and yet our van arrived in Hanoi at 5:15. We were assured by the travel company that we would get on that bus, though we had to wait at a cafe a few blocks down. In another case of hurrying to wait, we sat at that empty cafe for over an hour with no word on when our ride would appear. It was getting dark when two young Vietnamese guys pulled their motorbikes up to the cafe. Their English was limited, but somehow we got the impression they would take us to the sleeper bus. This wasn't too unusual—buses for long-distance journeys usually had their terminals on the outskirts of the city. This was our first experience with motorbikes though. I wish I had known ahead of time, as I was dressed in a skirt and flip flops. Still, I figured it was a short trip to the bus station. Our rucksacks were secured and we tentatively strapped on our helmets and held onto our drivers as we took off.

It was a real adrenaline rush at first as we pulled into traffic. Not because of the speed, because traffic was pretty much at a standstill on the highway around the lake. It was rush hour on steroids; cars, trucks and motorbikes were packed so tightly my driver actually had to use his hands to push past vehicles. I felt incredibly vulnerable in my flip flops, car bumpers coming within inches of my ankles. It was exciting, but nerve-wracking. Thank goodness Chris was right along with me in traffic. We couldn't talk over the cacophony, but we smiled at each other reassuringly. It did seem like an adventure, as there would be a break in traffic and our motorbikes would shoot forward. Because we couldn't communicate with our drivers, we didn't know what was going on. Why were we going around the lake in circles? Perhaps we couldn't get over to our exit. The two drivers shouted to each other when we stopped, and they seemed to be formulating a plan.

At some point, my driver pulled off the highway. This was somewhat of a relief, as we were no longer prisoners of the traffic jam. Freed from the vise of madness, we whizzed down a dark street. Chris was no longer beside me on this adventure. In fact, we had gotten separated in the traffic jam. I continually looked behind us, but Chris and his motorbike were nowhere in sight. This was disconcerting, especially now that we were entering questionable neighborhoods. Gone were the upscale restaurants and shops; gone was the collective safety of the hub. We were now making our way through industrial areas and slums.

For the first time, fear gripped my heart. What if this situation was not what it appeared to be? We had only hopped on the back of these motorbikes because we figured they were our rides to the bus. Had we been too trusting?

We entered neighborhoods which were dark and quiet. It seemed to me that we should have stopped and waited for Chris and his driver. Or perhaps they were ahead of us and we were racing to catch up. It was hard to tell because I couldn't communicate with the driver. I had no phone, no way of contacting Chris to see where he was or ask what his situation was. I was afraid for myself. I imagined my driver pulling into one of those dark, abandoned parking lots. Scenarios played through my head—bad men with guns, a windowless van to haul me away to the countryside away from embassies and international help. I imagined myself a victim of the white slave trade, sold to pirates or drug dealers, or whoever fancies 30-something-year-old women.

I then thought of Chris. What were they doing with him? Had they mugged him? After all, he was carrying all of our money. Had they beaten him up and dumped him in a gutter? I felt this was a much more realistic scenario than me being sold into white slavery. How would I find him again? The reality of being in a completely foreign country washed over me in waves of horror. We had been coddled as tourists in Asia, relying on an English-speaking tourist industry. What the hell would we do if we found ourselves in real Vietnam without a word of the language to get us by? I didn't even know the word for “help.” It suddenly seemed stupid that the only words I had learned in Vietnamese were food-related.

We had been on the road for what seemed forever. Surely if there was a bus to catch, we had missed it by that time. Still, we rode on. Every time my time my driver slowed, I thought, "This is it. This is where I get raped and murdered." But we made our way out of the slums and onto a large highway. This could have been a relief, but my anxiety only increased as I realized we were heading out of the city.

This couldn't have been right. Bus stations were never this far out of town. As we waited at a light, and were surrounded by other vehicles, a thought occurred to me. Should I scream? Should I jump off the motorbike? Not that I'm an expert—but doesn't there come a time before each rape or murder where the victim has a choice to save themselves? Isn't it usually confusion which stops them from seeking help, by not understanding the situation? Well, I certainly didn't understand the situation. Either we were going to a bus terminal, or I was being taken into the country to meet a fate worse than death.

I shouted in the driver's ear, "Where's my husband?" "Not far," was all he said, which in Asia can mean anything.

We sped down the highway into the night. All I wanted to do was to catch a glimpse of Chris, to make sure he was alright. Even if they hadn't mugged and beaten him up, there was still the chance he’d been in an accident. How would I know? Our unpreparedness had left us both helpless.

My mind was racing with scenarios. After a good 45 minutes fraught with anxiety and worry, street lights illuminated a row of buses on the side of the highway. I can't tell you the relief I felt. Not only buses, but tourists. I was safe.

Chris was nowhere to be found, so my anxiety wasn't completely alleviated. It was a good ten minutes or so before his driver pulled up. His eyes were as wild as my own, communicating his worry. He also had entertained all kinds of scenarios in his head. We clung to each other appreciatively, having learned an important lesson. Always ask questions ahead of time and always, always be prepared for the unexpected.

This was the most harrowing experience in all of our travels. I suppose this is because we got separated. Everything we’d been doing, we’d done it together as a team. Even if one of us had ventured off, we knew where the other person was at all times. Uncertainty in a foreign place is terrifying. We were grateful that nothing underhanded and shady transpired on this leg of the journey. We would live to see another day on our loop around Southeast Asia—even if that day was to be spent on a Vietnamese sleeper bus. 

The Downside of Paradise

We crossed the DMZ into the part of the country that was once known as North Vietnam. Sparing ourselves another journey aboard a sleeper bus, we opted to take the train for this long leg up the coast. The train differed from the communal sleeper carriages which we had taken thus far in Asia; this one was compartmentalized, just like the ones we had encountered in Europe. This would have been perfect if it weren't for the Vietnamese girl thrown into the cabin with us. She spent the entire time either sleeping or looking at her phone. I don't think she said one word to us the entire time, or even smiled at us. This was similar to our other interactions (or lack of interactions) with the Vietnamese while traveling throughout their country; they pretty much minded their own business and did what they could to tolerate our presence, doing just enough to take money from our hands. Which brings me to the title of this piece...

 

The Downside of Paradise

 

It's easy to compare Thailand to Vietnam. They both are roughly the same size; they also have phenomenal beaches, jungles, mountains and hip urban centers with backpacker strips, not to mention excellent cuisine and temples galore—but perhaps the similarities end there. Thailand has been doing the tourist thing for a very long time. While Vietnam was embroiled in war, Thailand was busy extending services to American soldiers. Of course, this created a negative impact in way of the sex industry, but it also set Thailand up to be a tourist powerhouse. Thailand has been in the industry so long that they know what works and what doesn't work, as they've had time to perfect the system. Also, in the traditional "Land of Smiles" way, Thai vendors seem genuinely happy to have your business, which makes the experience that much better. Compare that with Vietnam, which is relatively new to the tourist game. Yes, Vietnam is beautiful; yes, foreigners are curious and hungry to explore; and yes, there is a buttload of money to be made. These realizations have made the tourist industry explode in Vietnam; however, unlike Thailand, Vietnam hasn't had time to iron out the wrinkles and learn some valuable lessons.

In the internet age, it's incredibly easy to find out information on a place. It's not like the old days of thumbing through Fodor's or Lonely Planet guides (though those were great days). Feedback is almost instantaneous, and for Vietnam, the complaints are universal. The consensus among the backpacker community is that Vietnam is stunningly beautiful, and the sites are all worth visiting; however, transport is bad (i.e. sleeper buses), the vendors will rip you off, and the locals are unfriendly or aloof. From the near-mutiny we experienced in Ha Long Bay, it's clear that tourists will not stand for this forever.

My opinion is that Vietnam is currently cutting its teeth in the tourist industry. Perhaps with time, they may perfect their methods to maintain a steady flow of happy, satisfied tourists. Until that time, for those interested in visiting Vietnam, I encourage you to do so. But be as informed as possible, and heed the tales of those who have come before.

Vietnam's Capital

We booked a room in a guesthouse in the historical center of Hanoi near Hoen Kiem Lake. This was a great focal point, great for walking around and gazing at Turtle Tower, a pagoda, on an island in the middle of the lake. There is a story surrounding this lake, something to do with a giant turtle and a sword. Though we didn't find any turtles while circumventing the lake, we did meet some lovely local girls who posed for us to take photos. The people we came across were upbeat, and there was almost a celebratory mood around the lake. Parents bought ice cream and balloons for their children, and others just kicked back enjoying the weather. Modern department stores and high-end restaurants lined the edges of the lake, giving this part of Hanoi a very cosmopolitan feel.

Just down the alley from our guesthouse was a large and dark Roman Catholic cathedral in a square. Chris and I frequented some of the restaurants in that area, and the food and the setting were both fantastic. One night we came across a reggae bar where a Jamaican guy was performing with his guitar, belting out Bob Marley songs while hip, young Vietnamese socialized and texted on their phones. This was a bit like Valentine's Day for Chris and I as we sat under a cascade of paper hearts with messages, dangling from the ceiling, while singing along to "No Woman, No Cry." There were definitely good moments to be had in Hanoi.

Perhaps it was the change in latitude, but the sun didn't burn as fiercely in Hanoi. This made walking around more tolerable. We went to visit the mausoleum of Ho Chi Minh, the guy largely responsible for bringing the North and South together; in other words, a guy not high up on America's list of the Best People Ever. Once again, this kind of thing was more up Chris's alley, and I went along with him to view "Uncle Ho's" mummified body, only to find that the mausoleum was closed. This didn't bother me much, as I haven't had terribly good experiences with tombs of dead revolutionists (I once got kicked out of Lenin's tomb in Moscow). There was a park behind the presidential palace, which we ducked into through a hole in a stone wall. We thought maybe we were trespassing, but it soon became clear that this was a public park. Peacocks in cages, dainty curved bridges over small lakes, women in flowing, white wedding dresses—this seemed a vision out of Alice in Wonderland, Vietnamese-style. Turns out that the women in dresses were posing for photos; not brides, but models. How different they looked from the traditional bride we had seen on the Mekong River.

Our time in Hanoi was short. Mainly we were using it as a jumping off spot for Vietnam's main tourist attraction: Ha Long Bay.

We booked a three-day trip on a boat at a travel agency. The photos in the brochures sported exquisite emerald waters interspersed with nubby green humps of limestone, rising like giant's toes out of the water. Ok, we knew that Ha Long Bay was beautiful; we understood that part. It was the price that sort of had us flummoxed. Whatever happened to cheap tourism in Asia? The tours offered pretty much the same spots and activities. The only real difference was the quality of the boat and accommodation. Chris and I didn't want to go bottom-of-the-barrel, not when it came to a three-day tour. Wowed by the image of a traditional junk boat, and luxurious accommodations on a place called Monkey Island, we were won over. We handed over $215 (a colossal amount in Asian terms) and prepared ourselves for paradise.

The Tail of the Dragon

It was a four-hour bus ride from Hanoi to Ha Long, on the shores of the Gulf of Tonkin. From there, the tourists were crowded to board their boats. We could see that the styles of boats were numerous, but none of them looked like the dark wooden junks which were shown in the tour brochures. Maybe our boat was further down the harbor. We were escorted to a boat that sagged in the water next to larger, sleeker boats. We did a double-blink to check our vision. Instead of a classic-style jewel of the Orient, we got Tommy Tugboat, or the nautical version of the Little Engine who Could.

Things just got more comical as we went along. Our boat, named Sunrise, puttered through the water, and everyone aboard looked just a little bit confused. In the words of Jim Morrison in An American Prayer: "Where are the feasts we were promised?"

Our first stop was the Dragon's Cave. This fit in with the whole story of the dragon and the origins of Ha Long Bay. Ha Long actually translates to "the dragon descending into the sea." Indeed, the little islands of limestone easily resemble the scales of a dragon's tail. The cave we wandered around was the supposed home of this legendary dragon. I thought it cute, like something out of Puff the Magic Dragon. But other than some rainbow lights, there wasn't anything magical about the cave. In fact, I don't remember the cave as much as I remember the walk to and from the cave; there was a lot of climbing and hauling ourselves over and around things. But the best part came as we were waiting for our boat, Sunrise, to come get us. She pulled into port with good intentions to squeeze between two larger boats. We heard a crunching of wood as little Sunrise took out the railing of her upper deck as she scraped along the side of the other boat. This served as fairly good entertainment, and everyone watched the action as she backed up, making the damage worse. "That's our boat," I proudly stated.

I decided to make light of the whole thing. After all, this was Ha Long Bay, a place so beautiful it's almost mythical. Our room was dingy even by tugboat standards, but it was clean, and if we left the door open, we could get a view of the water. Our fellow tour mates seemed in good spirits anyway. They belonged to the young backpacker crowd, and seemed happy just to be traveling. So yes, we had been promised music, booze and revelry, as we were all staying aboard the boat on our first night. The music: Celine Dion; the booze: ridiculously priced; the revelry: made up in the heads of tour operators. Still, as I stood outside on the deck, watching us chug into the emerald waters, the breeze was fine, Celine Dion was crooning about her heart going on (will it ever end?), and the limestone formations were obediently inching into view. It wasn't all so terribly bad.

We made a kayaking stop. This would be another first for me, as I've never kayaked before. Chris, who fancied himself as some kind of British rowboat expert, barked orders like a drill sergeant in the water. "I want to go over there," I told him, pointing at a large keyhole in a karst mound. "You have to say ‘Paddle left!’" he commanded. "Whatever," was my response. "I just want to go over there." "But you have to say ‘Paddle left.’" The activity became more like a military drill, and ruined the experience for me. Once again, Chris and I have proved that we cannot steer a boat without communication difficulties. Despite our differences, we did make it through that keyhole. Hallelujah!

Back on Sunrise, our tour guide looked completely stressed out. The complaints hadn't come on strong just yet by this time, but still the damaged rail didn't look good as we limped through the water. We all laughed about it, and he didn't seem to appreciate the humor. There were complaints about the price of the booze. Beer was available at a price—$2 per can. This was outrageous, for beer in Asia costs mere pennies. What about those who had brought along their own booze? Well, the tour company had that figured out by asking a "service charge." This meant that nobody wanted to drink, and the "party" which was supposed to include karaoke, wasn't exactly taking off. There was a moment where we were all gathered on the top deck, and two girls from Bristol (Chris's hometown), who looked like they were up for anything, shed their clothes down to their bikinis and jumped into the water. This was a very high jump, and there was no way I was doing it, especially since I had seen a jellyfish go floating by just minutes before, but Chris, in the spirit of his fellow Bristolians, took the plunge. I have to give him immense credit for doing it. The girls may have had some booze stashed, but Chris had been sober. Major kudos to him for his bravery.

Our boat dropped anchor and we were set for the night. In good Asian tourist fashion, a lady sidled up to our boat in her rowboat, offering to sell us provisions. Some of our boat mates bought cheap cans of beer, which made our tour guide scowl, but he didn't stop them. Chris and I retired early to our room. We thought we might be missing out on a great party, but as we were find out in the morning, most everyone had gone to bed early.

On our second day in Ha Long Bay, we visited Cat Ba Island where we went for a hike. Now, I'm usually down for a good hike, but there was something about the hike on Cat Ba that caused images of hospital rooms dancing before my eyes. A light rain fell and we had to transverse slippery rocks and pull ourselves up rusting ladders. As a side note, I would like to point out that I had been plagued with an incessant fear of getting hurt, I suppose ever since getting my head smashed in by police after moving to Britain. I used to be fearless; I used to go on hikes with friends, our flasks filled with liquor; I used to walk on ledges, I used to scale cliff edges—I was invincible (though I did fall off a cliff once, which sort of shook me up). This feeling had been haunting me for years, that something bad was going to happen. I had been diagnosed with PTSD from the police incident, so it was no surprise I was constantly on edge for something bad to come out of the blue, but it was a real tragedy that this extended to experiences in nature. Not that I thought I was going to die, but that I would badly injure myself. This constant fear both limited me and prevented me from activities I at one time would have happily engaged in. It also aged me, making me feel like a frail old lady. It was a shame. I wanted that fearlessness back. Still, I'm amazed how much I actually did considering I had this constant fear. Okay, putting that aside, I can easily say that the hike on Cat Ba was not one of the highlights of our trip.

Our spot for the night was Monkey Island. This may sound like something out of Fantasy Island, with monkeys dripping from trees. Thankfully (as our past experiences with monkeys had been full of fright), there was not a monkey to be found. There was instead a fine-sand beach with a lodge and some huts. This was our luxurious accommodation which had been sold to us through the pages of the travel brochure. So you can image our surprise when we were shown to one of the bamboo huts. It was clean enough, but there were no windows and the bathroom was located behind a curtain. Our lounge area was a picnic table outside. I thought there was some charm to be found, but Chris was furious. We had paid a considerable amount for this trip. yet nothing was matching up with the brochure photos. It turned out Chris wasn't the only one who was complaining about our accommodations. Everyone on our tour was getting the sense that we had been conned. Though the complaints were many, the tour guide did upgrade Chris and I to a better room. We were the only ones; the rest just had to take what they were given. There was a cloud of contention cast over the rest of our tour, and the guide looked like he was ready to jump ship. His frustration was mainly with the tour operators, who pulled this kind of stuff all the time. It wasn't his fault; he was just the guide. I found this to be highly reflective of the tourist industry in Vietnam. They will sell you paradise, but send you out on a tugboat to find it.

Ha Long Bay was the worst experience we had encountered as far as conning tourists. Not only were the tour operators' lies blatant, but they were told in an unforgiving manner, as they watched wave after wave of disgruntled tourists come and go. There was no shame in their game, but hopefully the word will get out about these practices, and perhaps the government will enforce policies to keep these businesses honest.

Despite all that, Ha Long Bay was memorable. You can't go wrong with all that scenic splendor. And aboard our dilapidated boat, we got to know members of our group who were entertaining and good-natured. There were travelers from all over: Australia, Britain, Ireland, the Netherlands, Malaysia, Israel—we made up quite a diverse bunch. It's fun to think that at that moment in time, our paths all crossed on a little tugboat named Sunrise.

The Old Vietnam

Now that we had experienced the "New Vietnam," we were on our way to the "Old Vietnam," and by this, I mean the cultural and imperial past, in the cities of Hoi An and Hue.

We were steadily making our way north up the coast. Vietnam being a long, thin country, most of its urban centers are located along the coast (or near the coast). Bus journeys between these places are long and arduous. Not only are the customary sleeper buses uncomfortable and impractical (who really wants to lie down for twelve hours straight?), but there is a level of dishonesty when booking a ticket. For instance, we were assured that there would be bathrooms on every sleeper bus we'd be taking, and yet—no bathrooms. Not even the hint of a bathroom, as they simply hadn't been included in the bus design. So it was a blatant lie told to us over and over again. And as bathroom stops were infrequent, like every six hours, we really had to suck up the whole experience. The "beds" were more like torture devices, with their hard plastic covers and metal bars to keep us in place as the driver maniacally spun the bus's steering wheel. Foot space was cramped, and there was no place to store our personal items. The seat I had (which I had considered decent in comparison to the middle seats) was on the upper level by a window. Seen as how my face was only inches from the ceiling, I had air conditioning blowing directly onto my right cheek. The vent was missing, so it was just a gaping hole in the ceiling. I tried plugging it up, but to no avail. That steady stream of air was like Chinese water torture and there was no way I could escape it as I couldn't even lay on my side. Chris's experience was not much better, and neither of us slept on our twelve-hour ride from Nha Trang to Hoi An. Sleeper buses—Vietnam's invention of hell for backpackers.

On to happier subjects: Hoi An.

The Culture Capital

This charming city is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and rightly so. Wandering the streets of the Ancient Town was like stepping back in time, with rickshaws, paper lanterns and colorfully painted buildings. Because we hadn't made it to China, I can't make an accurate comparison, but it very much reminded me of China. Not modern China, but those back-alley parts of China with noodle stands and tailor shops and wafting traditional music. This makes sense, as Hoi An used to be a Chinese trading port from the 15th to the 19th century. Chinese wooden architecture abounds, but as well as French colonial buildings, painted yellow. In fact, when I think of Hoi An, I think of yellow, as in mustard yellow. How nicely this color looked as a backdrop to the brightly colored lanterns that graced every doorway.

On our first night in Hoi An, we walked down a long alley from our hotel to the Ancient Town. The Ancient Town comprises a large area located along the waterfront of the Thu Bon River and around a series of canals. The bridges here are world class: the wooden Japanese Bridge is carved and ornate, and the main bridge crossing the river is covered in lights and lanterns. Standing on that main bridge at night was like celebrating Valentine's Day, surrounded by lights and loving energy from the gathered crowds. Women sold lighted lanterns by the water's edge, which were then released into the river. There was something dreamy and romantic about Hoi An.

Open-front cafes lined the river. Chris and I sat in a few, enjoying drinks and watching the activity along the water's edge. Though there were many places to drink in Hoi An, the atmosphere didn't lend itself to drunkenness. In fact, there were very few from the backpacker crowd in Hoi An, but that was perhaps because they weren't obnoxiously present. Instead of a party town, Hoi An reminded me of Taos or Ubud, with middle-aged couples looking for arts and crafts to purchase.

Our stay in Hoi An was leisurely; we had no tours lined up. This was perfect, for Hoi An is set up for languid wandering. The shops and restaurants are top-notch, a classy mix of traditional and modern. One of my best meals happened in the streets of the Ancient Town, and I do not say this lightly (as I think I've written several times in this blog that "my best meal was *insert meal*") as it was the anticipation of this meal that really did it for me. We had been eating Vietnamese food for several weeks. which is not itself a bad thing, for Vietnamese fare is fresh and tasty. However, it's very simple in comparison to the layers of flavor offered in, say, a curry. Having discovered my love for Indian food on this trip through Southeast Asia, I was craving it in a big way. We located an Indian restaurant called Ganesh's and headed there for lunch on our second day in Hoi An. It was everything and more than I could have asked for. Fat juicy prawns that popped in my mouth, layered flavors of curry with just the right balance of heat and spice with fresh chopped coriander and naan bread to dip—pure heaven. There were many excellent Indian meals to be found on our travels, and for this, Indian tops my list for my favorite cuisine. Over these past few years, it's been a race between Thai and Indian, and Indian has pulled ahead for the lead. Not bad for a cuisine I used to avoid.

Though we had decided not to take any tours, we agreed that a boat ride on the Thu Bon River might be nice. We found a lovely older gentleman with missing teeth who sold us an hour trip down the river and back. He kept insisting on a two-hour ride, but I was adamant about it being just one hour. One thing I was noticing about the hawkers in Hoi An, they were quiet and polite, but at the same time, wily in extracting tourist dollars, as evidenced by the older woman who placed a peasant stick upon my shoulder in one of the alleyways. It was meant for a photo op: Sarah bringing home her load of bananas. The lady had assured us "no cost" for this photo op, but I've grown wise to this tactic. Nothing is ever for free. And sure enough, she pressured us to by a banana (at a special price for tourists!) from her as I handed her load back. We were to experience this again on our boat ride, not with a load of bananas, but with fishermen. Our driver had slowed down at a point in the water so we could watch some fisherman cast their nets. This was interesting enough, and Chris and I appropriately snapped pictures for a perfect shot. But then one of the fishermen rowed his boat over, and we were getting the sense that these guys were not out to catch fish, but rather, tourists. The guy climbed in our boat and showed us how to cast a net. Chris gave it a go while I recorded it. One, two, three—Chris tossed the net, and never got it outside of the boat. Instead, he had snagged it on the side, which we all got a good laugh at. But as the man tried to untangle the net, we were worried that Chris might have damaged it. Turns out the net was fine, but before the man hopped back in his boat, he insisted that we pay him. For what—we weren't entirely sure. Chris offered him money, but the guy demanded more. Chris defiantly tucked his wallet away, so the guy scampered back to his boat. Experiences like this turned us off to hawkers in general, as was hard to tell who's authentic and who was out to made a shady buck.

Our stay in Hoi An was short but sweet. Not a whole lot happened; we sat around a lot, drank cocktails in trendy bars and relished the architecture and crafts in this artist enclave. We may have had too much to drink on certain occasions, but we tried to keep in classy. Or not. I have recordings of Chris giving interviews as "The World's Most Sexiest Man" and putting on the persona of Sir Jim from Georgetown. Though these videos continue to crack me up, rest assured the internet world will never lay eyes on them.

Below the DMZ

Hue is a city located right below the DMZ—the demilitarized zone that used to divide North and South Vietnam. Though this line no longer exists, it's still worth bearing in mind the role of Hue in the Vietnam War. The Battle of Hue was the bloodiest battles in the war, with most casualties on the communist side. Eighty percent of the city was bombed by U.S. airstrikes. Thankfully, much of the Imperial City within the Citadel was preserved.

It's easy to draw comparisons between the Imperial City in Hue and the one in Bejing. In fact, within the Imperial City is the Purple Forbidden City where only members of the Nguyen imperial family can enter (the Nguyen dynasty was the last ruling family of Vietnam). But before I get too far ahead of myself, let me at least write about our first impression of Hue.

Hue was massive, especially compared to Hoi An. Right off the bus, Chris and I were overwhelmed with its size and bustle. Though Ho Chi Minh City was much larger in population, it seemed more accessible and tourist-friendly. Hue was fast-paced and not set up for tourism, at least in the area of the city where our hotel was located. We thought we were strategically placed from a tourist standpoint, only a few blocks down from the Perfume River, but we had the hardest time finding a place to eat on our first night. Nothing we came across was catered for tourists. We finally settled on a restaurant right on the river which served bland, vegetarian fare. We were the only foreigners around. The area around the river lacked nightlife. We didn't wander far, as there wasn't anything to see along the unlit riverwalk. Quite frankly, we were a little daunted by it all.

Hue is a city that is hard from the cement up; it lacks the color and the vibrance of other Vietnamese cities. On the surface, Hue seemed to lack soul. But we knew that the draw of Hue was the imperial sites, so we would have to get cracking on that stuff.

We headed out on our own the next day. Walking along the Perfume River (isn't that a great name?) we came to the Citadel with its large crumbling walls. Right away we were impressed with the scale of everything. We purchased tickets into the Imperial City, and were very happy to find that we could explore it on our own without a guide. Of course, a guide could have given us pertinent information that I could pass on here, but I admit that I knew very little about what we were seeing. It didn't really matter, as everything was very ancient and royal-looking. Temples, pagodas, gates, cool little gazebos along canals, gardens, pavilions, court shit—it was all good. The city is massive; we could have spent days there. But we were interested in capturing good shots. The actual info—well, there's always Wikipedia.

Because we couldn't get out a Hue without signing up for a tour, we chose to take a boat ride along the Perfume River. We were so tour-weary at this point, but we were offered a ride on a Dragon Boat. Now who in their right mind would refuse a ride down the Perfume River on a Dragon Boat? It sounded like something out of a fairy tale. Unfortunately, the weather was crap on the day of our tour with heavy rain pouring down. But the boat was covered and most of the sites were indoors so it was all good. We actually ended up enjoying this tour, as our tour mates were amicable. We made friends with a cute French guy named Nicolae. I must say that all the French travelers we met in Asia were slowly washing the sour taste of southern France out of my mouth. I suppose that's because they were the backpacker type, not out to make an impression with their fashion-sense and cool countenance. All the ones we met were down-to-earth, and some were downright charming, like Nicolae, whose smile could melt butter.

We made various stops along the river, to different palaces and temples. We banged gongs and circumvented pagodas, all in the rain. At one temple, we came across an interesting relic—a rusting baby blue car. It was the car from the famous Burning Monk photo. In June of 1963, Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thich Quang Duc set himself on fire on a busy street corner in Saigon while other monks looked on. This act was done in protest of the discrimination against Buddhists by the South Vietnamese Diem regime. By pouring gasoline over himself and setting himself on fire (with some help from the other monks) his goal was to become a martyr and generate media attention, and for this, he succeeded. The photo of him burning is quite haunting, as his face is so serene. Oh, what religion can drive some people to do.

We were to find that only half of our tour was along the Perfume River. At some point, we hopped on a bus and continued on to the Imperial Tombs of Hue.

Once again, I can't provide much information, as we were largely left to wander. But let's just say that these tombs were pretty darn impressive. We visited the tombs of Tu Duc, Ming Mang and Khai Dinh (thanks goes to Chris's blog for this info). Who are these guys? Powerful emperors with cool names, that's all I know. Oh yes, and they loved the ladies. Just a bit of info: Ming Mang had over 300 wives and concubines. Now that was a busy man!

I don't mean to belabor the point, but culturally, Vietnam is very similar to China. At least when it comes to its imperial past. This may be because Vietnam was under Chinese control for many centuries. So it all makes sense. Though we may have missed out on China, we got a good dose of Chinese culture in Hue.

Back in the city, we finally wandered into a decent neighborhood with nightlife. We enjoyed mojitos at the DMZ, a trendy backpacker bar. It seemed a fitting way to end our stay, drinking to Vietnam's past and optimism for the future.

Getting our Ducks in a Row

It was at this point in our travels that we seriously had to start thinking about our return trip. Originally we had considered extending our travels in France. Since we had missed out on the Pyrenees because of weather, we were wanting to visit that region again. It had been my goal to hike the Cathar trail. But our cash supplies were running low, so we really had to evaluate our situation. We needed enough money to set up shop in the States.

We both had profiles on Help-X, a site for volunteering. I read some really cool experiences from Help-Xers, traveling on the cheap by working in exchange for food and board. The choices were endless; we could volunteer anywhere in the world. However, the more money left for America, the better. It was time to get real.

I updated my Help-X profile to specify that I was looking for a situation in America. I wasn't looking for travel, I was looking to make a home. I always knew that I wouldn't be returning to the Midwest. Not that the Midwest is a horrible place (looking back I can see that it's a great place to grow up), but I was looking for something out West—for the West has always fascinated me. I wanted mountains and blue sky; I wanted a place far from the mill towns on Northern England. Ironically, I was seeking out a place with a plenitude of sunshine (I say ironically, because my home is now in one of the rainiest regions of America). Chris and I were looking to Boulder, Colorado, as we had only heard good things about that area: lots of jobs, the housing market was good, top-notch restaurants and shops—but it was its proximity to the mountains which appealed to me the most. I needed to be outdoors.

I corresponded with a lady who lived in Boulder and ran a pet-sitting business. This sounded ideal. I explained my situation, that I was looking to volunteer and yet set up a home at the same time. We emailed back and forth for a bit, though she was very picky with her Help-X volunteers. She said that she would only consider me if we Skyped for a length of time. I explained to her that Skyping is nearly impossible in Vietnamese cafes, but she was determined to only correspond though that means. Chris told me to give it up; anyone who was that set in their ways was probably going to be a pain to live with.

There were other volunteer opportunities near Boulder, but none of them seemed terribly feasible. I applied at an animal shelter in southern Wyoming, a few hours drive from Denver. I thought I could make the commute to Boulder or Denver on weekends to interview for jobs and check out housing. I even considered a Buddhist retreat in the Colorado desert (now THAT would have been interesting!), but as I was waiting for the animal ranch to get back to me, and considering other possibilities, a lady named Tamsen emailed me. Her question was simple: Would you consider moving to Alaska?

I found that amusing, because at one time, Alaska had been my goal. That had come at a point where I was considering leaving the UK and paving my own way without Chris. I took out books from the library on Alaska, comparing regions and weighing the pros and cons of each place. I found that the Southeast was beautiful, but too expensive. Anchorage didn't really appeal to me, but some of the surrounding areas looked nice. I ran the idea of Alaska by Chris one day while we were making up at the Leeds Music Festival. I sold him on the idea of Alaska, but then quickly gave it up after watching "You Betcha,” a documentary about Sarah Palin. I honestly thought everyone in Alaska was of the Palin mentality. Silly, I know, but that document scared the crap out of me and I turned my sights to Boulder. And now some lady was asking if I wanted to move to Alaska. And what was my response? Probably not.

Still, I was desperate for a situation. And Tamsen was quite persistent. She gave me descriptions of Haines, a place I had never heard of before. Back in my travel agent days, I had perused brochures on the Alaskan panhandle, so I was familiar with places such as Skagway and Sitka, but I had never heard of Haines. In the hot humid air of our hotel room in Hue, I googled Haines, and it looked like heaven. Snow-peaked mountains, eagles, spruce forests, deep blue fjords, moose and bears—a million miles away from where we now were.

Tamsen and I rapidly exchanged emails. I was still entertaining the idea of working at that animal shelter in Wyoming, but they had failed to respond to my query. Tamsen was so helpful, giving me details of the town and even suggesting places I could work. It soon became evident that Tamsen would be an incredible connection in the process of setting up a new life in America.

So... Alaska it would be.

 

The New Vietnam

When I think of the New Vietnam (in contrast to the war-torn Vietnam which resides in most American minds), I think of Nha Trang. When I say "new" I mean a country enjoying the benefits of an economic boom. There is money to be spent in Vietnam, and not just the money of foreigners. This generation of Vietnamese are very much in vacation-mode, for they too want to enjoy the fruits of their labor.

Chris and I left the Central Highlands for this coastal city. This was our first experience with a sleeper bus. We had seen a few of them in passing, crammed to the gills with backpackers, and we thought "Wow, what a great idea!" for each seat was reclined for supposed long-transport comfort. The seats were piled two-high in three rows. These buses were really something to behold. We've only seen them in Vietnam (and as we were to find out, there's good reason for this). Our bus out of Dalat wasn't too bad, as it was mostly empty. Chris and I vied for the seats in the very back, which were really mats. I would say it was like a giant bed, but the mats were reminiscent of gym mats and not very comfortable. With every turn of the bus through the hills, we would slip and slide while trying to prop ourselves up to enjoy the mountain vistas around each hairpin turn.

We descended the mountains to find shimmering blue waters spread in front of us. After all this time, we were returning to the sea. We had arrived in Nha Trang just as evening was setting in, but this suited us just fine as we stood out on a patio outside of our room. As spectacular as the sunset was, we knew the sunrise would be even better, rising over the South China Sea.

The location of our hotel was superb, on a main strip across from a beach promenade. A white sand beach was only a short walk away. But the beach wasn't really what interested us on that first night. From the roof patio we could make out letters across the way on an island—they were hung there like the Hollywood sign, only these letters spelled out "Vinpearl." There was also a string of Eiffel Towers spanning the water between Nha Trang and the island, all lit up in the night. This was all so mysterious to us as we hadn't read anything about Vinpearl in our guidebooks. Fortunately, an older gentleman from New Zealand came out on this patio and informed us that Vinpearland is a theme park: Vietnam's Disneyland. Well, this was something different! After being toted around to different locations, made to sample everything under the sun from crickets to snake wine, it was time to have some real fun.

A Day in Disneyland

The next morning, Chris and I set off for Vinpearl. In the light of day we could see the Eiffel Towers were set up for cable cars. They didn't look too far away, and seen as how we were always looking for a way to save money, we decided to hoof it down the beach. We figured the promenade would take us right to the cable cars. Well, like so many other times in our travels, we were wrong. We came to a point where the promenade was under construction and had to find our way back to the main street. By this time we were sweating profusely. The cable cars seemed to never get any closer; in fact, we couldn't even see where they went. Was it on a hilltop? We were cursing ourselves for deciding to do this walk. Where were all the taxi drivers when we wanted them? We prevailed though, and came to the top of a hill where the cable cars were taking off. We took advantage of the giant fountain outside the ticket office and practically submerged ourselves in water. The walk had taken more than an hour, and we were sunburned and exhausted, so needless to say, we were happy to get a cable car to ourselves where we could air our sweaty t-shirts out. Tickets for the cable cars and the park cost us $21 each; a high price in Asia, but we figured it would be worth it for a day in Vietnam's Disneyland.

The cable cars, connected by giant Eiffel Towers (not as big as the original, but still impressive) extended for three kilometers across the water. By the time we reached Vinpearl Island, we were relatively refreshed.

One thing we noticed immediately upon entering Vinpearland: we were the only foreigners. This was a playland for the Vietnamese, though it was set up like any other park in the Western world. Still, it was nothing like Disneyland. There were roller coasters, but none of them seemed to be running. Activity was centered in the waterpark, which was fine with us, as we were anxious to cool off. The facilities where we changed into our swim suits were modern, clean and well-maintained, so we felt the standards were quite high. Still, as we took to the waterslides, we had to wonder if they were equipped for heavier-set Westerners. As Chris and I got into a double innertube and slid over the lip of a particularly steep slide, we looked down in horror and wondered if we would flip over the side. I could hear Chris's "I don't like this" all the way down (which I gave him crap for, as he sounded like a five-year-old) but he was really speaking for us both. After another slide, where I hit the water at a weird angle, we figured maybe the slides weren't really for us. We were pretty much content with floating down the lazy river which wound around the park. Then we spent the remainder of the day hanging out on the beach, which was one of the best beaches of the trip. I say this because it felt completely safe. I could walk out into the water without worrying about stepping on glass, sharp rocks or sting rays (one of my main concerns with beaches in general). Also the section of water was netted off—no sharks or jellyfish. The water was warm and sensuous. Off in the distance we could see the skyscrapers of Nha Trang and the storm which bore down on the skyline. The storm didn't come our way, but still the clouds were hunkering. After a good swim and some relaxation, we changed our clothes and went to check out the aquarium, which was quite good. Moving platforms moved us through tanks which held sharks, manta rays and other magnificent creatures. In one of the main tanks, a lady dressed as a mermaid swam back and forth, much to the delight of everyone present. Like a kid, I was thinking "This is so cool!"

On paper, it doesn't seem like we did a whole lot. Slides, lazy river, beach, some food, the aquarium—yet it was a full day and completely wiped us out. Even the cable ride back seemed to take forever. It was dark by the time we got back to the mainland. This time, we were wise and grabbed a taxi back to our hotel. Vietnam's Disneyland was a nice respite from all the tours we had been taking.

Speaking of tours, we had signed up for yet another one. But this one would prove to be most unique.

Partying with the Locals

So here we were again, with all the other foreigners, waiting for our tour to start. Everyone was jammed pack on the docks, where all the tour boats were taking off. There were awful lot of Vietnamese families. This made sense, seeing that Nha Trang is a resort town for the Vietnamese. However, Chris and I were getting nervous as groups were being called off into the boats, and here we sat with the locals (not really locals, but I'm calling them that for lack of a better word). We eventually realized that we were being put with a Vietnamese tour. This didn't make us particularly happy. "They'd better do the tour in English," I muttered to Chris.

It turned out that there was one other American couple on the tour; they were Chinese-American, but at least they spoke English. For our benefit, the tour guide did speak English, but the English always followed his presentation to the locals, and always was much shorter and less dynamic than the Vietnamese version. We did feel that we were getting shorted.

Luckily, most of the tour was full of activity. We sailed to a nearby island where we were left to snorkel and participate in other water activities. The old lady in me opted to take the glass bottom boat, a relatively safe activity (I was becoming more and more afraid of the ocean every day on this trip). Chris and I agreed that the main attraction of the boat was not the tropical fish nor the colorful coral—no, it was our tour companions who would delight in everything. Everything needed to be pointed at, with both fingers and cameras. Perhaps Chris and I were jaded by that point. We could not share our companions' excitement, even if we could find entertainment in their reactions.

We did end up snorkeling in the end, but it was off of a rocky beach. There were men rowing around in what appeared to be washtubs, selling things. Again, this was more entertaining than the snorkeling. Chris and I sat around a lot on that island, waiting for the master of ceremonies to finish his noodles.

By the time the boat came back for us, lunch had been set out. The seats had been rearranged to encircle a large table. Vietnamese dishes were strewn about with the intention of sharing. It was a communal meal, and quite frankly, it was the best part of our tour, for we got to interact with our tour mates. While they had been freakishly childlike on other parts of the tour, they were quiet and polite for the meal, passing us dishes and displaying wonderful table etiquette. None of the food was stand-out, just noodles, spring rolls and veggies, but it was so authentic and without a touch of the West that Chris and I count it amongst our favorite meals in Vietnam. After our initial skepticism, we felt lucky to have been put with locals.

After lunch, the dishes were whisked away and the seats rearranged once more. The table had been converted into a platform for the master of ceremonies to entertain us. I had been wondering about this guy from the start of the tour—he really thought himself a stud, with his dark shades, standing with his chest out, posed on the bow like a model in a Versace cologne ad. In truth, he wasn't much to look at. It was hard to figure out what he was all about, especially now that he was donning a coconut bra. I suppose he fancied himself a comedian. To our amusement (and horror, on some level), he called tour members onto the stage to sing with him. When it comes to activities like this, I shrink in my seat, hoping that I will not be called forward. But being the only white girl, of course I got called up. He wanted to perform a scene from Titantic with me, with our arms outstretched singing "My Heart Will Go On." It was dreadful. Then Chris got called up to sing "Yellow Submarine." It was all very embarrassing, but at least we knew that we'd never see these people again.

After everyone was done humiliating themselves, a band set up on stage. It wasn't much of a band, just a guy with a drum kit made out of plastic containers, and one of the crew members, looking very much like Mr. Miyagi in the Karate Kid, with a guitar. Our hopes for Vietnamese music were incredibly low. But wow, this Mr. Miyagi guy could really wail, on both guitar and on vocals. He actually gave me chills, he was so good. This tour was getting better and more interesting by the minute.

After the entertainment was over, we jumped off the boat into the open water, where a floating bar was set up for the tourists. Floating in innertubes, we were given plastic cups of sangria. At this point in the trip, everyone was in party mode. Music was pumping from the boat and all of a sudden we were in a nightclub in the middle of the ocean. Some of the braver souls jumped into the water from the top deck of the boat. This wasn't something I would ordinarily do, but the sangria had given me courage and I took the plunge. There was a sense of bonding as everyone floated in their tubes, applauding those who jumped. We had never felt this bonding on any previous tour. For this reason, I have to rate this tour as my favorite in Vietnam, if not in all of Asia.

Time to Kill

We arranged for a sleeper bus to take us to Hoi An, our next stop up the long coast. The journey was to take twelve hours—a long time to be in a bus. But it was one of those giant sleeper buses, designed for sleeping and relaxing, so it couldn't be that bad, right? Well, we would find out the answer to that soon enough. However, we still had time to kill in Nha Trang, so Chris and I finally took advantage of the beach across from our hotel.

Though I preferred the beach in Vinpearl Land (pristine, safe waters), the city beach was pretty good. I went in a few times, though I was really swum-out by this time. Plus, there were some suspicious lines of murkiness working their way over on the drift. I could only imagine what kind of pollutants were in the water. It was hard to feel clean after coming back after my last dip. The setting was good though, as Chris and I had rented lounge chairs for the day, and there was a drink stand nearby. So we drank our beers and sat in the sun, soaking up this quintessential beach experience.

Nha Trang—the Disney part of our travels. And yet it was more cultural than we had expected.

And now for that sleeper bus ride to Hoi An...

 

A Romantic Interlude

When most people envision the landscape of Vietnam, no doubt heavy jungle comes to mind. Chris and I were surprised to find Vietnam looking nothing like the movies we had watched, with soldiers crashing through impenetrable foliage. This is possibly because most Nam movies have been filmed in the Philippines or Thailand, where the flora has been undisturbed by warfare. Perhaps Agent Orange has done so much damage to the Vietnamese jungles that it has permanently altered the landscape.

We certainly didn't expect the mountainous, pine-treed beauty of the highlands. We had read that Dalat was a resort town with a heavy French influence. This sounded different from anything that we had experienced thus far in Asia, so we headed out of Saigon (on the last decent bus we'd encounter) to the Central Highlands.

The first indication that we were in Little Paris was the gaudy, awful replica of the Eiffel Tower (which looked more like an antenna than a piece of architecture) shining in the night. We couldn't see much of Dalat in the dark, but there was a spacious lake, fountains, and store-lined boulevards. We could have been in the Alps for all we knew.

I suppose I should mention that much of Southeast Asia used to be under French colonial rule. The countries of Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos together were called French Indochina. This is why it is so easy to find decent baguettes while traveling in these countries. The capital of Indochina moved around, but at one time, Dalat served as the capital—thus, the heavy French influence. Though French bakeries prevailed, French rule did not, and Vietnam claimed their independence in 1945. It's interesting (to me, anyway) the effect World War II had on on colonization. As Europe became destabilized, colonies around the world, one-by-one declared their independence. This was a huge problem for Britain, which up until then had reigned as an Empire, at one time ruling over a quarter of the world. The territories that stayed in Britain's grasp are now referred to as Commonwealth Nations, and that is why you can find the Queen's face on currency in places like Canada and the Cayman Islands. There it is in a nutshell. And that, folks, is your history lesson for today.

It was dark and raining heavily when we alighted at our hotel. The hotel was one of the best we had stayed at. For something like $10, we had a spacious room with two double beds, a TV, a fridge, and best of all—French doors leading out onto a balcony. There was a touch of class here in Dalat, this was becoming apparent.

Even though Dalat is known as a resort town, it is a resort town for the Vietnamese, and doesn't necessarily cater to foreigners. For this, we had a hard time finding a place to eat. The rain was coming down in torrents, so we didn't wander far before dunking into an eating establishment. At first we were hesitant, as nobody in this eatery spoke English, and none of the menus were in English. We only had pictures to go by. Thankfully, we didn't bail, and took a chance on a completely foreign menu. This eatery specialized in pancakes, the savory Vietnamese kind. It wasn't so much the pancakes that concerned us, it was the fillings. I was always weary of meat in Asia. I had been sticking mostly to prawns, fish and vegetables (you never know where a cat or a rat might turn up). However, the fillings we picked for our pancakes turned out to be fabulous, unequal to anything we had tried in Asia thus far—BBQ pork or bacon, and fried mushrooms. The pancakes came separate from the fillings, and we had to put them together. The pancakes were soft, like pasta dough rolled thin. When put together with the fillings, they tasted very similar to pierogies (in Chris's blog he writes that I wouldn't shut up about this, so it must have really made an impact on me). Some other Western tourists wandered in, looking just as confused as we had with the menu, and slipped back out, which was a shame for them. Despite the simplicity of the food, it was one of our finest meals in Asia, which goes to show that sometimes you just have to take a chance on a foreign menu.

Sarah the Swan-Parker

We had no plan for our first full day in Dalat. We had postcards to mail so we wandered around town, looking for the post office. Everything was modern and clean in this resort town. Though geared for tourism, there didn't seem to be a whole lot going on. Maybe we were there in the off-season, though I highly doubt it. It was July and the heat was at its tropical peak—you'd think the Vietnamese would escape to the lush coolness of the Highlands.

The sky threatened to chuck down rain. We sat in a cafe eating croissants and sipping tea and coffee while we consulted with our guidebook. It seemed that the main sights were actually outside of town. Whether we liked it or not, we'd have to sign up for another tour. After being shuttled rigorously around the Mekong Delta for several days, we weren't entirely keen on yet another guided tour, but when I saw the Crazy House, like something out of a Salvador Dali painting, staring out at me in the guidebook, I knew another tour was inevitable. But not for today. Today was for relaxing.

After finding the post office and mailing our postcards, we circled Xuan Huong Lake, looking very much like an alpine lake with the mountain backdrop. Paddle boats were lined up along a pier. These paddle boats were swan-shaped and fit the setting. Chris and I decided to kill some time and rented one of these boats for an hour.

As I've discovered many times in our six years of marriage, Chris and I aren't always in sync. This reality usually rears its head whenever we are operating machinery or assembling objects. We're both headstrong and have both lived alone for long periods of time, thus mastering the defensive "I know how to do this." With two captains, sometimes it's hard to steer a ship. Or a swan boat. I think I'm justified in thinking that Chris wasn't very good at it. He had us going in circles. I insisted that I steer in order to get us anywhere. Though I cannot drive a stick-shift car, I mastered the swan boat, shifting gears and pedals and whatnot, though it wasn't an easy feat. I got us across that lake and avoided colliding with other couples who were struggling with their boats. The lake was expansive and took us a long time to get across. We kept an eye on the time and furiously paddled. We began to paddle even harder when the dark clouds began to form over the nearby mountains. We looked at the pier, just a little speck in the distance, and Chris had the audacity to ask me "Do you think you can park this thing?" I answered with "They don't call me Sarah the Swan-Parker for nothing." This is perhaps one of my greatest one-liners, and to this day, on occasion Chris will still refer to me as Sarah the Swan-Parker. And yes, I did park that swan perfectly, thank you very much.

Yet Another Tour

This was another whirlwind tour featuring random things—a flower farm, a coffee plantation, a silkworm farm, a waterfall, a giant Buddha, and best of all, the Crazy House. Seen as how so many people had signed up for this tour, we were put into two groups. Chris and I were put with an older couple and a Vietnamese family with a young child. All the young hip backpackers were grouped together, which suited us just fine. All through our travels we’d been aware of the age factor. Most backpackers were 20-somethings on a gap year. Though they accepted us into their midst without judgement, there was no real comradery. So it was nice for a change to be put with a middle-aged couple who were keen to give us advice on retirement.

The flower farm and the coffee plantation—yawn. I had learned more about coffee from my barista class in Yorkshire, England, where I learned that Vietnamese coffee beans are considered substandard in the coffee world. But because of the low price, they are widely used in the Western world by popular coffee chains. Vietnam is the second largest producer of coffee beans, just after Brazil. Anyway we were left to wander around a plantation, but were not offered any coffee, which was bizarre. Chris was somewhat perturbed, as we were ushered into a traditional longhouse where women were weaving and selling their wares. Yet there was no coffee to be drunk.

Our coffee stop came later—and I believe this is where we had another shot at trying kopi luwak, or weasel poo coffee. Chris ended up buying a bag of the world's most expensive coffee for his sister. I can't imagine that it gets any cheaper than the highlands of Vietnam.

We continued on to the silkworm farm, which was more interesting than it sounds. Silk production was a highly held secret in the ancient world (starting in China, then extending to other areas of the Far East), which is why the Silk Road existed. Europeans traded goods for silk, having no idea they could replicate the silk-making process back at home. But there was no way for them to know who was responsible for the world's most sought fabric—silkworms. Though it's to be noted that silkworms are not worms, rather they are the larva or caterpillar of a silkmoth (yes, I looked this up). We watched these little critters hard at work, spinning themselves in cocoons. Yet they are not allowed to emerge as moths, as this will destroy the silk threads. So the cocoons are boiled with the silkworms still in them. Oftentimes they are eaten. I felt this was a bit unfair for these hardworking little critters who spend their lives working away only to get boiled and eaten in the end. Doesn't seem like a fair existence. It's no wonder that PETA has campaigned against silk.

Talking about eating little critters, we stopped at a cricket farm where we were given the opportunity to try fried crickets. Poked through with a toothpick, they can be dipped in chili sauce for a true culinary experience. Actually, their taste is pretty neutral, and their crunch is reminiscent of popcorn. Chris was unimpressed. I only ate one as I didn't see the need to keep going. We had to check our teeth afterwards to make sure there wasn't a cricket leg sticking out.

Finally we were done with the farm-portion of our tour. High in a mountain pass, we came to Elephant Falls. The scenery was beautiful. We had to climb on some rocks to get to the top of the waterfall. This was a precarious climb, especially with the mist of the falls settling onto the rock, making it slippery. There was a handrail, but other than that, there was nothing to really prevent us from falling over the side. The climb was worth it; the waterfall is quite spectacular. We weren't sure how the waterfall had gotten its name; it didn't resemble an elephant in any way, not even a trunk. Is there a story behind its name? I've been Googling and cannot find any info. Anyway, we very carefully made our way down the rocks, and found that we could keep going on a trail behind the waterfall. This proved to be the real adventure, as the waterfall was pounding over the rocks and raining down around us. We got drenched, but it was a real adrenaline burst.

With wet clothes sticking to us, we wished for the heat of the coast to dry us out. We tried walking off the wet, as the Big Buddha was located nearby. As with most giant Buddha statues, there was a lot of stair-climbing. We had encountered many types of Buddhas on our trip: meditative Buddhas, serene Buddhas, reclining Buddhas, sitting Buddhas, standing Buddhas, slim Buddhas, fat Buddhas, but this was our first laughing Buddha. And what a delight he was! A big green guy, he was thoroughly enjoying himself with his wide-open smile, his yawning navel, and his large, dangling earlobes. I've heard that rubbing the belly of the Laughing Buddha brought good luck (lord knows that we had acquired enough good luck through all our temple visits throughout Asia). As it wasn't feasible to rub this big guy's belly, I rubbed his big toe, hoping that would suffice.

And now for the highlight of Dalat—the Crazy House. I've always been a sucker for the weird and whimsical. I've made a number of trips to House on the Rock in Spring Green, Wisconsin just to experience the strange, dreamlike visions of Alex Jordan (walking through the Devil's Mouth in the Carousel Room gave me nightmares as a child, and also the fact that we got lost in this strange place and couldn't find our way out). The Crazy House is also known as Hang Nga Guesthouse (though it didn't appear as if anyone was staying there). Crazy House pretty much says it all—it was pretty darn crazy. The overall design resembles a tree which you can walk through. Actually it reminds me of the Swiss cheese sculpture (known simply as the Cheese) which once stood in the playground of my elementary school, where kids crawled through the passages and stuck their heads out through the holes. This was the "Cheese" on a massive scale, with features such as a walkway that rose and fell like a roller coaster rail. With so many passages, it was a great place to wander and try to get lost. We came across the different bedrooms which were integrated into the design. Each bedroom had its own theme. My favorite room was the Eagle Room which was designed like a giant egg. It's easy to see that Hang Nga, the designer and architect, was inspired by Gaudi, whose famous facades appear to drip or melt. Salvador Dali also comes to mind. Even Dr. Seuss. I was expecting the Cat in the Hat to come around the corner. It definitely appealed to the kid in me and I could have stayed there much longer than we did.

Back in Little Paris, we ate at the eatery which had impressed us so much the night before, then retired to our hotel. To wrap things up—I can't say that a bunch of romance happened on this part of the trip, but the very setting of Dalat is one that evokes romance and imagination. Dalat is a delight, and yes I know that sounds cheesy.