A gorgeous boy pulled up on a motorbike and sat as though he was waiting for somebody. I tried to sneak a photo of him, making it look as though I was photographing the street, but he put his head down as I took the shot.
We ate breakfast at 6am. Buffet. The coffee was strong, that is, pretty much, all I care about. The fried noodles were good. The congee had salted egg and pickled vegetables. The fried eggs were cold. The strawberry jam very strong, but nice. I had three pieces of the fresh bread with it on. I saw one girl put strawberry jam on her eggs and bacon. What the fuck? The fried bread was fatty and tasteless, I am guessing, it was supposed to be French Toast. No. The spring rolls terrible, surprisingly, all things considered. The juice was fruit juice drink, which I quite liked, but Sam didn’t.
It was a new day, and this city deserved a new chance. We walked to the park and took photos of people. It was already heating up. It was a lovely park and I felt a little sad to be going home so soon, maybe I could have spent a few more days here. The Ho Chi Minhians were out doing their state suggested exercise. The older ones were, primarily, doing exercises on their own, while the younger ones tended to be playing ball games, or volleyball. There were quite a few doing Ti Chi, not surprisingly. The lush green parks were full of people. There was quite a “green” strip just a bit away from the hubbub.
I asked a table of older Vietnamese women if I could take their photo and they agreed and giggled like girls at someone wanting to photograph them. They were lovely. They waved as I took the shot. One of them asked me where I was from in quite fluent English? She said something about Australia being a good country.
I asked a teacher if I could take a photo of the children she was supervising, and she formed them into a line and told them to wave as I took the shot.
I do like taking photos of people. I, pretty much, always ask before I do and sometimes they say no, but mostly they say yes. If they say no, of course, I don’t take the shot.
We headed off to the Independence Palace, which was right near where we were yesterday and I am surprised how we didn’t see it.
We stopped and drank coffee on the street, on the way, in a café right on the side of the road. It was a kind of box affair, like a shipping container, with a serving bar and tables with high stools around them. I’m liking Vietnamese coffee with sweet milk and ice, who’d have thought, when usually I am a dedicated espresso drinker. All the motorbikes were lined up out the front, there even seemed to be a scooter valet parking them for the patrons. There were lots of young Vietnamese sitting in couples, or groups.
After our morning tea coffee, we proceeded around the corner to the Independence Palace. We had to force ourselves to go in, as it looked like 60’s architecture from the gate… and just another “monument” so to speak. It was a very low key palace, very stark and simple and understated. It looked as though it was a product of the 1950’s, 1960’s, which, I’m guessing, it was. It was kind of your faux palace, not really a palace at all, but just a big, communist style building with some nicely furnished rooms. It had nice dimensions, it had nice spaces, big and open. It had a sweeping foyer open to the gardens. It was used for official functions, and dignitaries, and I think I heard one of the guides say something about the president sleeping there. It had war rooms in the basement that were used as a command centre.
It was hot again. I was wearing a green polo shirt, which pretty soon ended up sweat stained all over my body. I was sick of being the Anglo with the sweat covered shirt. I was sick of being the white boy dripping with perspiration. I was sick of feeling slightly damp and slightly uncomfortable.
We went straight from the Palace to the Ben Thanh Market, and bought an over-sized singlet for me, to replace the then awful sweat stained polo. There was me standing shirtless in all the hubbub of Ben Thanh Market, trying on singlets. It was great, with Saigon emblazed across it, why didn’t I buy one sooner? I was lovely and cool in my new singlet, much more so than the body hugging polo I was wearing. I tried to buy lose cotton shirts in Hanoi but they didn’t have my size. The Vietnamese tend to be smaller than us. So, I guess I looked like a ridiculous tourist in my singlet, but I didn’t care, suddenly I felt free and relaxed.
We tried to find a Pho shop that was recommended by the hotel, but we couldn’t find it. We walked for some way in the heat, battling the traffic. Oh, the traffic. I rather fancy myself as a good driver able to drive in any conditions, but in Ho Chi Minh City, or Hanoi for that matter, I’m not so sure. It is amazing to watch, mesmerising almost. I stood at one of the large roundabouts, on Ly Tu Trong, that had six roads coming into it and just watched the sport, mouth agape. We never did find the Pho shop.
We returned to the hotel and posted on Facebook. What Sam loves best. Not! “Enough fucking Facebook already!”
“Oh I am just writing a bit…”
“Enough computer!”
Of course, the truth is, that he uses his phone, so he checks it whenever he likes. I can’t do the phone thing, call me old fashioned.
We hunted around for a massage place, but got too confused. So many varying prices, so many different packages, so many choices. Who can choose? We came back to the hotel and got a recommendation for Eva Spa.
Eva Spa wasn’t so far away, so we went and had massages.
We bought fruit from the supermarket on the way home. Durian, for Sam. Jack Fruit for me. And bananas, well, for health. The Durian stunk out the hotel room, so Sam took the leftovers down to the lobby and they disposed of it.
Anthony called on Skype. He has shut down his Facebook page as he couldn’t handle it, it caused him too much grief. I had been emailing him, but he just decided he wanted to have a face to face chat. I usually talk to him every day.
We headed out to the Pho restaurant, that the lady from the massage place recommended, for our last meal in Ho Chi Minh City. It seemed appropriate. Oh yes, we spent the afternoon having massages. I had a foot massage and Sam had something that involved hot rocks. Mine was great, very relaxing, until she, inexplicably, sat me up and beat me on the back at the end, rather unexpectedly, for a foot massage. Shrug? I could only assume that that was the signal to leave.
It was raining lightly as we headed out to dinner. Sam wanted umbrellas, I didn’t care that much. I cared less when the bellboy gave us two girlie umbrellas. Sam’s blue with a subtle pattern, a kind of deco siren pattern none the less, and mine, mauve with a very floral pattern. We looked as though we were walking down the street with parasols. We’d only have needed to slosh on a mud mask and we’d have been mistaken for Kabuki, I was sure… minus the wooden shoes, of course. I wondered what “you filthy poofters” might sound like yelled in Vietnamese from a passing scooter?
They didn’t speak any English at the Pho restaurant, so that always makes it interesting. There was chicken sitting out on a bench at the front door as we entered, which wasn’t a good welcome. Oh? I thought. Sam was undaunted, as we hadn’t had Pho yet in the time we’ve been in Vietnam, and it was our last night and we had a recommendation, after all. The owner’s son somewhat resembled Grace Jones and didn’t have one clue when we mimed a couple of questions about the condiments. Sam looked at me blankly as I started to sing, Pull up to the Bumper, which amused me.
Then, as we ate, the rain came down torrentially. The nice lady at the massage shop said it was the beginning of the wet season here and it lasted, more or less, till the end of the year, when I asked her if it rained every afternoon. I was glad we had the umbrellas, at that point, as I watched the raindrops ricocheting off the road like machine gun fire in the headlights of the heavy traffic.
Grandpa came in and ate Pho. He spoke Chinese to the other patrons. He loaded his Pho with more chilli and more garlic than any one has a right to, and still live. Unfortunately, I was looking directly at him when he regurgitated, both times, into a bowl as if he was feeding baby birds inside, the nests masquerading as bowls, pre-digested bean shoots, with a gag and a rasp.
We dodged the traffic in the heavy rain as we crossed the road after dinner, as we couldn’t wait for the rain to stop, as it didn’t look as though it was going to any time in the next twenty four hours. We headed to the supermarket to purchase our last litre bottle of water, you know, just in case we might need it between 8pm and 8am... you never can tell and there aren’t that many suitable alternatives. I’m sure a couple of the street food ladies, on their small plastic stools with their portable cookers, were laughing at me as I strolled passed with my violet parasol, but I didn’t care, as most everybody else looked as though they had been turned into spotted dicks, as the current trend for wet weather gear here seems to be transparent plastic with coloured spots, kind of like Twister condoms. The rain was still falling and every thing was dripping, as it steamed and, I’m sure, hissed. And I was dry.
We have to be up at 5.30am, as we are catching a plane at 8.30am, you’ve got to love those morning flights. Not even time to fit in the buffet breakfast. Sad face.
And now a baby is crying on the floor above our Saigon cell. Did I mention that we rather skimped on the hotel in Ho Chi Minh City, as we were only going to be here for two days and it was so confusing on the internet that we decided just to go for the cheapest, which never occurred to me would mean we’d get a room minus a window. Next visit we could afford to go up a star, I feel. Happy times.
Nana S is in bed, waking intermittently to berate me for still being awake. “Enough!” The noisy Chinese across the hall are being inexcusably loud, yet again. Gritted teeth.
It is 10.45pm.
We ate breakfast at 6am. Buffet. The coffee was strong, that is, pretty much, all I care about. The fried noodles were good. The congee had salted egg and pickled vegetables. The fried eggs were cold. The strawberry jam very strong, but nice. I had three pieces of the fresh bread with it on. I saw one girl put strawberry jam on her eggs and bacon. What the fuck? The fried bread was fatty and tasteless, I am guessing, it was supposed to be French Toast. No. The spring rolls terrible, surprisingly, all things considered. The juice was fruit juice drink, which I quite liked, but Sam didn’t.
It was a new day, and this city deserved a new chance. We walked to the park and took photos of people. It was already heating up. It was a lovely park and I felt a little sad to be going home so soon, maybe I could have spent a few more days here. The Ho Chi Minhians were out doing their state suggested exercise. The older ones were, primarily, doing exercises on their own, while the younger ones tended to be playing ball games, or volleyball. There were quite a few doing Ti Chi, not surprisingly. The lush green parks were full of people. There was quite a “green” strip just a bit away from the hubbub.
I asked a table of older Vietnamese women if I could take their photo and they agreed and giggled like girls at someone wanting to photograph them. They were lovely. They waved as I took the shot. One of them asked me where I was from in quite fluent English? She said something about Australia being a good country.
I asked a teacher if I could take a photo of the children she was supervising, and she formed them into a line and told them to wave as I took the shot.
I do like taking photos of people. I, pretty much, always ask before I do and sometimes they say no, but mostly they say yes. If they say no, of course, I don’t take the shot.
We headed off to the Independence Palace, which was right near where we were yesterday and I am surprised how we didn’t see it.
We stopped and drank coffee on the street, on the way, in a café right on the side of the road. It was a kind of box affair, like a shipping container, with a serving bar and tables with high stools around them. I’m liking Vietnamese coffee with sweet milk and ice, who’d have thought, when usually I am a dedicated espresso drinker. All the motorbikes were lined up out the front, there even seemed to be a scooter valet parking them for the patrons. There were lots of young Vietnamese sitting in couples, or groups.
After our morning tea coffee, we proceeded around the corner to the Independence Palace. We had to force ourselves to go in, as it looked like 60’s architecture from the gate… and just another “monument” so to speak. It was a very low key palace, very stark and simple and understated. It looked as though it was a product of the 1950’s, 1960’s, which, I’m guessing, it was. It was kind of your faux palace, not really a palace at all, but just a big, communist style building with some nicely furnished rooms. It had nice dimensions, it had nice spaces, big and open. It had a sweeping foyer open to the gardens. It was used for official functions, and dignitaries, and I think I heard one of the guides say something about the president sleeping there. It had war rooms in the basement that were used as a command centre.
It was hot again. I was wearing a green polo shirt, which pretty soon ended up sweat stained all over my body. I was sick of being the Anglo with the sweat covered shirt. I was sick of being the white boy dripping with perspiration. I was sick of feeling slightly damp and slightly uncomfortable.
We went straight from the Palace to the Ben Thanh Market, and bought an over-sized singlet for me, to replace the then awful sweat stained polo. There was me standing shirtless in all the hubbub of Ben Thanh Market, trying on singlets. It was great, with Saigon emblazed across it, why didn’t I buy one sooner? I was lovely and cool in my new singlet, much more so than the body hugging polo I was wearing. I tried to buy lose cotton shirts in Hanoi but they didn’t have my size. The Vietnamese tend to be smaller than us. So, I guess I looked like a ridiculous tourist in my singlet, but I didn’t care, suddenly I felt free and relaxed.
We tried to find a Pho shop that was recommended by the hotel, but we couldn’t find it. We walked for some way in the heat, battling the traffic. Oh, the traffic. I rather fancy myself as a good driver able to drive in any conditions, but in Ho Chi Minh City, or Hanoi for that matter, I’m not so sure. It is amazing to watch, mesmerising almost. I stood at one of the large roundabouts, on Ly Tu Trong, that had six roads coming into it and just watched the sport, mouth agape. We never did find the Pho shop.
We returned to the hotel and posted on Facebook. What Sam loves best. Not! “Enough fucking Facebook already!”
“Oh I am just writing a bit…”
“Enough computer!”
Of course, the truth is, that he uses his phone, so he checks it whenever he likes. I can’t do the phone thing, call me old fashioned.
We hunted around for a massage place, but got too confused. So many varying prices, so many different packages, so many choices. Who can choose? We came back to the hotel and got a recommendation for Eva Spa.
Eva Spa wasn’t so far away, so we went and had massages.
We bought fruit from the supermarket on the way home. Durian, for Sam. Jack Fruit for me. And bananas, well, for health. The Durian stunk out the hotel room, so Sam took the leftovers down to the lobby and they disposed of it.
Anthony called on Skype. He has shut down his Facebook page as he couldn’t handle it, it caused him too much grief. I had been emailing him, but he just decided he wanted to have a face to face chat. I usually talk to him every day.
We headed out to the Pho restaurant, that the lady from the massage place recommended, for our last meal in Ho Chi Minh City. It seemed appropriate. Oh yes, we spent the afternoon having massages. I had a foot massage and Sam had something that involved hot rocks. Mine was great, very relaxing, until she, inexplicably, sat me up and beat me on the back at the end, rather unexpectedly, for a foot massage. Shrug? I could only assume that that was the signal to leave.
It was raining lightly as we headed out to dinner. Sam wanted umbrellas, I didn’t care that much. I cared less when the bellboy gave us two girlie umbrellas. Sam’s blue with a subtle pattern, a kind of deco siren pattern none the less, and mine, mauve with a very floral pattern. We looked as though we were walking down the street with parasols. We’d only have needed to slosh on a mud mask and we’d have been mistaken for Kabuki, I was sure… minus the wooden shoes, of course. I wondered what “you filthy poofters” might sound like yelled in Vietnamese from a passing scooter?
They didn’t speak any English at the Pho restaurant, so that always makes it interesting. There was chicken sitting out on a bench at the front door as we entered, which wasn’t a good welcome. Oh? I thought. Sam was undaunted, as we hadn’t had Pho yet in the time we’ve been in Vietnam, and it was our last night and we had a recommendation, after all. The owner’s son somewhat resembled Grace Jones and didn’t have one clue when we mimed a couple of questions about the condiments. Sam looked at me blankly as I started to sing, Pull up to the Bumper, which amused me.
Then, as we ate, the rain came down torrentially. The nice lady at the massage shop said it was the beginning of the wet season here and it lasted, more or less, till the end of the year, when I asked her if it rained every afternoon. I was glad we had the umbrellas, at that point, as I watched the raindrops ricocheting off the road like machine gun fire in the headlights of the heavy traffic.
Grandpa came in and ate Pho. He spoke Chinese to the other patrons. He loaded his Pho with more chilli and more garlic than any one has a right to, and still live. Unfortunately, I was looking directly at him when he regurgitated, both times, into a bowl as if he was feeding baby birds inside, the nests masquerading as bowls, pre-digested bean shoots, with a gag and a rasp.
We dodged the traffic in the heavy rain as we crossed the road after dinner, as we couldn’t wait for the rain to stop, as it didn’t look as though it was going to any time in the next twenty four hours. We headed to the supermarket to purchase our last litre bottle of water, you know, just in case we might need it between 8pm and 8am... you never can tell and there aren’t that many suitable alternatives. I’m sure a couple of the street food ladies, on their small plastic stools with their portable cookers, were laughing at me as I strolled passed with my violet parasol, but I didn’t care, as most everybody else looked as though they had been turned into spotted dicks, as the current trend for wet weather gear here seems to be transparent plastic with coloured spots, kind of like Twister condoms. The rain was still falling and every thing was dripping, as it steamed and, I’m sure, hissed. And I was dry.
We have to be up at 5.30am, as we are catching a plane at 8.30am, you’ve got to love those morning flights. Not even time to fit in the buffet breakfast. Sad face.
And now a baby is crying on the floor above our Saigon cell. Did I mention that we rather skimped on the hotel in Ho Chi Minh City, as we were only going to be here for two days and it was so confusing on the internet that we decided just to go for the cheapest, which never occurred to me would mean we’d get a room minus a window. Next visit we could afford to go up a star, I feel. Happy times.
Nana S is in bed, waking intermittently to berate me for still being awake. “Enough!” The noisy Chinese across the hall are being inexcusably loud, yet again. Gritted teeth.
It is 10.45pm.
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