Vietnamese Heartthrobs

And so it begins...

This is my third day in Vietnam, but it feels almost like the first. Exhaustion, jet-lag, and the residual effects of my cold had me a bit under the weather the day I arrived; and jet-lag, the residual effects of my cold, and a hangover from my reunion with my Vietnamese friends had me pretty low-key yesterday.

I am safely ensconced in good old A2 Bach Khoa. My room is actually what was the classroom for my Vietnamese History and Contemporary Vietnam classes last year, which is kind of funny, but it's great to be back. My air conditioner works blissfully well, which is a welcome relief from the muggy, hot, jungle air outside, but I have already begun to get used to sweating 24/7. Hostel rooms are always funny because of the random relics left behind by prior guests. There is a framed map of Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia on one of my walls, leftover from the room's prior life as a classroom. On the facing wall, I am treated to a generic Vietnamese heartthrob poster. He's a respectable man, the kind you could bring home to your mother: in the main picture, he is posed fully-clothed, innocently leaning on the shoulders of the beautiful (but not too beautiful) woman who is clearly is long-term girlfriend/wife; it's so comforting to find a man ready to settle down.

The headboard of my bed is graffiti'd with love notes to, ironically enough, me. In one heart is says "Hi John! I love you!" and in the other: "I love you so so so so much!" I actually know the origin of this graffiti. There was another program visiting from Connecticut College while I was here, and one of the students was named John. He started a rather controversial relationship with one of the Lao students in the next hostel, controversial because no one really believed he fully understood just how much his perception of serious relationship might differ from hers. I don't know what ever became of them, and, knowing the back-story, there is something slightly disturbing in the notes, but I try to put the reality of them out of my mind and tell myself that A2 is just welcoming me back warmly.

Hanoi is largely as I remembered it, but there is a tangible air of development and added prosperity. What were construction sites or empty lots are now shiny new high-rises. There are more cars on the streets, and even more motorbikes. Locals have begun to look down on the cheap Bia Hoi Ha Noi (Ha Noi brand draft beer), and Anchor Bia Tuoi (Anchor brand fresh beer) is all the rage, with a number of clean new locations--featuring full-sized tables and chairs! A number of shopping districts are slightly rehabbed, and I even saw a boutique wine shop(pe) called "Bordeaux." It is amazing that only a year can bring a sense of overarching development to an entire city.

I just spent two hours driving around Hanoi on my rented motor bike. Being on a motorbike in Vietnam is when I feel the least foreign. One of the things that I realized most reuniting with Hanoi was that, while everything looked exactly as I remembered it (with the exception of the economic development discussed above), the overall feeling of being here was something I had largely forgotten. Being in Hanoi is a lot of things. On a number of levels, the city nearly assaults the stranger--the dust; the heat; the smells, good and bad; the persistent hum of traffic and beeping of horns, foreign-sounding interpellations and conversations and songs. But more than anything, for me, is the persistent feeling of being watched. Everywhere I go, I can feel the eyes, the silent questions, the judgments, to the point that the congested, headache-inducing tourist area around Huan Kiem Lake becomes almost welcome because, while everyone is trying to sell me something, they're not just staring a me in pregnant silence.

The nature of space in Vietnam compounds the issue. In Vietnam, you are always in someone else's space. Life is lived on the sidewalk, so there is no wide boulevard for the pedestrian to walk in a private bubble. You are constantly stepping around a family eating dinner, two old men playing chess, a tea stand, or a motor bike parking area. Avoiding these obstacles, you step into traffic, along with the basket ladies, bicycles, motorcycles, cars, and fellow pedestrians. Overall, the effect is one of cooperation and community, and I find it refreshing from the sterility of American streets. If you are honked at when you are in the street, is meant as a "Hey, I'm coming up behind you, so don't do anything stupid," not "Get the fuck out of my way; the cruise control is on!" People expect you to walk in front of their bicycles and motorbikes (and cars too, but they can be a little less forgiving, contending with a sea of smaller vehicles as it is), and they compensate for you patiently. But when you are a sore thumb that feels like a sore thumb, this constant, forced interaction is hardly ameliorative.

Riding a motorbike in Hanoi, I feel like I achieve some kind of "one-ness" with the city. My horn doesn't have an accent, and I rarely stutter over lost vocabulary when weaving and merging along with traffic. While I would think the site of a big, white guy on an 80cc "Angell II" would be at least as funny and weird as one walking down the street--if not downright scary ("does he know what the hell he's doing?!)--I never seem to get a second look, or at least not that I notice. My ride today was meditative, and I feel like I became re-acquainted with Hanoi to the point that I can feel my agoraphobia already fading.

I wish my Vietnamese were better, but a lot is already coming back to me, and people tend to be sympathetic when I make the effort. Luckily, my end of most casual conversations is pretty simple; it goes something like this:

-"I am an American."
-"I am 22 years old this year."
-"Yes, I already have a girlfriend."
-"I arrived on Wednesday, I am here for a few weeks to visit."
-"I studied Vietnamese in Hanoi for four months last year."
-"No, I am not looking for a wife. I have a girlfriend already."

Pretty simple.