The Western Frontier

I started out the morning right, with a run along the Long Bien Bridge.  Another important cultural site, the bridge was bombed heavily during the Vietnam War because it connects Hanoi to the nearest port.  Now, the bridge is in constant use by commuters crossing between the two sections of Hanoi.  Beneath the bridge are the run-down boats of about forty families, some of the poorest in Hanoi, who have come to the city from the countryside.  The strange thing about the bridge is that, on the side of the city center, the city abruptly ends and merges with dense forest. On the water's edge edge are square plots carved out for farming, but otherwise the forest goes untamed.

After my run, the sunny weather ended and the rain began to pour down.  Undeterred, I set out to see Ho Ci Minh's mausoleum, a significant walk from my hostel.  By the time I arrived, I was soaked but had enjoyed seeing the city adjust to its wet season weather.  The motorbike drivers pulled out ponchos, often with two head-holes and hoods.  Walkers embraced the rain by taking off their shoes.

The mausoleum was quite large and the entire area around it was blocked off from vehicle traffic, but people weren't allowed inside the building.  I didn't particularly want to see Ho Chi Minh's dried-up corpse, so it was completely fine.

I also attempted to find the One Pillar Pagoda, but failed miserably.  The only directions that I obtained fromm an English-speaking passerby led me in circles, and I eventually gave up.  I hailed a motorbike and headed to West Lake.

West Lake has a completely different vibe from the Old Quarter.  It is home to many ex-pats and otherwise filled with residential areas.  There are few people selling goods on the street, and fewer tourists like myself wandering about with maps.  I ended up at Saint Honore, a French cafe with lovely little tables.  Upon entering, you are greeted by an entire wall of delicious-looking pastries.  It was just what I was looking for.  It was time to embrace the vestiges of French colonialism.  I got a crepe and a cup of hot chocolate and settled in for a relaxing afternoon of reading and writing.

I met a fascinating man next to me, an Australian who works as a health care consultant and is currently helping to create regulations for the doctors and other health care professionals.  There is little centralized licensing or organizations in Vietnam, one of three countries in that state along with Qatar and Belize.  The man was actually heading to Qatar next, to implement a similar system.

After enjoying a lovely afternoon, I searched for the TET Cafe, a project run by a friend of a friend who I was trying to visit.  Sadly, I found nothing.  But I did get to have a lovely walk around the lake!

The evening ended with a night train to Sapa.  As I waited to be picked up, people milled about the hostel lobby, furiously rebooking tours to Halong Bay for after the approaching typhoon, or rebooking into the hostel because they couldn't motorbike south in the pelting rain.  Luckily, Sapa is north and inland, so I wouldn't be bothered.

I was picked up by an incredibly over eager tour manager, who micromanaged every move and was clearly under the assumption that all foreign tourists are inept.  I eventually ditched him at the train after assuring him I knew how to read a ticket and had taken an overnight train before.  I settled into my car, a four-bunk room that I shared with two Singaporean college graduates who were quite nice.  And then the fourth occupant arrived.  Or rather, the fourth, fifth, and sixth.  It was a family of three - mother, father, and baby - all planning to cram onto a bunk that barely fit little old me.  They were using their smartphones to take pictures as their baby fiddled with a souped-up DSLR.  But the splurge for a second ticket wasn't worth it.  When I woke up in the middle of the night, the mother was sitting against the corner of the bunk, trying to sleep upright.  I managed to sleep 8 of the 8.5 hours of the ride.  I guess my talents at falling asleep anywhere continue to improve.

Spotted: Old people at hostels.  And by old, I mean in their 70s.  I'm sure that I'll love to travel at that age and perhaps stay in hostels, but this is the first time that I have seen people that old in a budget ($5/night) hostel.  (See the back of the picture. Apologies for the low quality)