Hanoi

Our time in Hanoi was spent meandering about the Old Quarter and surviving crossing the street. Motorbikes don't stop at traffic lights, do not stay in their lanes, and do not restrcit their travel to the streets, often driving up onto the narrow sidewalks. Such daytime activities forced me to buy a bottle of French wine at the market and soak the evening away in my bathtub, reading Catfish and Mandala.

But I'm also charmed by Hanoi. Its ancient, its historical and the culture seeps out of every home in the form of curry spices, incense and sheer energy. People slurp noodle soup and munch greasy coconut-filled donuts at plastic red tables and stools on every street corner. Men walk arm-in-arm and gather for rich coffee with condensed milk or green tea. Everyone works on the street--making funeral wreaths, repairing motorbikes, frying rice cakes, sewing purses. I dodge the people, the motorbikes, every sensation constantly stimulated.

Sarah and I visited Ho Chi Minh's humble stilt house where he lived from 1957 until his death in 1969. We walked through his garden and up to his mausolem. Everything is orderly. The guards don't even let you stand in one place too long, or sit on the ground or the curb. They keep people on the go, a curious suspicion in their eyes.