My daily routine in Hanoi begins with an early, brisk walk around Hoan Kiem, followed by a cup of cà phê sua (hot, dark coffee with condensed milk) while savoring whatever newspapers written in English I can scrounge up. Foreign journals offer an intriguing and amusing insider's glimpse into an unfamiliar culture. A Saigon Times Weekly article, A man plays the flute with his nose, cracks me up this particular morning.
I return to De Syloia for my inclusive breakfast, then walk to the nearby Shiseido Qi Spa to indulge in a 75-minute massage. This will be my second massage in Hanoi and I have a third booked for tomorrow. I scoff at conventional opinion that daily bodywork can be deleterious -- I'm on vacation, the service is a mere $28 per session (including tip), I have nothing but free time, and it feels good. Conventional wisdom is overrated, I say.
Afternoons are dedicated to accomplishing something. My self-imposed assignment today is to locate, and purchase, chon. Chon is coffee beans that have been eaten, and then regurgitated by, weasels. Yes, regurgitated -- vomited, upchucked, or puked -- if you will. By vermin. Gastronomes swear that the processing of the beans in their rodent bellies -- a method that can be neither duplicated by man nor machine -- produces pure, caffeinated ambrosia.
I approach the concierge at the Metropole with my best I am a paying guest impression and inquire into the location of shops selling chon. A second or two pass as he processes the request, his face registers a flicker of recognition, and then he chuckles. I take that as a good sign. He triumphantly circles a shop on my map for me. I'm impressed.
Map or no map, finding my way in the Old Quarter is near-impossible. The streets change names approximately every four blocks, without warning or reason. Further complicating matters, every street name looks exactly the same as the next. I have not watched Sixteen Candles for well over a decade, yet as I scan the street signs I am repeatedly reminded of Long Duk Dong (imagine sound of gong being struck here). Even more sophomoric, my inner Butthead and Beavis snicker every time I spy a shop named My Dung, Dong Ich, or the like. And among all the Hangs, Hungs, Dongs, and Dungs is the omnipresent Nguyen word, the pronunciation of which has always alluded me.
Every alley is jam-packed with people, motorbikes, and merchandise spilling out onto the sidewalk. Many streets specialize on a single product: one is devoted solely (pun intended) to shoes, another caskets, the next car parts, and the most fascinating: local groceries, where I load up on Vietnamese hot sauces (each bottle costs a quarter). Salespeople rush me at each shop I enter, which is fairly irritating.
After dozens of missed turns and dead-ends I finally locate the specialty coffee store. Chon is $5 a pound -- a ridiculously expensive price compared to a pound of any other coffee in this country. On the other hand, it's the same cost as a "venti" latte at home. I splurge.
I check-in for my Northworst ORD-DTW-NRT-BKK flight. No problems. With time to burn, I check my Blackberry. Boss's Boss, already at work for the day, has sent an e-mail: he would like my marketing piece (the one scheduled to go to print during my vacation) revised. I pretend I never opened the e-mail and turn the damned thing off.
