The United Airwest turboprop flight from Medford took only one and a half hours. Seat 5A permitted me to jam my knees firmly into the back of 4A. This arrangement gave me quite a snug, and form fitting chair.
Occasionally the two engines would slip out of synchronization and vibrate us all to an elevated awareness that this particular aircraft did not represent modern air service's most advanced technology. None the less, I enjoyed the trip. I lazily finished reading Sandra Brown's Chill Factor. This mystery held my interest right up through the end.
The walk to the International Terminal took me past all of the United gates I had used over the years; seeing the gates made SFO feel very much a home-away-from-home to me. Of particular fondness were the few gates I had sat at which were at the near end of the busy terminal.
Time was on my side with this leg of the journey. I had a couple of hours to kill before my flight. Traveling on Cathey Pacific Airlines was to be a new experience for me. I didn't have any idea how to find their terminal. So, being a guy, it was natural to stop and ask questions. I spotted a meandering United Captain who happened to be going my way. Not much was lost in cordial conversation as we passed familiar landscape. He pointed me toward the Cathey terminals.
Anne and I have saved lots of unused travel miles with our United MilagePlus membership. The tickets for this trip had been purchased, on-line, from Cheap Tickets. MilagePlus would not honor our accumulated travel points for use to upgrade this ticket. "No worries, Anne. I will purchase a Business Class upgrade for the Hong Kong leg when I get to the airport."
I felt very good about funding my entire in-air time for only fifteen hundred plus dollars. When the ticket agent told me that the upgrade to business would be only sixteen hundred, each way, I politely thanked her and asked to be processed into the cattle car.
My next SFO gate was going to be 9A. Boy, that doesn't sound like much of a hike. As I approached the security check-in, I asked the TSA woman if there were restaurants on the other side. She told me no.
I walked back to the last place where I had seen a collection of eateries. Harbor Village Kitchen looked pretty decent. I discovered that ordering Chinese food was even harder for me than it was for Mexican food. I ended up with wonton (egg noodle soup) with beef brisket and a peach diet Snapple. I couldn't go far wrong with this choice.
The steaming bowl of wonton had four large pieces of meat begging me to fork them on. I stabbed into the closest floater. This piece provided three very tasty bites. A small piece of edge gristle brought no concern and it was easily removed.
The second chunk of brisket had a delightful thumb-nail bite hanging onto an intersectional maze of slippery, floppy, interconnecting tissue. This piece of bovine artwork, sculptured by my Chinese hosts, was placed on the tray next to my other rejected tissue pieces. Not to worry, I thought. I still have two and a half hours before gate check-in. I am in a very relaxed "have no worries" mood.
The noodles were cooked just right. Try as I may, I spun a small portion onto my spoon in an attempt to find the noodle's natural end. Each forkful had to be bitten off. This noodle seemed to be just one, with its self. I came to the end when I finished the bowl.
Ah, I've saved the last piece of brisket until the end. The meat looked ready. It was sharing space now with only leafy green things in the chestnut colored base. I stabbed into the visual essence of brisket and lifted it out of the bowl. Using a slight wrist turning, I permitted the soup to drip off before proceeding.
To my surprise, as I brought the loaded fork to my mouth, there was no meat on this piece. I was intrigued, however, something about this piece of gristly stuff registered familiar. I slowly turned the fork to glimpse new aspects, and it came to me. Flashes of long ago Biology texts were brought to mind. This was the chapter in the book which displayed cross sectional views of the mammalian heart's ventricular valves. I placed this last piece on the tray with the rest and enjoyed a few quality sips of Peach Snapple.
One day I will wait for my flight at the gate which is just to the right of the head end of the moving floor. Gate 9A is at the very end of the corridor, and downstairs; only two more hours to wait. I think I will start my new Nelson Demille novel, Up Country. I'll probably doze off, but I resolved to hold off on my Ambian CR until I got seated.
Two short days later, at 0945, Vietnam Airlines landed at Noi Bai airport; serving Hanoi, Vietnam. There were many westerners on the flight from Hong Kong. I met a young Aussie while waiting for Tim in the Hong Kong terminal. His name is Tom.
Tom was born in Hanoi and went with his mother on a movie production trip to Australia. She never returned home. Tom is in his last year at university in Sydney. He was going to Hanoi to attend his step-sister's wedding.
Tim's flight came in from Cairns around seven o'clock. The three of us visited until our Vietnam Airline loaded at 0800. This leg of the trip was only going to last an hour and a half, but not to be outdone; we were served meat and pancakes for the in-flight breakfast.
The approach to Noi Bai airport took us over cultivated fields. The large spaces were divided into smaller plots, each neatly tilled. With a careful eye you could see a few people with "paddy" hats hoeing weeds.
We are staying at the Win Hotel. The hotel fare included our taxi trip from the airport. As we came off the causeway into the airport lobby we spotted the taxi driver holding a sign calling for "Tim Haralson". I will try to describe the trip to the Win hotel from the airport, but it is best experienced live. Let me name the taxi driver Wo, because that is the first word that formed in my mouth as we merged into mainstream traffic as we left the airfield. Wo only knows two movements; Go and Honk.
Traffic in Vietnam drives, as we do, on the right hand side of the road; well, most of the time. Wo only knew the left hand lane of our side of the freeway - one hasn't experienced tailgating, light blinking and horn honking unless you've ridden with Wo.
As we approached the city center we entered a state of unparalleled traffic chaos. It seemed as if the main rule to order is: If you're moving, keep moving and others will part; not, however, without blowing their horn.
The city has few traffic lights, but at every intersection there is a white stripped path for pedestrians to cross. One hasn't a long enough life to wait for a break in the traffic. Before you step off of the curb it is best to see that the on-coming hoard does not contain any cars, trucks, or buses. The odds are greatly in your favor that motor bikes will rule and you will be spared.
When stepping off of the curb you look just straight ahead. You present no body signals that you are anything but certain of your destination. Horns will beep, bikes will pass close behind and close in front, but they seem to know not to mess with you, physically. In a dream-time analogy, this may be a bit like stepping off the roof of a high building; knowing that you can really fly.
After checking in with reception at the Win, Tim wanted to get some dollars changed into the Vietnam dong. The current exchange rate is one US dollar for 15,800 dong. He knew that the banks charge about 4% fee for exchanges, and he knew of a way to avoid this institutional thievery. He would introduce me to a couple of street exchange vendors, who sat atop their motor bikes near the entrance to the ANZ bank. They would give us 15,800 dong without fees.
We met up with the black marketers, where he had said they would be, sitting on their scooters near the bank. The exchanging transaction for one hundred dollars was very open and straight forward. We thanked them, told them we would see them again, and proceeded to stroll the few kilometers around the nearby city lake.
Perhaps by an hour later we had circled the lake, took in its many sights, and were ready to sit somewhere cool for refreshments. Tim guided us to a fifth story restaurant which overlooked the lake-shore drive. We took an indoor window table and ordered drinks with a side of spring rolls.
During this welcomed escape from the heat, I studied the different sizes and colors of the Vietnamese bills. Each bill had an inserted plastic section, which made counterfeiting nearly impossible, and each denomination differed from the others in its rectangular dimensions and shade of earthy yellow and green. I counted the amount I had received at the exchange. I looked through my healthy pile of dong, three times. Each time, I came up with 1,368,000 dong.
"Darn it, Tim, I didn't seem to have gotten a very good rate. How did you do?" Tim's count came to near the same amount. We should have received 1,580,000 dong for our $100 dollars. I figured that it only cost us about 12% for this street side bargain. Well, hey! At least the bank didn't get a chance to rip us off any 4% fee.
O9/29/06 - I had fallen asleep last night at about 10pm. Tim had been watching the Bourne Identity #2. The 17" TV was color and its picture was very good. I was shocked that most of the TV channels were in English, with Vietnamese subtitles. I was to learn that English is a very serious second language in Vietnam.
Tim has a young teacher friend, Nguyen Thuy Duong. She goes by her first name, Duong. Her name is pronounced "Dzoon". Duong is an upper level English teacher at one of the city's high schools. She visited with us for a few hours last evening at the hotel. Duong will meet us tomorrow for some shopping.
For dinner last night, Tim recommended we go to the Little Hanoi restaurant. Little Hanoi is just a few blocks away from the hotel.
The restaurant has an open wall exposing it to the high temperature and humidity of the sidewalk. Inside, however, it had a very comfortable table atmosphere. The city of Hanoi is located on the 21st north parallel. I recall that the Tropic of Cancer belts the earth at 22oN. This low northern latitude, nearing the equator, explains why the temperature is so warm, and why the humidity sits at around 80%.
We selected a street side window table and awaited the arrival of our ordered tuna salad and mixed spring rolls. The time was 5pm. The street traffic was intense. Motorbikes and buses zoomed and beeped non-stop past our window. Once in a while I noticed a bike taxi, called a cyclo, moving slowly among the army of motorbikes.
We enjoyed the meal. At checkout time Tim and I thought we may have to pay off part of our meal washing chopsticks. Earlier, Tim had suggested we not carry all of our converted money when we left Hotel Win. The two of us counted out our dong. We came up short of the 211,000 needed to settle our bill. Together we only had about 150,000 dong. As we recounted the paper pile with our hostess, I remembered I had zipped some dong inside the security pocket of my pants. Digging into my pocket, I came out with 200,000d. We resorted what we had already placed on the counter and quickly resolved our bill. Boy! What a bill paying scare we had for the $17 ticket. Of course, now, I got stuck with a thick pile of small denomination Vietnamese paper money.
This morning I woke up alert at around 0630. Tim was no where to be seen. I quickly dressed. As I was getting ready to go down to the lobby, Tim came into the room. He had woken earlier and reported to me about the breakfast he had just eaten in the Win's lobby. I followed his advice and went downstairs to repeat his order, for myself.
In the lobby a few carry-away tables had been set in front of the four ornate wooden chairs which bordered the walls, as you entered through the double glass doors from the street. I selected one nearest the main entry. Sitting nearby were two western couples. I gave morning greetings and a smile to both.
Mr. Nghea (pronounced "Nia"), the hotel's manager, soon appeared with a paper menu. Item #1 is what Tim had eaten, so I ordered the same. A few brief minutes later Nghea came down the street carrying a steaming bowl on a waiter's tray. Apparently most of the complimentary breakfasts were prepared at one of the street cafes next door.
Nghea's presentation of the breakfast table was very well done. I received one small bowl containing small slices of dried red chili, one bowl held two stubby yellow/green bananas, and one large bowl steamed with my chicken rice-noodle soup. I was also served a large glass of mixed orange juice, a straw, chopsticks and a baguette.
Tim had warned me not to lose track of any bits of chili, if I put some in my soup. I deftly used the chopsticks to place four pieces of chili pepper atop my steaming broth. The pepper steeped while I ate one of my bananas.
When the soup had cooled, I removed the pepper. I had thought that if the peppers added a little more flavor to the clear broth, great. If not, oh well. The seasoning turned out to be just right. With each chopstick grasp of noodles, I could taste a hint of the seasoning. I didn't think the room had heated up that much by the time I had finished my second banana, but I found myself sweating from the pepper spice. None the less, I was proud of my solo meal achievement.
Tim and I lay in the room and read while we waited for Duong to arrive. She came a few hours later, at 10am. We visited while I fumbled with the reconditioned Toshiba laptop Tim had bought for her while he was recently in the US. Duong had asked Tim to find her the best computer he could for under $500 when he came to Medford for a vacation.
She had a problem with the laptop. It wouldn't play any sound out of its built-in speakers. I silently wished Matt were here. I'm certain the difficulty was due to some internal program switch being turned off. All I could discover was that diagnostics said the sound board was working fine. Shucks!
After half an hour I gave up on the Toshiba and the three of us left to go shopping. Tim's main morning objective was to make right the balance he owed to a bamboo supplier. Part of his business goal was to talk the supplier into adjusting what Tim owed against the quarantine fine he had received when his last shipment arrived in Brisbane. Apparently, the majority of his goods were not labeled "Made in Vietnam", as was required under Australian law. The vendor wanted to keep Tim a loyal customer, so she subtracted the total fine amount from Tim's balance owed. Tim was happy, and we were out of there.
We lunched at the Mo Ca café. This was a nicely air-conditioned restaurant visited mostly by western guests. The café was quite busy. Duong had to report to her school at 1:30pm, so after lunch we went directly back to the hotel. Duong was seen off on her motor bike, and then Tim and I went to the room for a well deserved siesta.
For dinner, Duong took us to an authentic Vietnamese restaurant. To reach the dining area we had to pass through the kitchen and then climb two flights of steep stairs. Twelve inch high tables were set on a raised six foot wide area circling the walls of the room. The waiters were thus able to serve the guests from the inner floor space. At each table were four sitting cushions and four back cushions.
We first removed our footwear, and then we climbed up to the cushions. Duong, being only five feet tall, had no difficulty getting seated comfortably. Tim and I, however, found the arrangement a bit more labor intensive. Part way through the meal, my left leg was totally numb. I found relief only by stretching my leg out and sitting sideways to the table.
Duong did all of the ordering. Naturally, we had a rice bowl. Ordered also was a soup course, spring rolls, pork ribs, and some small slivers of meat, which looked and tasted like pan fried chicken. I was very surprised to learn that this main dish was flying fish.
After dinner we took a taxi to a music store which Duong recommended. I had mentioned that I would like to find an instrument unique to Vietnam and Southeast Asia. Actually, this place really wasn't a store. We found a simple street front cutaway of the owner's home.
The back wall of the shop displayed guitars. At the front was a glass case containing a variety of flutes. On the floor sat Mr. and Mrs. Shopkeeper. They were busying themselves with a snack.
I spotted what I was looking for hanging next to a guitar. The instrument is a Dan Bau, pronounced "Dan Bow". This single string music device is found only in Southeast Asia and would be rarely seen, if at all, in Oregon. I learned that the Dan Bau was favored by poets as background for their recitals. When a note is plucked the musician could then vary the sound by flexing an end piece which slightly loosed or tightened the tension on the string. This produced a "woo, whoa, wow" sort of sound.
The shopkeeper, and maker, brought the dan bau to the floor. He then sat down, brought out a half inch wide by three inch tall block of wood. We were fascinated watching him use a hand chisel to form a three inch long sliver of a pick. He then sat at the dan bau and deftly plucked out the notes of a scale. As he found each note to be to his aural satisfaction he would, with a black felt-tip marker, put a dot on the surface under the string. This tuning process took only a couple of minutes. I noticed the diminishing logrithmetic pattern he created with the dots as the notes got higher and higher.
He then gave me a short tutorial on how to pluck different notes. The initial key, of course, was to use the pick only at the points where he had placed a dot. Now, the dan bau does not have frets, as does a guitar. This means that one needs to temporarily create a simulated fret as one is plucking the string. This is done by using the palm of the picking hand in a magically timed movement as the string is picked. In a very short time I had satisfactorily produced not a single note. However, as an eye witness, I could testify that indeed it could be tastefully done. Boy, this is going to take some practice.
After negotiating a considered fair deal for the dan bau, we expressed our thanks and stepped to the sidewalk. Our taxi had been waiting for us. It is fascinating how the mind can so quickly shift from lofty, creative thoughts, to that of musical instrument to that of base human survival. I got the front seat again and we were now in the motorbike 'dodge mode' on our way back to the Win. A schedule was set for tomorrow, good nights were said, and Duong biked towards home.
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