I will confess that the biking trip to Laos and Vietnam was not originally my idea. In fact, I am not sure whose idea it was, although I am guessing it was my friend Sheila’s. I think I got an email from Sheila saying something like “We are going to Laos and Vietnam in April! The Aussies are definitely on board! You should come too!” Matt thought it was a great idea, and next thing I knew, we were going.
Truth be told, I wasnt sure I wanted to go. Yes, it would be fun to have another trip with our friends, a biking trip no less. What’s more, it was a trip to a part of the world I had never been to, sort of the cherry on top. But it was far, it was complicated, it was expensive. My parents would have to babysit for two weeks and really, asking someone to give up two weeks of their life is an imposition, even if it is my mom and dad. And did I mention the expensive part? It seemed like an extravagant expense. We have kids going off to college in a few years, after all. I imagined the conversation at the kitchen table:
“Mommy, can I go to a college like Cornell or Middlebury?”
“No, sorry, honey. Mommy and Daddy went to Vietnam instead. Community college for you. But we have great pictures!”
The deck seemed stacked, so many reasons not to go. But still, it was compelling. And compelling won the day. As we were flying there, I kept thinking: this is a crazy itinerary: Chicago to Tokyo, then Hong Kong, Bangkok, then finally Luang Prabang, Laos. Certainly, there are easier, more convenient locations, such as the entire Western Hemisphere. Really, we cant find a single vacation spot in our own hemisphere? What about Florida? Lots of people go to Florida, and they have a lovely time, and they don’t have to take four planes and cross 12 time zones. You can get to Florida on a direct flight, just 2-3 hours of flying time. We could zip down for a couple of days and save a boatload of money. Could even come home with a big stuffed Mickey Mouse for the kids. Disney’s Epcot would be the perfect solution, wouldn’t it? A fake trip abroad.
But then I think of all the things I would have missed if we had gone to Florida.
I am sure there is a fine Asian restaurant at Epcot, but I am also confident it does not have the character of these unique dining establishments:
At Disney, grilled cheese and french fries are staples. We would have missed out on these interesting menu items:
(And no, no pictures of dogs here, although I thought about it)
The monorail at Disney is pretty cool, but it has nothing on these colorful modes of transport:
Instead of driving along I-95 boxed in by trucks, we got to see motorbikes piled high with cargo worthy of an 18 wheeler:
I have been to Disney. I have seen the people there. They are not as interesting, and certainly not as friendly, as the people of Vietnam. Disney bills itself as The Happiest Place on Earth, but that is patently untrue. In my experience, most of the people you encounter at Disney seem quite miserable. Vietnam takes the cake on this one:
But most importantly, if I had gone to Florida I doubt I would have gotten this stomach thing that has been plaguing me for two weeks. I’ve dropped five pounds. Try doing that at Disney.
We wrapped up our biking trip to Laos and Vietnam with a stay at the iconic Metropole Hotel in Hanoi, a stately colonial building nestled in the city’s old quarter. It first opened its doors in 1901, a joint project of Frenchmen André Ducamp and Gustave-Émile Dumoutier.1 The hotel has a storied past that mirrors much of Vietnam’s history itself, with control bouncing between the French, the Japanese (during WWII), back to the French, and finally landing under the control of the communist government. Over the years, several notable guests have stayed at the hotel, including celebrities such as John Denver, Jane Fonda, and our pal Don Johnson, as well as dignitaries such as Boutros Boutros Ghali, Bush the Elder, John McCain, Queen Noor and of course, Great Uncle Ho, Ho Chi Minh himself.2 Graham Greene is also said to have stayed at the hotel while penning The Quiet American. Invading forces have come and gone at the Metropole: our little group of Aussies, Canadians and Americans was merely the latest occupying force. We were quite possibly the loudest occupying force, as well.
The hotel has a regal, almost aloof turn-of-the-century feel to it. It is a block of white set in the center of the city, with tall ceilings, high windows, and understated decor. It is quiet, it is graceful. The Metropole serves as a bunker sheltering its guests from the noise and bustle of Hanoi outside its sound-blocking doors. Most importantly, it does what all good colonial vestiges do: makes you feel like you are somewhere else, someplace more like home.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say that stepping into the Metropole makes you feel like you have just stepped into Paris, but it is probably not too far off the mark. At the very least, you certainly no longer feel like you are in Hanoi. A mixture of French and English fills the air. There is such a mix of the two, in fact, that we were routinely greeted with “Madam-Sir,” which I can only assume is a badly translated “Messieurs-Dames.” Every time I heard it I couldn’t help but smile.
The bar is filled with dark wood, pale walls accented with wainscoting, subdued lighting and bright white moldings. Fans spin slowly overhead. Nat King Cole plays on the concealed speakers. We order martinis, because it feels like a place where one should order a martini. Truth be told, I am new to the world of martinis. I always thought they were the province of middle-aged, fading businessmen. They were old, they were tired, they were of another era. Then my friend Jen ordered one when we were in California a few years ago. It came with a blue-cheese-stuffed olive. I love blue-cheese-stuffed olives. Perhaps I should give it a try? I asked for a sip. Then I immediately ordered one. I was hooked. I boldly declared “I love martinis!” (The next morning, I recanted, firmly disavowing any love of martinis, but that is another story altogether.)
So, as a martini convert, I had to get a martini at the Metropole. It seemed to suit the environment. What’s more, after so many days of ordering meals and drinks where I wasn’t really sure what I was going to get, ordering a martini seemed like a slam dunk. There is, of course, some variation in what constitutes a martini, but generally speaking, the original is a pretty straight forward formula. I knew what I was going to get (a martini). I knew what kind of glass it would come in (a martini). I knew, roughly, what it would taste like (a martini). I even knew it would come with olives (because I made sure to ask for extras). Poor Matt tried to order a Gibson. No luck. At the Metropole, you stick with martinis.
The problem was, it felt a little bit like cheating. Travel in a foreign country is supposed to feel foreign, after all. But as a sat there savoring my soaked olives, I felt anything but foreign. I could have been in Chicago or New York or London. For an hour, the fact that I was far from home simply receded from my mind. And that is the goal of a place like the Metropole, isn’t it? To carve out a familiar place in a strange land. Metropole presumably derives from metropolis, from the Greek for “mother city.” So, yes, the Metropole is supposed to feel like home. Messieurs Ducamp and Dumoutier certainly intended to reference Paris as the Mother City, but in this context, any western large city would suffice. And clearly, it worked. We sat, we drank, we wrapped up our trip. We began planning our next one.
The next day, we bid goodbye to what was left of our dwindling group. The bikes were gone, as were the guides. The Canadians had left a day earlier, the Aussies were heading out that morning. Even Eric, our lone Frenchman, was on his way home. No one was left but Matt and I. We spent one last day touring around Hanoi with Mr. Tuan, then we returned to the Metropole (“Bonjour Madam-Sir!”) for one last cocktail. It was quiet, almost deserted. The tables around us were empty. The fans still spun slowly overhead, Nat King Cole still played in the background but no one else was there to hear him. It felt as if the evacuation orders had come through but we had missed the last of the transports. We were the lone holdouts of the invading force.
The people of Hanoi have one of the most interesting morning rituals I have ever seen. It is not an ancient ceremony steeped in tradition. It is not a solemn and touching procession like the parade of monks in Luang Prabang. There is no religious significance, and yet it is a ritual adhered to as tightly as a devout practitioner’s weekly worship. It would make Jane Fonda proud, and I am not referring to her political activism in Vietnam. I am talking about her leg-warmer phase. Every morning, Hanoi channels the Jane Fonda Workout and gets its collective booty moving.
The center of the action is Hoan Kiem Lake. Hoan Kiem is a small, tree-lined lake in the heart of Hanoi, hard by the city’s bustling Old Quarter. The Lake is apparently home to large tortoises, some purported to be hundreds of years old (but as with the monkeys in Laos, I saw nothing). In addition to being a quiet, meditative oasis in the midst of the city’s cacophony of sounds, the Lake also has mystical significance; it is the setting for the Legend of the Recovered Sword. Back in the 15th century, the gods (more specifically, the Turtle God, by some accounts) gave King Le Loi (a.k.a. Le Thai To) a magical sword to fight the Chinese. After driving out the Ming invaders, the king was boating in the lake when a giant tortoise rose out of the water, grabbed the sword and returned it to the gods, bringing peace to the kingdom. Kind of like an episode of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but with senior citizen tortoises. The King defeats the Ming and the reptile retires the weapon. Supposedly, the descendants of the famed turtle still live in the lake, and passers-by routinely pause to see if they can find one.
Other than magical-tortoise spotting, the lake is also a good place for people watching. The peak time for this is early in the morning, around 6 AM, when Hoan Kiem Lake looks more like Lifetime Fitness or New York Sports Club. Hundreds upon hundreds of people, all doing their morning exercises in the park that surrounds the lake.
The most popular activity, by far, is badminton. Yes, you read that correctly, badminton. In the US, most badminton sets, after getting heavy use for about 3 weeks back in the summer of 1978, have been relegated to the back of the garage and appear only occasionally at yard sales. But in Vietnam, badminton is huge. Every morning, possibly hundreds of sets pop up all over Hanoi. Singles, doubles, mixed doubles, the sidewalks are jammed with people playing badminton. Some are fiercely competitive, most simply seem to be having a good time. The peak time is 6-7AM. By 7:30 the nets are rolled up and the sidewalks are clear; everyone has gone home to start their day. So these people get up an hour early just to play badminton. Go figure.
For those who want to get their morning exercise but prefer to take a pass on badminton, there is the very popular Vietnamese aerobics class. There are probably upwards of 50 women grooving to something that sounds like the Six Flags Amusement Park theme-song. The routine is presumably the same day after day, because as the count progresses – nam, sau, bay, tam – everyone switches to the next bit of choreography. It is mostly arm waving and hip shaking, small repetitive motions, set to remarkably bad music, for an hour. You can pay to join in the class in the park, or you can stand across the street and follow along for free. I wasnt sure if people stayed across the street because they didn’t want to pay or because the thought of crossing the street in Hanoi scares the ever-living-daylights out of them, as it does me.
Of course, if you want to pass on the badminton and aerobics is not your thing, you can always join in the ballroom dancing or Tai Chi. And those are just the activities in the park across from the lake. Assuming you have had some coffee and are alert enough to attempt a street crossing, you can proceed around the lake to see the full range of fitness options available. It is somewhat akin to taking a tour of a large health club. There is a cardio area for people who want to jog in place or jump up and down or simply wave their arms in the air – all of which, apparently, are very popular activities here in Hanoi. There are numerous benches for doing sit ups or dips. Further along we have the weight room, my personal favorite. Every morning, several muscle-head dudes drag out a full array of weight lifting equipment – barbells, benches, the full works. They drag it all out, set it up, and by 7:30, it is all packed away again until the next day. It is worth noting that the barbells have concrete disks as weights, sure to inflict some serious toe damage if dropped. The weight room set-up and break-down process must take at least a half hour, but as any serious muscle-head knows, it is worth the time.
As you continue around the lake, you will find a Senior Aerobics class (“Just as great a workout, but at a slower pace, for our Silver Sneakers members”). There are several groups doing Tai Chi, as well as a few activities I have never seen before. One involved a choreographed dance with some fans, the other involved what appeared to be ping pong paddles and a ball.
There is a group exercise class for every interest and ability. And for those who prefer to do their own workout, there is plenty of space for other activities. There are joggers, the occasional cyclist, hundreds of walkers, and everywhere you look, there are people hopping up and down and waving their arms in circles. Click here for a video giving a nice overview of what you see walking around Hoan Kiem. As with any good gym, there is place to weigh yourself: every morning, a woman brings a scale and charges a small fee for you to step on and track your progress. But you need to be there early, she and the scale are gone by 7.
It was remarkable seeing so many people gathered in one place at a very specific time doing such a broad range of exercise activities. We asked our Vietnamese guide, Mr Tuan, what the deal was. Is it some sort of government initiative? He said that it all goes back to Ho Chi Minh, Great Uncle Ho. Uncle Ho said that it was important for everyone to exercise every day, to keep the body strong. He encouraged his people to exercise each and every morning, and even a generation later, they still take it to heart. Of course, it is somewhat ironic that this health-wise advice was dished out by a three-pack-a-day chain smoker who purportedly died of heart failure.
By 7:30 AM, the frenzy is over. Aerobics is finished, the ballroom dancers are wrapping up, Tai Chi is winding down. The weight lifters have put the benches and concrete barbells back in storage, the badminton nets have been rolled up and stashed until the next day. The last of the joggers are making their way back home, the jump-in-place-and-wave-your-hands-around-like-crazy people have gone back to looking like normal individuals out for a stroll. The badminton court lines on the sidewalk are the only remaining evidence that the vast outdoor health club exists. Until early the next day, when it starts all over again.
By mid-morning, Hoan Kiem is just a lovely lake in the center of the city, not a magnet for an exercise craze. One night, however, we saw an older man with a walking stick parading around the lake in the dark. He was stark naked. He stopped to do a little dance. Apparently everyone comes to Hoan Kiem to exercise, even the mentally unstable. Clothing optional.
Although this trip to Laos and Vietnam was a biking trip, I still wanted to do at least one long run at some point during the trip. Due to a fairly tight daily schedule, it was challenging to figure out when that might be possible. When I arrived in Hanoi and saw the insane traffic conditions, I realized that a long run in the city might be difficult. Or even deadly. I knew that attempting to cross the street in Hanoi late in a run would be a bad idea. One stumble, one second of inattention and I would be toast. I started to think that perhaps I might have to (gasp) resort to running on the treadmill at the hotel.
Fortunately, one of our days in Hanoi involved what was originally billed as a 20k ride around a lake. This, I realized, was my chance. Instead of riding the route, I would run it.
It turned out to be a perfect choice. It was a day where there were several different options for people to choose from, with riding offered in both the morning and the afternoon. A larger group had gone in the morning, a smaller group in the afternoon. In fact, there were only two other cyclists plus Matt and I in the afternoon group. Matt agreed to ride with me as I ran and carry water for me. Nathan, our guide, rode with the two other cyclists, and because it was such a small group, he left our motorbike escort, Mr Tien, with Matt and me.
Mr Tien is a small man with a quick smile and an expressive face. He does not speak English, but he doesn’t need to. His smile says it all. He rides by on his little motorbike, with a bright red cooler and two spare tires strapped on the back. As he zips by, you always see his white teeth flashing and a big, enthusiastic thumbs-up sign. When we are on the road, he generally goes ahead of us to the next turn, stops traffic and directs us where to go. It is like having your own one-man police escort.
Nathan explained to Mr Tien that I was going to run the route instead of ride it. He looked at me with his mouth ajar, raised his eyebrows, then flashed his characteristic smile with a big thumbs up. “Wow! You wow!” I knew he would take good care of me.
Of course, the weather chose to act up that day. I don’t mind running in the rain, but I did not want to force Matt and Mr Tien to accompany me in a downpour. I had planned the afternoon based on running, and for a while there it looked like my planning might be for naught. But luckily the skies soon cleared and we were off. It was, by far, the most interesting run in my life.
I have been lucky enough to have had some great runs over the years (see earlier post Laung Prabang 10k). Until now, my most memorable run (short of the Chicago Marathon) was a run I took in Iceland a few years ago. We were there in July, when daylight stretches pretty much around the clock. I was in the habit of waking up when the sun came up, about 3:30. One morning it was beautiful, I was wide awake and energized, so I tossed on the shoes and went. It was 4 AM and there I was, taking in the stark lunar-like Icelandic landscape around me. I ran past small cracks with steam pouring out of them, and I was careful to avoid puddles in the road lest they be from hot springs bubbling up. It was silent, it was beautiful, the streets were deserted. I felt like the luckiest person on the planet.
Running in Hanoi, however, was a completely different experience, but no less memorable. I did a slow warmup and then started out, Matt riding next to me. Yes, I felt conspicuous, but it was a lovely, lightly traveled road along a beautiful lake and promised to be a great run. I had barely gone 20 steps when Mr Tien passed, thumbs up and big smile at the ready. Then he pulled in front of me and stayed there. And stayed there. And stayed there. Mr Tien in front of me, Matt next to me: I had my own motorcade. I felt famous. Mr Tien was waving traffic out of my way, Matt was passing me water and gels when I needed them. Everyone I passed turned to look at me. Good lord, these people probably think I am Kara Goucher! OK, they probably don’t know who Kara Goucher is, but they probably think I am someone famous – a real runner! Deena Kastor, Joan Benoit, I had joined the ranks of those who run with a motor escort. Suddenly I knew what it must feel like to be winning the Boston Marathon: all eyes were on me. I simply needed a cameraman to hop on the back of Mr Tien’s scooter, maybe a helicopter overhead, and it would be just like the real thing, but with chickens in the road as an added bonus.
The route around the lake was complicated in places. The route notes said things like “turn left down a small alley between two houses.” Thankfully, Mr Tien was there to guide us every step of the way. We went on broad roads along the lake, then down small alleys and paths that appeared to go nowhere. There were so many bizarre twists and turns that I wouldn’t have been surprised if the route passed up someone’s walkway, in the front door, through the house and out the back. I passed shops, homes and cafes, with people doing double takes as I went. (“Cafes” may be a slight embellishment: a more accurate description would be “places with chairs and sometimes tables at which beverages and sometimes food are served.”) I had inadvertently worn a bright red shirt, and although we weren’t in Thailand, I wondered if any of the people I passed were making jokes at my expense. “Hey, there is a Red Shirt, she must be running away from Bangkok.”
People stared as I went by, although I did see one other runner, so it is not as if they had never seen one before. Honestly, I think it was my over-kill escort team that attracted so much attention. One of my favorite moments came when I passed a small open-air street cafe (see cafe note above). There were six old men sitting at a long rectangular table. Three of them faced towards me, three of them faced away. All of a sudden, in unison and as if on cue, the three facing away from me leaned back and looked over their shoulders at me. I can only assume that the gentleman sitting at the head of the table said something like “Well, will you take a look at this knucklehead,” or something along those lines. I couldnt help but laugh. We exchanged greetings and smiles: “Hello, hello!”
I made good time on the run. Unfortunately, the route was a little shorter than I originally thought so I wasnt able to do a half-marathon distance. In fact, it turned out to be closer to just 15k. I wanted to try to double back to add a few more miles, but I wasn’t quite sure how in the world I was going to explain that to Mr Tien. Besides, the rain still appeared to be looming. I had taken up enough of poor Mr Tien’s time. Mr Tuan, our wonderful Vietnamese guide, was at the end of the route waiting for me as well. They made me feel like a superstar. And thanks to Mr Tien’s pacing, I made excellent time. Kara Goucher, watch out.
Mere words cannot describe what it is like to walk across the street in Hanoi.
To start, you need to keep in mind that most traffic stays on the right, but every now and then you get someone zipping up the side in the opposite direction, so you never really know where to look. In Hanoi itself, hazards like chickens and water buffalo are rare. But there are cars, trucks, buses, taxis, cyclos, bicycles, motorbikes, and lots of pedestrians, including the ubiquitous women with enormous baskets hanging from bamboo rods on their shoulders. Honking is so common that it is essentially meaningless, so it ceases to serve as an audible warning when you are about to step into serious danger. And it seems like every step is one that puts you in serious danger. There is no break in traffic. If you wait for a break in traffic you will be there all day. If you want to get to the other side of the street – ever – you just have to go.
The traffic is so daunting that I seriously considered spending my entire time in Hanoi exploring one block, the same block as the hotel. I could start my day by going out the door and turning right, right, right and right. And then for fun, I could go left, left, left and left, never venturing across the street. But it seemed silly to come all the way to Hanoi and see only one square block. The city had so much to offer. I decided to go for it, to do the unthinkable, to cross the street. However, first I checked to make sure my will and life insurance coverage were both up to date. I also put a photo ID in my pocket so that it would be easier for the authorities to identify my bloody and mangled body.
Fortunately, I was able to acheive some measure of success by crossing with someone else. I knew if I looked at traffic I would be done for, so instead I looked at the shoes of the person walking in front of me. I matched him step for step. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw a car, several motorbikes and some bicycles coming straight at us. We did not break stride. The car passed in front of us, a motorbike practically brushed my hip going behind us, another motorbike passed in front by mere inches, and then a bus crossed behind us. And that was just traffic from the right. I assume life expectancy is substantially shorter in Vietnam. I know that one crossing took at least a few years off my life.
I had done it. I had crossed the street in Hanoi! I wanted to shout from the rooftops, scream with joy. I was ready for a euphoric celebration, perhaps a parade in my honor, when I realized that we had another street to cross. Then another. On and on it went. Stepping off the curb with my heart pounding in my chest, stepping back up onto the curb with a sense of relief akin to that which death-row inmates must feel when the pardon comes through, then approaching another street and having to do it all over again.
It was exhausting. Needless to say, a wine soaked seafood dinner with friends was just the cure. As an added bonus, dinner was in the hotel. All I needed to do at the end of the night was get in the elevator and push a button. Hey, I can handle that. I can do anything. I have crossed the street in Hanoi.
(And no, no pictures of dogs here, although I thought about it)
Outside the Comfort Zone 