Miss Saigon

I arrived in Saigon (NO ONE calls it Ho Chi Minh City, by the way) at 6:30 am after another 8+ hour sleeperbus ride.

I personally love those things. They are engineering marvels; at least for short people like me and all the Vietnamese.

Did I mention that I'm a size Medium to Large here? These people are TINY.

Anyway, they awoke us again, at 6 am with BLARING music, as they have done every time. Techno. I really do NOT enjoy waking up this way, but it's so fucked up that I have to laugh. A lot more than the guy next to me.

I have no hotel reservation, thinking I'm being smart this time, as every time I've made a reservation in Vietnam I pay some deposit and when I arrive, there's no room for me. I let some guy take me to his guesthouse.

I'm walking around like Altas, a couple of large, cumbersome packs strapped to my back. I have no idea where I'm going. He takes me to some labyrinth behind a main street. Every house has a ground floor that faces the street, and there are people at every house cooking, eating, hanging out with the whole family. The streets in the maze are unnamed. They're related somehow, in some unintelligible Queens-like fashion, that refers to the main streets that are closest.

I am totally aware that I am already lost.

He takes me to a place, and it's closed up. It's 6 in the morning, and everyone is asleep. I get a bad feelind and have him take me to the one place that I saw online. He does. That place is booked. I ask for a recommendation. He walks me to one of his friends. It's a guesthouse, sweet people living/working there. $14 a night, A/C and private bathroom.

This is the way it goes here.

I head out first thing in the morning, paying careful attention to WHERE THE FUCK I AM. The map on the back of the guesthouse's card is of little help. I decide to go around the block, just to get my bearings.

I am greeted by Mr. Tho, the PUSHIEST CLYCLO DRIVER YET. He's missing quite a few teeth, and yet, has a beautiful smile. He speaks very good English. He wants to take me around. I tell him I like to walk, thank you. He starts telling me about how he was in the war, and America's #1, and he has met lots of American people, and can he take me for a ride?

No thanks, I'd like to walk, Mr. Tho.

Mr. Tho busts out a composition book, filled with travelers singing his praises on how he showed them around the city, did not rip them off, etc. etc.

That's very nice, Mr. Tho. No thank you, I'd like to walk.

Mr. Tho follows me for 3 blocks like this. It feels like the scene from Better Off Dead, where the kid on the bicycle hunts down John Cusack, demanding 2 dollars. I swear I hear the theme to Jaws in the background.

PLEASE, MR. THO, I put my hands together in some kind of Thai wai-like prayer motion, I NEED SOME PEACE.

Now I've lost track of where I am. Shit. But at least I lost Mr. Tho.

I had a busy morning. Made a reservation for a full day Saigon City tour. I know there's no other way I'm going to do it. Saigon is big, and busy, and distracting.

I find a cute clothing shop, and get some more stuff made.

Three hours, and I barely made it around the block.

I do as Anthony Bourdain says, and I head to central market. He says, if you ever want to get a feel for a city and its people, go to the Market.

It's a market like others I've seen. Full of bootleg, clothing designers, food shops. Except this one is huge, dense, and clean. There's an awesome place across the street, where I get some grilled pork over noodles. The young woman next to me tells me I'm supposed to dump the sauce into the bowl. I was pleased that I had already done it.

The Vietnamese are always telling me what to do. It's fantastic.

I walk around, window shopping, constantly dodging motorcycles.

I get this idea to go back to Central Market for dinner, and I am delighted by what I didn't even know existed:

NIGHT MARKET.

Holy shit.

One outdoor food stall after another, serving mostly fresh seafood. It's LOUD. Across from all the seafood are bootleg vendors. It's busy, crowded, full of Vietnamese, very food tourists. I'm sitting right next to the cook, smoky, seafoody steam periodically wafting against my back. It's hot. I don't care. It's GLORIOUS.

I'm not even bothered my the torrential rain that struck me on the way back to the hotel, a good 15 minute walk. I'm drenched. The vietnamese are telling me to take shelter with them, or offering me rides on their motorbike. I laugh, and walk on. My map is soaked, and I can't read it anymore.

I miraculously find my way back.

What does this say about me? I plan a month + getaway from New York, only to be most happy, most comfortable, and most entertained by another city- one impossibly more hectic, loud, and crazy than my own??