Hanoi Scratchpad

1000 Years

2010-12-16T21:53:00.000+07:00

It's been about a thousand years since I last posted. This is less of an exaggeration than it seems, as the preeminent event in Hanoi over the past few months was the city's early-October celebration of its 1000-year anniversary.

Allow yourself to reflect for a moment: when Hanoi was founded, the world's population stood at around 250 million, and forests still covered between 45 and 60 percent of the world's surface. Half the world's civilizations did not possess written language, the classical Maya were still around, and William the Conqueror had yet to cross the English Channel. This was a very, very long time ago.

Hanoi's founding ushered in what is often considered a golden age of Imperial Vietnam. Abandoning the defensive fortifications of the old capital near Ninh Bình, Emperor Lý Thái Tổ foresaw a Vietnam whose strength laid in technical and commercial achievements. He founded Thăng Long - Ascending Dragon - where he had seen a dragon rise from the Red River, and over the next several generations the Lý kings constructed great hydraulic works, including a vast network of dikes and canals, laid the foundation for Vietnam's legal system, abolished torture, and founded one of Asia's oldest universities, the venerable Temple of Literature (Văn Miếu), whose ruins are a must-see for any visitor to Hanoi.

Nobody in Hanoi during September and October could have avoided being swept up in the festivities. The city pulled out all the stops, closing off much of the city's central streets to traffic, chasing away hordes of street vendors, erecting stages for public cultural events, and putting up a giant video screen on the northeast corner of Hoan Kiem Lake with a countdown to the final day flashing in English and Vietnamese.

Local residents seemed to be of two minds with regard to all the commotions. Street vendors in the center of town were clearly annoyed at being moved, residents were none-too-keen on the heightened noise levels, and the inconvenience of all the street closures provoked a few grumblings. But it was hard not to notice a sense of civic pride even among the most jaded - a pride that was fully justified.

Like most other residents in the center of the city, I partially endured and partially enjoyed the celebrations. It was a good opportunity to learn about the city's history, to enjoy traffic-less streets (though this was balanced by worse-than-normal traffic jams on the city's remaining thoroughfares), to people-watch, and to reflect on what 1,000 years of change has brought to this once-tiny settlement in the Red River Basin.

"City" is a relative concept, and what anyone viewing old photographs of Hanoi is likely to notice is how undeveloped the city remained as recently as 60 years ago. Dirt roads prevailed, a great number of the city's structures were made of wood, and an intricate network of canals and waterways still snaked their way through the city - much of the Old Quarter's serpentine design is a result of it having been built around this topography. Indeed, I still occasionally flash on the Hanoi I first saw in 1991, filled with bicycles and the quiet sound of breezes floating off the city's many lakes.

Combining this vision with the extraordinary changes I've seen in just the year and a half I've been living in Hanoi, it's easy to conclude that the Hanoi of the future will be much different from the Hanoi that has come before. It is likely that, for this city redolent with a sense of history, the past is merely prelude.

Getting Unstuck

2010-09-04T11:02:00.000+07:00

A few weeks ago, shortly after my friends John, Jean, and Martin left Vietnam, my brain went to Pittburgh, PA...and there it has remained. A deep well of homesickness has overcome me, such as I have not experienced in the 16 months I've been living in Vietnam. After spending countless hours pining over pictures of Pittsburgh's skyline, using Google Maps Street View to navigate the city's streets, and poring over local newspapers and blogs, I decided I needed a radical change. It was time to get unstuck.

September 1, four days ago, I began running again. My official War on Flab and Ennui has begun. I've been awakening at 6:30 AM the last few days, and jogging about 3 miles – out from my house, twice around Hoan Kiem Lake, and back. In addition to the health benefits, this task has also been reminding me of the beauty and magic of Vietnam.

If you want to see Vietnam at its best, you need to get out of the house while the sky is still rosy from the dawn. The streets are a hive of energy. Street markets ablaze in color and movement; old couples taking their morning constitutionals; armies of women wearing Pat Benatar leotards doing aerobics ("fascist dancing") to the tinny disco beat; lines of women beating and massaging each other's backs; early morning wedding parties posing for photos: these are the scenes that greet me as I huff and puff my way around the lake.

To be sure, four days have not been enough to bring me completely out of the doldrums. Once back home, I put on NPR and make my morning coffee, mimicking my Pittsburgh routine. After showering, I sit down at the computer, and check my e-mail and Facebook. For a moment, I could be forgiven for imagining myself in my mustard-colored office back home, with my black stone fireplace and a view of the Allegheny River. More than anything, I pine for my house, an 1890 Victorian brick building in Pittsburgh's Lawrenceville neighborhood, that I spent 5 years renovating before jumping to Asia. This house, more than anything, makes my return inevitable.

But I also have solid reasons for being here. In a few short months, I will – for the first time since my divorce, which plunged me into a financial tailspin – be free of all credit card debt. I will then have more than a year to put away money, and if my calculations are right, I should head back to Pittsburgh in spring, 2012, not only debt free, but with a sizable chunk of coin in the bank. While not a lot by some people's standards, these savings will have signalled a fantastic turnaround from the debt burden I carried into this country. And I will have accomplished this reversal in less than three years, doing work I enjoy, and in a place that, when I remember to look at it, is remarkable.

So I have taken on the task of recommitting to the present. The fact is, given the current state of the US economy, my job prospects probably remain better in Vietnam than anywhere back home. This, along with a general desire to shake thing up, was the main impetus behind my move, and the thinking seems as valid today as it did when I expatriated myself.

But the mistake I see many expats make is to treat Vietnam as a backdrop. It's fine to have goals and to envision one's retirement to a cottage by the sea, but treating the present as a means toward an end only cheapens the quality of one's experience. This is true wherever you are. The trick is to carry the goal in mind...and still enjoy the steps along the way.

So the task, zen-like in its simplicity, is simply to be where you are. Just be. Wherever you are, look around. Why are you there? Are the reasons as sound today as when you first moved there? If they are, then appreciate that fact. Get outside and photograph something, take time to smell the roses. The world is filled with beauty that you can only appreciate to the degree that you forget about yourself.

In the big picture, I know that someday I will leave Vietnam. And then there will be times when I look back on this period of my life in Hanoi, and really, really miss it. So best to soak it up while the experience is at hand.

Huế: Vietnam's Heartland

2010-08-11T00:40:00.003+07:00

Huế is a relatively small city, but its historical and cultural importance gives it a justifiably big attitude.

To understand Huế, a little background is needed. As any Vietnamese person will tell you, Vietnam can be divided into three regions – north, south, and center – each bearing distinct psychological, linguistic, and cultural traits. Hanoi forms the cultural center of the north, Ho Chi Minh City of the south, and Huế, even more than the much larger Danang, can be considered the focal point for central Vietnam.

These divisions, and Huế's significance, have their roots in Vietnam's often tumultuous history.

Throughout the 16th and much of the 17th century, Vietnam was engulfed in a power struggle between the Trinh Lords (Chúa Trịnh) in the north and the Nguyen Lords (Chúa Nguyễn) in the south. Their dividing line was the Gianh River (Sông Gianh), just north of Huế. This struggle lasted until 1802, when the Nguyen Emperor Gia Long unified the country and made Huế the national capital.

When the French colonized Vietnam in the latter half of the 19th century, they organized it into three administrative units: Tonkin (north), Annam (center), and Cochinchina (south). The Nguyen emperors remained symbolic monarchs, meaning that Huế continued to play an important role in the country's affairs.

The Nguyen, however, shorn of power, had little more to do than twaddle about making fussy food and building themselves opulent tombs. This cuisine and the relics of the old Nguyen Kings are what Vietnamese and foreigners alike go to Huế to enjoy.

Huế's proximity to the 17th parallel made it a major battleground in the US-Vietnam conflict. The 1968 Tet Offensive in particular took a terrible toll on Huế. First, the communists overran the town and executed as many as 6,000 civilians in what came to be known as the Huế Massacre. The American/South Vietnamese counterattack that followed reduced much of the city to rubble.

When I visited Huế in 1991, the effects of war were still visible. I remember walking into the old Imperial City through mounds of rubble which had long been picked over for scrap metal. Bullet holes and damage from artillery blasts could still be seen. Vietnam, as yet, had few tourists, and scant resources with which to restore historical relics. As a result, I got to see Huế in a somewhat more decrepit state than one finds it in today.

Nearly 20 years later, the city has found its legs once again. I wasn't sure I would like it last week when I returned, and checked into a disappointing hotel on a street filled with persistent cyclo drivers and street touts. But it didn't take long for the city to grow on me.

Once one leaves the tourist ghetto, Huế becomes a large town with a peaceful feel. The inappropriately named Perfume River (Sông Hương), with its famed dragon boats, provides a calm counterpoint to the urban vibe, and it doesn't take more than a few minutes on motorbike before one is amidst rice fields and farms.

Travel in any direction, along waterway or road, quickly leads to one of the Nguyen Imperial Tombs, or some other fascinating historical site. And the landscape, with sun-drenched rivers winding among mountains that overlay like translucent layers of rice paper, is majestic.

Vietnamese people throughout the country speak about Huế with pride. It is in Huế that the finest conical hats (nón lá) are found; Huế's women are renowned for their beauty; and Huế's cuisine – dishes like Bún Bò Huế, and Bánh Khoái – can be found in every city in Vietnam.

I booked a mere two days in Huế and quickly wished I'd booked more. I intend to return and explore it further. For the person who wants to get to know Vietnam's history and cuisine, one could do worse than put in some time in Vietnam's former capital city, which has borne witness to so many of this country's struggles, and continues to soldier on.

Hoi An

2010-08-04T20:01:00.003+07:00

Hoi An (Hội An) in 1991 was one of the highlights of my Vietnamese sojourn. In the intervening years, it has become a must-see destination on the backpacker trail. I had heard of its development into a tourist locale, and was curious to see how much of its historical charm had been lost.

It took me five minutes to hate the place. With store owners and street vendors harassing pedestrians every ten feet, I felt like a walking wallet. The broken English everywhere – "Hello, you buy my shop" – added to my feeling of estrangement. I was no longer an expat with decent language skills living in and partaking of Vietnam; I was an outsider, shoved to the other side of the fence from an area I'd grown accustomed to playing in.

Sure, sure, the town is beautiful. It's a UNESCO World Heritage site for a reason. As a major Southeast Asian trading port from the 15th to 19th centuries, Hoi An's architecture reflects layers of multicultural influences. Its wooden shops and rolling alleys, along with architectural gems like the 17th century Japanese covered bridge all make the town worth a stop. Women in conical hats ply the Thu Bon River (Song Thu Bon) in narrow wooden boats and I'll be damned if it isn't picturesque.

Truth be told, I made my peace with Hoi An once the initial shock had worn off. As tourist locales go, the town is better than most. The cyclo drivers are mostly courteous, and the initially aggressive store owners actually take "no" for an answer. Once I settled into the place, I thoroughly enjoyed my overpriced-but-delicious coffee and croissants at the neat riverside restaurant with the English-speaking staff and tasteful decor.

Hoi An's beach deserves special mention. It is quite simply one of the best beaches I've been to, with clean sands, perfectly warm water, few tourists, and oceanview restaurants serving astounding seafood at reasonable prices. If you did nothing more than enjoy a beach holiday in Hoi An, it would be all right.

But I now begin to understand the negative reports I've heard from travellers passing through Vietnam. For the average vacationer who follows the tourist trail from Hanoi to Saigon, hitting Nha Trang, Hoi An, Hue, Halong Bay, and Sapa, Vietnam must seem an endless barrage of street touts and price-gougers. The open frankness I enjoy in the Vietnamese character, when applied to tourists, becomes a direct assault on your wallet. It could wear anyone down.

Just remember that basing your opinion of Vietnam on places like Hoi An leaves you with a warped picture of what the country is about. These places are worth visiting to be sure; they're tourist locales for a reason. The thing to do is go in, take your pictures, and leave. And then rent a bike, go out and explore the country.

Da Nang By Day

2010-07-31T15:53:00.004+07:00

Seen from the air, Da Nang (Đà Nẵng) is built on a stretch of coastline from which two small bites have been taken out: one by Da Nang Bay (Vịnh Đà Nẵng) to the north, and the other to the east by the South China Sea. The resulting land form is shaped like an apple core, with the Sơn Trà Penninsula at the top and the city itself at the foot. The Han River (Sông Hàn) winds its way through the core, and shreds at the bottom into a network of waterways that end in spindly nerve endings to the south and west.

One can easily see why the French, in 1940, chose to build an airstrip here. The heart of the city is flat, with clear visibility from all sides. Heading down from northern Vietnam, this is where, after passing over the Hai Van Pass (Đèo Hải Vân), Vietnam's coastal lowlands officially begin. Broken only by a mountainous area around Nha Trang, these lowlands run the length of Vietnam's coast for nearly 1000 km southward, all the way to the Mekong Delta.

The town itself is fairly ordinary at first blush. Definitely a small city and not a large town: the feeling is distinctly urban. Modern Kia dealerships beside plastic tarped eateries; Da Nang is, like all of Vietnam, developing at rocket speed, but has yet to reach the level of, let's say, Malaysia. It is also a major port city, Vietnam's third after Saigon and Hai Phong (Hải Phòng). One senses a fairly healthy local economy: there are few shanties to be seen, and everywhere there is construction.

Early morning, I rent a motorbike and head out to explore. Stopping for a quick coffee in town, I quickly realize the impenetrability of the local dialect. Recently, I've been getting cocky about my Vietnamese; I am, in fact, fairly conversant in most situations. But the people here speak a dialect that is not only more nasal and lodged further back in the throat than what I'm used to, many of the words are different altogether. So the northern word for "thousand" - nghìn - is here pronounced ngan, making prices particularly inscrutible. I engage in friendly chit-chat with a man in the cafe, and it's like speaking to a Glaswegian: he understands me perfectly, but I can barely make out what he's trying to say. This is going to take some getting used to.

I've seen enough of the town and decide to head toward the beach. You can see what attracted American GIs to this place: the sands are flat and pristine, the shimmering blue water, while famous for its undertow, has a light surf, and the gleaming sun makes it all seem quite the tropical paradise. The beaches are almost completely abandoned, with a few pockets of beach chairs and thatched umbrellas awaiting tourists that never come. Riding south along the coastline, however, there are a thousand condos, resorts, and casinos under development, and one can see it's just a matter of time before this place becomes Cancún.

I wheel back north, past the stretch of coast which was once dubbed China Beach. All signs of the former US presence have long been stripped away; there are only fishermen in curious little round boats pulling up their nets, some drydocked boats, and a few palm trees near the road under which people are beginning to take shelter from the late morning sun. Off to the north lies the Son Tra (Sơn Trà) Penninsula, a mountainous promontory with a large statue of Lady Buddha (Phật Bà Quán Thế Âm Bồ Tát) overlooking the sea. This is another area ripe for development, and I suspect that in a few years' time it too will be dramatically transformed.

I do not denigrate Vietnam's development aims. Western travelers often go in search of "traditional" cultures and "authentic" locales, and are disappointed when they find those locales have become "modernized" or "spoiled". The idea that Vietnam should remain in some kind of primitive pristine state is chauvanistic and demeaning; every culture undergoes change, and it is perfectly reasonable to desire development and economic progress.

But from the hillside, overlooking the coastline and the small city it frames, I feel this is the perfect time to be visiting this part of Vietnam – before all the damn development everyone so longs for brings its own mix of benefits and challenges.

Evening in Da Nang

2010-07-29T01:48:00.011+07:00

With fewer than one million people, Da Nang (Đà Nẵng) is Vietnam's fourth largest city, after Ho Chi Minh City, Hanoi, and Hai Phong (Hải Phòng).

To students of the US-Vietnam war, the city carries special significance. It was here that the first Marines arrived in 1965, and it was here that US ground combat operations ceased in 1972. While Da Nang has a history that dates back nearly 2,000 years, and was once Imperial Vietnam's major port, much of the city you see today was, in fact, built around the old US army bases. Several of the iconic names from the Vietnam conflict – China Beach, Danang Air Base – had their origins in this port city at the edge of the South China Sea.

Da Nang is one of the cities I visited on my inaugural trip to Vietnam, in 1991 (see The Road to Hanoi for background on this trip). At the time, like all of Vietnam, the city was still awakening from its post-war slumber. I remember a quiet, mid-sized city with hordes of teenagers cruising around on bicycles. Like so much of that trip, most of the memories have blurred, becoming a pastiche of images that register more on the emotional level than on the iconic.

The last few months in Hanoi have, like the memories of that adventure, also been a blur. The management job I was so happy to have gotten has turned out to be considerably more challenging than anticipated. Technical complications, organizational politics, and overwork have taken their toll. In light of these pressures, Hanoi has become an annoyance, a cacophany of street noises and too-fast drivers. I had to get away.

So it is to central Vietnam that I have fled. My good friends John, Jean, and Martin Bolivar (my ten-year old soul-mate with a mop of blond curls) have come to Vietnam on a family vacation, and I have decided to spend the next ten days or so with them, visiting Da Nang, Hoi An (Hội An), and Hue (Huế). It is the first time since 1991 that I have come down into the heart of this country, and I am anxious to see not only how it has changed, but what dormant memories may be jostled by returning to these places I visited nearly 20 years ago.

I arrive in Da Nang International Airport (Sân bay quốc tế Đà Nẵng), which sits on a flat stretch of what used to be farmland in the middle of town. At the height of the war, the city's airport was one of the world's busiest, reaching nearly 2,600 air traffic operations daily. Today, the airport is a quiet shadow of its former self; after deplaning I pass the airport's two baggage carousels and grab a taxi into town.

Nearly 10 PM and the streetlights are on. Da Nang's drivers are as mad and obsessed with honking as their northern counterparts, but there are fewer of them so the net effect is not quite as jarring. Old Vietnam hand that I am, I scarcely blink as my driver nearly crushes half a dozen motorbikes on our way to my hotel.

The hotel is at the edge of the Han River (Sông Hàn), just beside the Rong Bridge (Cầu Rồng). At night, the suspension bridge is lit up like a ferris wheel, and the vision of Han River Bridge (Cầu Sông Hàn) behind it brings to mind memories of my beloved Pittsburgh.

After checking in, I head outside in search of memories. More buildings than I remember, taller too. I'm not even sure where I stayed before. Beside the river, a small gathering of kids are whizzing around each other in electric cars, grazing each other, learning to be awful drivers. A middle-aged woman with her camera on a tripod is taking pictures of a young couple with the bridge behind them. I try to catch a whiff of the sea, but the air is still and odorless.

I cannot find the Da Nang of my past, and decide to surrender to the Da Nang of the present. I resolve to explore the town more tomorrow while I wait for the Bolivars to arrive. I have adventures in mind, and a list of foods I want to sample. But for now, I have come to Da Nang only to sleep.

Snail: It's What's For Dinner

2010-06-27T15:45:00.003+07:00

Tony Guglietta, in Mr. Massini's third grade class at P.S. 249 in Brooklyn, New York, circa 1971, used to pull the most amazing things out of his nose. Tight and unctuous, with a slight curl, his magnificent creations were not entirely unlike the entrails of a mollusk. For this reason, perhaps, I've never been a huge fan of escargot.

Over the years, I've made my peace with eating snails – at least as the French eat them: with a medley of shallots and spices, garlic, lemon, and butter. High in protein, low in fat, there's a reason these animals have been eaten by humans since prehistoric times. While snail is not the first appetizer I'm likely to order in a French restaurant, I admit I've eaten some fine gastropods in my day.

Like the French, Hanoians love to eat snail – a tradition they developed long before the French arrived. Snail eateries in Hanoi are ubiquitous, ranging from sidewalk stalls that serve heaping mounds of boiled mollusks, to restaurants that specialize in a range of snail-based noodle dishes and soups. Like the French, the Vietnamese often pair snail with garlic, but ginger, chillies, tomatoes, spring onions and the perennial nước chấm all help to give it an entirely Southeast Asian flair.

There are, however, many reasons to treat Vietnamese snails with care, besides any memories they may conjure up of Tony Guglietta's third grade masterpieces. And this has to do with a fear of their toxicity.

Most snails subsist on a diet of living and decaying plants, though some species may also ingest carrion. It is not uncommon for them to acculumulate bacteria and other material that may be toxic to humans. This is why the French take great care to purge snails before eating them. The French will leave snails for days in wooden boxes, then encase them in rock salt, and wash them numerous times in an effort to get them to disgorge whatever's in their intestines. After all this effort, you can usually assume French escargot is safe to eat.

Hanoi snail is another matter altogether. While the French feast on land snails, most of the snails you get around Hanoi are paddy snails, pulled from the freshwaters surrounding the city. One needn't be an environmental scientist to eye these waters with suspicion. Filled with a host of chlorinated pesticides, PCBs, and other dangerous chemicals, as well as zoonotic trematodes - a parasitic fluke that may lodge in your liver or intestines - the rice paddies from which Hanoi's edible snails emerge are a breeding ground for natural and man-made toxins. Because snails lack the enzymes to metabolize these toxins, the toxins accumulate inside them, and get passed on to you, the diner.

All this might be tolerable if the Vietnamese took the same care to prepare snails for eating as the French. But do you think that happens? Hardly likely.

Having said that, bún ốc Hà Nội is one snail dish I have on occasion because, potential toxins and flukes aside, it tastes good. Bún ốc Hà Nội is a medley of snails and rice noodles, served in a tangy and spicy pork-based soup, with a generous helping of basil, bean sprouts and mixed fresh herbs. Lighter and less spicy than the common bún riêu cua, which is made from crab, bún ốc Hà Nội is a very tasty dish that can usually be found in small specialty eateries. A specialty of Northern Vietnam, it works equally well on a cold winter day (because of its heat) or as a springtime lunch treat (because of its lightness).

There are other snail dishes to be found in Hanoi, including stuffed snails, and grilled snails with lemongrass, which look quite inviting. However, I will continue to handle Hanoi's snails with care, indulging in them once in a great while. I would recommend Hanoi snail dishes only for the intrepid gastronome – ideally one who didn't attend school with Tony Guglietta.

Urgent vs. Important

2010-06-16T01:25:00.002+07:00

Steven Covey, in his Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, writes about the difference between doing what's urgent, and doing what's important.

Urgent matters are those front-burner priorities which we simply must attend to: the fire in the kitchen, the crying baby, the immediate crisis. Important matters, on the other hand, are those which, while not necessarily urgent, add value to our lives: doing exercise, taking time to be with friends, eating well, making art.

The last two months have been filled with urgent affairs, and my life in Hanoi has lost a bit of its focus. I'm old enough to know that life does this sometimes: even in an exotic locale, when faced with matters that appear urgent, it is easy to lose perspective. The damn job, the daily commute, the influence of insipid people leading uninspiring lives. How easily we forget why we came here in the first place. Before we know it, the lotus blossoms have bloomed and died, summer has laid its blanket upon the earth, and a season has passed without our noting it.

The solution is always, ALWAYS, to forgot oneself, to look outside, to open ones' eyes and notice, as Miller told us, that, "The world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people..." Hanoi at the cusp of summer is rich in vignettes:

Vignette #1: The street market that sets up on a small side street near my house every afternoon is filled with action. In a small building entryway, set back a little from the street, there's an old woman with betelnut-stained teeth who sells herbs. Not a lot of them, small bundles of rau mùi, tia tô, rau thơm, rau kinh giới, and all the other greens that are so necessary to the Vietnamese table. Ibuy from her regularly. We never barter; she charges me exactly the correct price, and with slow, precise movements, puts my herbs into a small plastic bag.

Vignette #2: There's a small gang of boys who are my neighbors in the crowded apartment building I live in. Aged from six to 12 years, or thereabouts, they create a ruckus in the hallway that is often hard to take. Running back and forth fighting their little-boy wars, kicking soccer balls, shooting bottle caps – they play all the little boy games I used to play when I was their age, on the other side of the planet. Whenever I come out of my apartment, they all stop and yell, "Hi HAL!" and I haven't the heart to complain about the noise.

Vignette #3: I drive everywhere and have no idea what's legal and what's not. The other day, wearing my mask and helmet, I'm pulled over by a cop after turning right at a red light (hardly an egregious action in a city where nobody has a license, and driving the wrong way down a one-way street doesn't raise an eyebrow).

The cops in Hanoi are famously corrupt, and I know he just wants to shake me down, but when I take off my mask the cop realizes he's hooked himself a foreigner. He pauses, and then awkwardly tries to explain that I'd made an illegal turn. I understand him perfectly, but say to him in the most ear-splitting foreign accent, "I don't understand."

He calls over a young woman who speaks basic English to translate; I continue to feign ignorance. After a moment, realizing he's letting other fish swim by, he pats me on the back and lets me go. I put on my mask, rev up my engine, and in a moment of cheekiness before I speed away, I wink at the girl and thank her for her help...in Vietnamese! As I peal away I look behind me, and the cop is smiling appreciatively at my ruse.

I've had a thousand such moments in the past month, but urgency kept me from noting them. Life got busy. In this regard, the daily grind in Hanoi is no different from anywhere else. The important thing is to catch yourself before you let too much time pass by.

Hanoi at One Year

2010-05-13T10:32:00.003+07:00

On May 10 of last year, after a week in Thailand, I arrived in Hanoi to begin what I knew would be at least a one-year adventure. One year later, I've extended my work contract two more years, and as I've come to know Hanoi, my relationship to the city has deepened. Below are some random notes on Hanoi, as I see it today.

Past First Impressions
As I wrote in My First Two Hours in Hanoi, my first impression of Hanoi was that it was "like being inside the buzzing element of an incandescent bulb." Like most visitors, I was initially based in Hanoi's Old Quarter, where the energy is non-stop. I found life among the vendors, street touts, backpackers and motorbikes exhilirating...and exhausting. As soon as I found my first apartment, my sense of the city began to change.

Judging Hanoi by the Old Quarter is like judging New York City by Times Square. It's an important component, but by no means representative of the city as a whole. As I wrote in Correcting the Record on Hanoi, "Hanoi is an intimate city, a city of neighborhoods." The visitor who doesn't leave the Old Quarter entirely misses the point. It is this intimacy, this sense of the "neighborhood as village," which gives Hanoi much of its flavor and charm.

Development and Change
Whether you see Hanoi as poor or rich, as developing or decrepit, depends on where you come from. Flying in from Europe or the U.S. one is apt to notice the crumbling facades, the broken sidewalks, the tangled skeins of electrical wires knotted around weathered wooden poles, and conclude that Hanoi is underdeveloped.

In the year I've been here, however, I've seen the Vincom Towers open for business, the city's western edge push outward, more and more luxury cars appear on the roads. New construction projects are coming on line every day, and the government plans to double the existing amount of hotel and office space over the next five years.

When you remember the poverty and devastation this country faced at the end of the 1980s (vestiges of war and government mismanagement), it's easy to see that Hanoi has taken great strides. Judged by its history, Hanoi doesn't represent underdevelopment. It represents modernization on steroids.

Expat Life
There are many ways to live the expat life in Hanoi. Some foreigners nibble around at the edges. I've chosen to jump into the center of the pie.

Take language, for example. A year ago I spoke no Vietnamese. After 10 months of language lessons, daily contact with salespeople and neighbors, and mingling among the majority-Vietnamese social circles I travel in, I'd place my language ability at a pre-intermediate level. I believe this has opened the door to understanding Vietnam in a way that many foreigners, even those who have lived here longer, cannot.

As a prototypically high-context culture, Vietnamese social relationships rely on a strong nexus of shared assumptions and unspoken "in-group" understandings. But while Vietnamese share a strong sense of common identity, by no means have I found them to be unwelcoming, xenophobic or chauvinist. What I have found is a strong sense of well-deserved cultural pride. I call it self-respect.

What this means, to the foreigner, is that to enter Vietnamese social circles, you need to do it on their terms. A basic knowledge of the country's language and history, and an appreciation for the cuisine, open the door. All you need to do is show a little interest, and respect. If you're not ready to do that, then why the hell are you here?

Annoyance and Acceptance
To be sure, no place is perfect, and Hanoi at its worst could test the patience of a Buddha. Traffic, smoking, pollution, and unhappy Westerners all rank high on my list of annoyances. But beneath it all, Hanoi today feels to me like a calm city.

There's little I enjoy more than strolling past a modern architectural ruin – a crumbling Vietnamese Imperial gate, or some decaying monument to French colonialism – or alongside a neighborhood lake. The city comes to life in vignettes: a conical hatted woman setting up to cook bún riêu on the street, two old men playing chess in an outdoor cafe, children kicking a beat-up soccer ball down the street.

These intimate moments, set against the backdrop of a city that breathes history, are what come to mind when I think of Hanoi today.

Watching Opera in Hanoi

2010-05-06T10:32:00.004+07:00

True confession: I like opera. I've been attending performances and listening to recordings since I was a boy. For a few seasons, I was even a subscribing member of the Pittsburgh Opera. So when a friend scored free tickets to a recent performance of La Bohème at the Hanoi Opera House (Nhà hát lớn Hà Nội) , I was happy to go and see how the locals put on a show.

Although opera is commonly considered high-brow, upper-class entertainment, it should be remembered that, for centuries, opera was Europe's street theater. It's always had its high-brow side – a number of operas were commissioned by royalty and played to exclusive audiences. But there is a second strain to opera's history, a tradition of musical theater performed by local singers and musicians, that was as popular in its day as American Idol is today.

Hanoi's performance of La Bohème, although performed in a high-brow venue, seemed more in line with opera's populist tradition. Performed by Vietnamese singers with a mostly-Vietnamese orchestra, it was a not-entirely professional but fully energetic performance of Puccini's famous work.

Opera in Hanoi?
That Hanoi even has a local opera company highlights a side of Vietnam I have grown to admire: its ability to weave elements of foreign cultures – even the cultures of former colonizers – into its own cultural narrative. France's continuing cultural legacy in Vietnam underscores this point.

As much as any European power, the French extended their culture into their colonial territories. Even while exploiting the colony's resources and manpower, there was a strain of thought which saw French colonialism as an opportunity to bring the "benefits of civilization" to the people they colonized.

Though French colonialism proved intolerable as an institution, during the colonial era in Vietnam the arts fluorished. Vietnamese writers, schooled in the French lycées, were prolific; the École des Beaux-Arts trained a generation of Vietnamese painters; and traditional Vietnamese theater was supported and influenced by ther French stage.

Hanoi's Opera House – a replica of the Palais Garnier in Paris – was completed in 1911. It ran regular performances by mostly-French troupes until the 1950s, whereupon war and overall deterioration forced it to shut its doors. This architectural gem remained closed for 40 years, until the government of an independent Vietnam commenced to restore it in the 1990s.

Since its reopening in 1997, it has once again become a center of Hanoi's cultural life, serving regular offerings of European and Vietnamese arts.

Vietnam's East-West Blend
Traditionally, the Vietnamese reaction to France's cultural expansion was to absorb French influences into its own local traditions. Thus, the 1920s saw lacquer painting marry traditional Vietnamese techniques to modern European aesthetics, the New Poetry Movement of the 1930s and 40s expressed the clash between Confucian ethics and western-style individualism, and the áo dài, Vietnam's national dress, was born from the marriage between 19th century traditional Vietnamese woman's garb and 1920s Parisian haute couture.

Indeed, Vietnam's east-west blend is visible on every street sign, as Vietnam was the only Southeast Asian country to adopt the Latin alphabet as its national script (quốc ngữ).

But for all this culture-blending, there were areas where imported Western culture was accepted with few changes. Breadmaking, for example, was one of them. In today's Vietnam one can find a decent baguette in nearly every corner of the country, along with a cup of coffee (to see how coffee has been transformed into a Vietnamese culinary offering, read A Vietnamese Coffee Primer). French pâté, croissants, and pastries are all part of my regular fare living in Hanoi, all part of France's legacy in Vietnam.

Professor Hữu Ngọc writes, "There is no pure culture. Everything is a mixture." Though it may not be immediately apparent, the European culture France brought to Indochine continues to permeate modern Vietnam, in much the same way that Europe continues to be influenced by the cultures of classical Greece and Rome.

Thus it is that, on a lovely spring Hanoi evening, I was able to hear soprano Lê Thị Vành Khuyên's lovely rendition of Puccini's famous aria, Quando m' en vo' soletta, and have it feel like a natural merger of Europe's own popular operatic tradition, and something comfortably Vietnamese.

Lights! Camera! Vietnam!

2010-04-24T11:29:00.008+07:00

Now I know how Brad Pitt must feel. After three days of wearing microphones, getting cameras shoved in my face, and repeating the same lines over and over to ensure every angle has been covered, I've had my taste of the famous actor's life (for a fraction of his money).

I think I'll stick to my day job.

Not that my ego didn't appreciate it. I was the star of the show! While I didn't get my own trailer, or a personal assistant, the only reason a director, cameraman, and sound engineer flew to Vietnam from New York City, and hired a local production company, van, and driver, was to watch me to go through the motions of pretending to find a home in Hanoi.

Background
For those who haven't been following our story, some months ago I wrote about my lovely new apartment in Hanoi. A few days later, a New York producer contacted me to see if I wanted to be on a popular US cable TV program called House Hunters International.

The program follows US expatriates as they look for properties to buy or rent overseas. I was familiar with the show's format: the expat looks at three properties, the audience gets to guess which apartment is chosen, and then there's the reveal.

What the hell; it sounded fun! And because Hương had basically found the apartment, and the show wanted me to have "an advisor," it was agreed that she and I would do the show together. So Hương and I filmed some camera tests on her digital camera, mailed them to the producer, and after some weeks the producer wrote back to say the project was on.

The Crew
I was asked to block out three full days, Saturday through Monday, from 8:30 AM to roughly 7:00 PM, for the shoot. The plan was this: I would pretend to look at three apartments, including the one I actually chose. Two of those apartments would be with a local real estate agent; the one I chose would have been found by Hương through the Internet – as it actually was. That way, we could tell a fairly truthful story, but still fit it within the program's format.

Saturday morning. Hương and I met the crew near the Hanoi Opera House, a few blocks from my home. They were all young, hip, New York City white guys with a solid blend of professionalism, humor and attitude:

Tom Langan, the director, a low-key bald and bearded 30-something: the guy who makes the creative decisions, tells us what to say, and tries to keep everyone happy.
Joe Lipari, the cameraman, thin and fit from carrying a big, heavy $120,000 camera all day. Joe is up for two Emmy awards this year...a definite pro!
Dave Scaringe, the sound man, responsible for sticking microphones on people's bodies and boom mikes in their faces, and trying to get a clean sound amidst Hanoi's incessant noise ("a sound man's nightmare"). He handled with humor what would have driven me up a wall!

In addition to the NY crew, we had Nam, the local media company rep, who served as translator and general support, and a government censor named Joe, who despite speaking no English, was supposed to ensure that nothing we did besmirtched the name of the glorious Socialist Republic of Vietnam. Regardless of his presence, within minutes we were all cracking wise, dropping "F"-bombs, and it all felt very much like home.

Filming
The next three days are a blur. The first day, we hooked up with Adrien Bouriaud, a young Frenchman who was cast as my realtor. After some shots in his office, we went off to look at the two apartments he was supposed to have shown us. Adrien, Hương, and I worked well on camera; we successfully feigned interest, suppressed our grins, and more or less did whatever Tom told us to do, and had a fun time doing it.

The second day was shot mostly in my apartment. The crew loved the place, and it looked GREAT on camera. We hid some of my stuff so it could look like we were seeing it for the first time. My friend Phuong was roped into coming over and pretending to be my landlady. An inside joke was, despite the fact that Phuong is one of the most fluent English speakers I know, she was supposed to have limited English ability, so Hương would have to translate. I haven't stopped giving her shit about it yet.

On the third day, I was left alone with the crew for the morning, which was mainly about "Hal enjoying life in Hanoi." In the afternoon, to shoot the "back story," we went to my friend Kevin's house, and pretended that his room was my old apartment. I had originally wanted to use the actual place, but my old landlords had refused to let us shoot at their house because, like everyone else in Vietnam, they fear their government, and were concerned that a camera crew would call attention upon themselves. I feel very fortunate that Kevin, his wife Keiko, and their landlord stepped up to let us film in their house.

Conclusion
In all, it was a gratifying, exhausting, and somewhat surreal experience. For me, it was less an opportunity to play movie star than a chance to showcase Hanoi's charms. Given that, for many Americans, Vietnam remains a war and not a country, I also hope that showing an American blending into daily life – learning the language, buying groceries, navigating traffic – might help some Americans to see Vietnam as a modern nation, in all its humanity and chaos. I was the face on camera, but my hope is that, in the end, Hanoi itself will prove to be the star.

The show is expected to air toward the end of the year. I'll keep you all posted! Meanwhile, if you want any autographs, you'll have to speak to my agent, thenkew, thenkew, thenkew...

Vietnam's War in Color

2010-04-17T11:15:00.007+07:00

We did not feel guilty. We killed to save our homes. That's why we had no nightmares, unlike the Americans...

A couple of weeks ago, I watched a remarkable two-part documentary, called Indochine: A People's War in Colour, on The Discovery Channel. As remarkable as the content of the film is the fact that it was shown in Vietnam.

The film uses a combination of archival footage and eyewitness testimony to tell the story of Vietnam's tumultuous 20th century, beginning with French colonialism, and including Japanese occupation, the independence war against France, and later, Vietnam's Civil War and U.S. intervention. Incredibly, all of the footage is in color.

This is not a gimmick or a result of post-production. During their research, the producers of the show discovered that much of the original footage – those grainy images of Việt Minh fighters firing anti-aircraft weapons against the Japanese, French forces surrounded at Điện Biên Phủ, and camouflaged NVA fighters moving down the "Ho Chi Minh Trail" – had in fact been shot on color stock. Indochine: A People's War in Colour brings this footage to the public for the first time.

What is the emotional effect of color? Color takes the war from the realm of history into the realm of personal experience. Whether viewing agrarian life in the 1930s, or late 1960s urban Saigon, color evokes a sense of immediacy that black-and-white film cannot. You see Hồ Chí Minh as a thin, aging man with wispy hair smoking his cigarettes and sitting in quiet contemplation, and you feel yourself beside him. You see schoolchildren studying in the Cu Chi Tunnels (Địa đạo Củ Chi), their faces illuminated by candlelight, and you feel their earnestness. This is not history. It is real.

Adding to the emotional impact are the eyewitness testimonies that accompany the footage. Vietnamese and French soldiers who took part in the siege of Điện Biên Phủ describe their feelings as you watch the jungled airstrip assailed by artillery. Mothers talk about seeing their sons for the last time as you watch soldiers in Hanoi getting onto trucks to go fight the war down south. Watching their young faces under oversized helmets, I could see the students I teach every day. They were the same faces.

Indochine: A People's War in Colour was first aired in May, 2009. Beforehand, it had been heavily advertised on The Discovery Channel and, among Vietnam's expatriate community at least, was eagerly anticipated. Then, on the night it was scheduled to air, it simply wasn't shown. Government censors had apparently pulled the show, with no explanation. So the fact that I was able to watch it nearly a year later, seems to indicate a reversal of government policy.

Nothing in the program should be seen as particularly threatening to Hanoi's government. The film briefly touches on the communist mistreatment of North Vietnamese landowners in the late 1950s, but Hanoi has long (for the most part) acknowledged the atrocities. If anything, the film shows tremendous sympathy to the people of Vietnam who, irrespective of political allegiances, bore the brunt of the century's burdens. One can only wonder what provoked the government's original ban...other than a general, knee-jerk sensitivity to political content.

I've written before about how little Vietnam's wars continue to play in modern Vietnamese memory (see William Calley and Vietnam's Spiritual Renewal). While not exactly an irrelevant subject, war seems to be hardly ever thought about, even by those old enough to have experienced it.

Watching crowds in Hanoi saying goodbye to their soldiers from places I pass every day, however, I couldn't help but reflect on how much this country had endured. And it made me see the faces of my neighbors, those old enough to have lived through those difficult times, differently.

Addendum:
A friend has just alerted me to the fact that you can see the film on YouTube. By all means, check it out!

April Update

2010-04-09T05:49:00.001+07:00

Some of you may have noticed: I have disappeared in recent weeks. It isn't that I don't love you. I've just been busier than a mosquito in a nudist colony, happily engaged in work and other things. I have been taking notes for future blog posts, but it's been difficult for me to sit down and put them together. And because I hate to bore you with postcard details about my life (I've always wanted this blog to inform), I assumed I had nothing to tell you about.

But then it occurred to me, the fact of my busyness IS worthy of a post. And here's why: Vietnam is a land of opportunity. With a population approaching 90 million, and annual economic growth between 6 and 8%, Vietnam is replete with economic opportunities for locals and foreign expatriates alike. Mine is a success story, and I'm happy to share it with you.

First, some background. A little over a year ago, my situation in the states had become difficult. In the depressed economic climate of the time, I was finding my job options to be limited. I was certainly employable, but hating the corporate opportunities that were coming to me. And while I have nothing against living a slackerly, Bohemian lifestyle, a recent divorce had saddled me with debt, and I was eager to shake off the burden.

As I explained in my inaugural blog post nearly a year ago, The Road to Hanoi, I had spent most of the early 1990s as an EFL hobo in Asia, and always maintained this line of work as a fall-back option. With the combination of debt and job dissatisfaction, it seemed a good time to cash in my chits.

I chose Vietnam for a number of reasons: my love of the food, my fascination with its history, and the fact that I've just plain liked a lot of the Vietnamese people I've met over the years. But self-interest was part of the equation. I bet that, with my combination of skills and experience – Master's degree in education, experience in the EFL publishing industry, corporate instructional design background, and technical skills – there would be opportunity for me in this rapidly growing economy.

And I was right. I looked at English teaching as a stepping stone. But because I believe that the journey should always be as rewarding as the destination, I wanted it to be a stepping stone that I could put a little heart into. And it has been – teaching in Vietnam has been an enormously satisfying experience, and one that, in my new role, I am not entirely giving up.

But now, I have a new position, one that has been created to take advantage of my unique talents. My title: Blended Learning Program Manager. What the hell does THAT mean? Unfortunately, I cannot give you all the details about the position, but it involves curriculum design, writing, educational technology development, and all the other things I love to do. I've moved from the classroom to a position that involves me deciding what GOES into the classroom for the school as a whole. It involves shifting my focus from tactics to strategy, and I'm excited to tackle the challenge.

And here's the best part: I've signed a two-year contract. The earliest I'm likely to leave Vietnam is March, 2012. So you can expect my ramblings from Hanoi to keep coming to you for awhile.

April will be a little slow on the publishing front. Upcoming posts include musings on a recent documentary about Vietnam, more food descriptions, Chinese medicine as Vietnamese home remedies, and of course, the film company is coming from New York City THIS WEEKEND to film my episode on House Hunters International. I'll be blogging about all this and more! But all this will roll out after I've settled into my new position.

The message for readers, I believe, is this: if you are trying to decide what to do with your life, and the world outside beckons, head into it. Fortune favors the bold. And if Vietnam seems an attractive option, I can assure you that it is.

Alcoholics Anonymous in Hanoi

2010-03-30T01:52:00.007+07:00

"Hi, my name's Hal and I'm an alcoholic."

These are the first words some people have ever heard from me (or variants, such as "I'm an addict."). I've been a clean and sober member of Alcoholics Anonymous (and similar 12-step programs) for 8 1/2 years.

For anyone with addictive tendencies, life abroad is both frightening and compelling. The specter of being alone in a foreign country can't help but evoke temptation. "Nobody's looking, man...just a taste...c'mon, nobody will know..." I know this thinking. It's why I need a program. It's also why I want to let people know that, in Hanoi and elsewhere, help is available.

Hanoi has a small AA community. We hold our meetings five days a week, usually at someone's house. Meetings are small, compared to the crowded church basements I used to frequent in Pittsburgh and Seattle. We may have as few as 3 members at some meetings, or as many as a dozen. But while our numbers are small, we have many years of sobriety between us, and do our best to support each other, as well as any alcoholic or addict who may be in need.

At present, all of Hanoi's AA members are foreigners: American, British, French, Icelandic, Belgian. Within our small clique we have a good mix. The lack of local members isn't for lack of alcoholics in Vietnam – far from it! I believe it's due to the strength of the Vietnamese family, and the communist government.

Every Vietnamese family probably has the "uncle with a problem," but in Confucian Vietnam, where modest behavior is valued, these things aren't spoken about. They're left for the family to deal with privately...and that usually means burying it under the rug.

Additionally, the Vietnamese government doesn't much like this business of people gathering and speaking of spiritual principles. It's why we're semi-underground here, holding our meetings in private homes. The right of assembly is NOT something that's guaranteed to Vietnamese, and in Vietnam, the walls have ears.

What's it like living as a recovering addict/alcoholic in Vietnam? Most Vietnamese, when I tell them I don't drink, are surprised. In Vietnam, where machismo is prevalent, smoking and drinking are signs of manhood, and a man, in particular, risks condemnation by failing to partake.

But as much as I have endeavored to adapt myself to Vietnam, this is one area in which I'm inflexible. On the couple of occasions when some drunk has tried to foist a shot of rot-gut upon me, the explanation that I have an illness, and that one drink might land me in the hospital, has up till now done the trick.

Aside from this, living in recovery in Vietnam is about the same as anywhere. On the days when I wake up and remember to take care of myself psychologically and spiritually, I tend to do well. On the days I rush out and start cursing the traffic, I don't.

For me, AA is a flexible, and highly customizable program that has proven itself for more than 70 years to offer a way out of addiction. While AA has, at its core, a spiritual foundation, I find it easy to adapt its non-demoninational spirituality to my own non-traditional beliefs. So long as I try to apply the principles of the program to my daily life, there's no reason they can't work in Vietnam as well as anywhere else.

The 12-steps are central enough to my life that I would not have moved to Vietnam had I not known ahead of time that meetings were available. This is where the AA Hanoi website proved invaluable. I was able to connect with fellow members before I took off, and assure myself a welcome place to land. As a member of Hanoi's small but strong recovery community, I extend the offer to anyone looking to join us.

"Whenever anyone, anywhere, reaches out for help,
I want the hand of AA always to be there.
And for that, I am responsible."

The Official Website of Alcoholics Anonymous in Hanoi: http://www.aahanoi.com/
Alcoholics Anonymous World Services: http://www.aa.org/

Making Vietnamese Phở

2010-03-25T01:49:00.013+07:00

Up till now, I have steadfastly refused to discuss phở, the national dish of Vietnam. It's been a wise decision.

Like New Yorkers with their pizza, Hanoians take their phở seriously. An outsider, commenting on the merits of a particular bowl, had better know what he's talking about. An ill-considered comment will be swiftly rebutted by someone who's been slurping the stuff since babyhood. Passions run hot and connoisseurship is high; if you're not among the cognoscenti, you'd best remain silent.

After 11 months, however, I have begun to understand something about Vietnam's national dish. The validation of this came last week, when Hương at last showed me how to make phở. Not just any phở, but Hanoi phở. The real stuff. My palette had obviously become sufficiently sophisticated for her to begin unveiling the secrets of this subtle dish.

And make no mistake about it: phở is all about the subtleties. A hint of star anise, the fat content of the broth, just the right touch of herbs – these are the elements that distinguish a good phở from one that is euphoric.

What is phở? The simplest translation is "beef noodle soup" – but this prosaic title barely discloses its essence (I am restricting myself to phở bò – beef; chicken is worthy of a separate discussion).

Phở is, more precisely, a deep and rich stock, made of beef bones that have been simmered for hours, layered with meat and spices, and poured over medium-width rice noodles. No two phở preparations are alike...and this adds to its mystique.

Where does phở come from? Its early history is lost, but one detects the French influence in the name (pronounced roughly like "fur"), which conjures up the classic Gallic stew, pot au feu. Like Vietnamese phở, the French dish is made by simmering beef bones for hours, and then adding vegetables and herbs. It's possible that phở is simply a Vietnamese adaptation of that Franch staple.

Historians generally agree that phở bắc, northern phở, is the original phở. Like so many things in Vietnam, north and south do it in diferent ways. The southerners ladle it on thick: they use a lot of fish sauce and serve the phở with a hearty basket of herbs. Northerners are purists: a well-balanced stock and good quality beef are all that is necessary, and all those additional southern touches are generally regarded as detracting from the true phở experience.

How To Make Hanoi Phở. I offer this not as THE definitive Hanoi phở, but as one that will produce an authentic dish. We begin with the ingredients.

Beef bones, beef muscle (bò bắp), cinnamon, ginger, star anise, and shallots form the foundation. Thin-sliced beef tenderloin (bò thăn), green onions, cilantro, and lime are offered at mealtime.

The first step is to boil the bones with a bit of crushed ginger – bring them to a full boil...and throw out all the water. It's true! This removes impurities and helps to clarify the broth.

Once this is done, dry-roast the cinnamon and star anise in a pan, and grind them with a mortar and pestle. Char some shallots and ginger over a flame. Add them along with the roasted spices and the beef muscle (wrapped with thread to maintain its shape), to the bones. Refill the pot with water and simmer slowly.

And I mean slowly. Like any good stock, the longer it simmers, the richer the flavor. Three hours is considered an absolute minimum. A touch of fish sauce (nước mắm) may be added to the pot. But simmer it slowly...slowly...slowly...

...and that's basically it! Briefly boil the rice noodles, and blanch the tenderloin and green onions before tossing them into individual serving bowls with a bit of cilantro. Cut up some of the beef muscle and throw it in as well. Black pepper and lime to taste. White vinegar with slivers of garlic and red chillies is common at phở stalls; we didn't use it, and it wasn't missed. And our phở (okay, Hương's phở), simmered for 5 hours, turned out great!

Sounds simple? It is! That's why it's become one of the staple dishes of Vietnam. But do not let its simplicity fool you; patience, the quality of ingredients, and a certain je ne sais quoi make all the difference.

What Makes a Good Phở? In a word: balance. No single flavor should dominate. In aroma and taste, one should be able to discern the cinnamon, star anise, green onions and cilantro, but not at the expense of the beef. Too much spice spoils the soup; too little makes it flavorless.

The beef must be chosen carefully: fresh and red are all that will do. Make sure the tenderloin slices are still red when thrown into the bowl. The steaming hot broth will continue to cook it.

As for the broth, you want it clear, but slightly fatty. Like any good stock, it must have some body. The noodles, which I've barely discussed, should be al dente, of course. In all, you want the beef to carry the dish, with full support from its neighbors.

At its worse, phở is thin, weak, and flavorless. At its best it's heaven poured into a bowl.

Learning Vietnamese Through Television

2010-03-14T21:58:00.004+07:00

My friend Terry and I have been having a heated discussion on Facebook, regarding how people learn languages. Central to the discussion has been an idea that should be in the mind of every language learner: that people do not LEARN language so much as they ACQUIRE it.

What's the difference?

Learning is a conscious process. It takes effort. We study grammar, memorize vocabulary, drill dialogs, and so on. It's how most of us who have ever studied language think we're supposed to learn.

Acquisition, on the other hand, is unconsious. It's effortless. It's how children learn. They're exposed to the language around them. They listen for a long time, and the ability to speak develops automatically.

Do adults learn in the same way? The answer, based on half a century of language research, seems to be yes. Most of our language learning comes through acquisition, not study. The more we're surrounded by the target language, the more we "pick it up."

This brings me to something I've been doing a lot lately: watching Vietnamese television. It started a couple of months ago. I turned on the TV, and realized I could understand a fair bit of what was happening! Not everything, mind you. There are still gaps, and at times I barely understand a thing. But more and more, as I listen every day, I find it gets easier and easier.

As a language teacher, I understand what I am doing. I am giving myself exposure to comprehensible input. What does that mean? It means input that is slightly above my current level of understanding.

Input that's too far above your current level is not particularly useful. Oh, you might pick up a few things, and no harm is done in being exposed to the rhythm of the language. But real acquisition comes from input that is just at the edge of your ability. In other words, input that is comprehensible.

It's exciting to me that Vietnamese television has finally become a source of (sometimes) comprehensible input. To heck with school; now's when the real language learning begins!

I generally leave the TV on in the background while I do other things. I do this for a couple of hours every day. But for at least a half hour, I try to consciously focus on a program (usually the news). The visuals help me pick up clues about what's being said. And I find I can usually follow the main themes, even when the details escape me.

This practice does many things. For one, it activates the dormant vocabulary in my brain. For example, I may not be able to immediately translate the phrase "economic development" from English to Vietnamese. But when I hear the news anchor say, "Phát triển kinh tế," I immediately pick up "phát triển," which means development, and "kinh tế" (economy), and am able to put them together.

The other thing this practice does is improve my pronunciation. Yes, listening improves pronunciation! How?

We all have a model in our heads of how a language is supposed to sound. We need a significant amount of input, however, for this model to become developed.

Listening provides this input; once wired, we can more easily correct our mistakes. What's amazing is how often we say something right the first time! The right sound spontaneously emerges from that internal sense of the language that we have magically acquired.

There's a lot of research to indicate that language learners, in the early stages, can benefit from a long period of silent acquisition before they begin to speak. How long this period of silence should be has been the focus of my debate with Terry.

But the benefit of silent acquisition is unquestionable. Again, think of how children learn. They listen for months, even years, without speaking...and then language begins to emerge.

Because we are DNA-wired for language, listening enables unconscious language acquisition to occur. It is not the same as consciously learning, or studying. It's something much more thrilling.

The Turtle of Hoan Kiem Lake

2010-03-11T01:20:00.010+07:00

Hoan Kiem Lake is the soul of this city. With its tree-shaded walkways, the lake is an island of calm in the middle of chaos. Numerous legends, dating back nearly two thousand years, are associated with the lake, making the lake an important symbol connecting Hanoi to its mythic and historic past.

Nothing is more emblemic of Hoan Kiem's mythic qualities than the giant turtle that lives in the lake. Long thought to be a legend, the animal has appeared enough times in recent years for its existence, incredibly, to be confirmed.

The legend of Hoan Kiem can be found in any guidebook. In the 15th century, a fisherman found a sword blade in his fishnet. Believing it to be of divine origin, he gave to the General Lê Lợi (the future Emperor Lê Thái Tổ) for use in the war against the Chinese. With the sword, Lê Lợi drove out the invaders.

Soon after his victory, while boating on the lake, he saw a giant turtle approaching. The king drew his sword to point in the direction of the turtle, at which point the turtle seized the sword, and took it to the bottom of the lake – keeping it safe for the next time Vietnam might have to defend its freedom. The emperor renamed the lake Hồ Hoàn Kiếm: The Lake of the Restored Sword.

The Tortoise Stupa (Tháp Rùa) at the south end of the lake commemorates the event. It was built around 1886 by a corrupt Vietnamese official in the employ of the French, who hoped to bury his father's bones in the pagoda after its completion (he failed in this attempt). Over years, as the stupa has aged and been covered with moss, the memory of its unfortunate pedigree has been forgotten, and the stupa has, in its own right, become a symbol of the capital city in the minds of many Vietnamese.

Hoan Kiem's giant tortoises, such as the one that received Lê Lợi's sword, have rarely been seen, and were long thought by many to be either mythic or extinct. Then in 1967 a turtle was found dead, preserved, and placed on display in the Ngọc Sơn Temple on the north side of the lake.

Since 1991, a live Hoan Kiem turtle has been spotted approximately 400 times – an astonishingly low number for a 400-pound animal that lives in a shallow lake in the middle of a city (the lake is a mere 600 meters long, 200 meters wide, and two meters deep). The turtle was filmed by an amateur videographer in 2005.

Biologists estimate that Hoan Kiem has only one turtle remaining. The Hoan Kiem turtle was given the name Rafetus leloii by Professor Hà Đình Đức, though many scientists now believe it to be a specimen of the rare Swinhoe's soft-shell turtle (Rafetus swinhoei), of which, until recently, only two other specimens were known to exist – both in captivity. Only two years ago, an expedition from the Cleveland Zoo found and photographed a large Swinhoe turtle just west of Hanoi, giving hope to the possibility that more may yet exist in the wild.

According to local folklore, the Hoan Kiem turtle is 500 years old. Not likely – although several tortoises have been claimed to have lived over 200 years, the oldest tortoise officially recorded died at the age of 188. Still, it's enjoyable to entertain the thought that Hoan Kiem's turtle may date back to the time when Lê Thái Tổ fought off the Chinese.

What if this tortoise were the one who seized the king's sword? What memories it would have.

Home in Hanoi

2010-03-04T02:33:00.002+07:00

A recurring theme in the life of every expat is the idea of home. On the one hand, this shouldn't be an issue at all: home is where you hang your hat. But when you dig a little deeper, there are a number of psychological and emotional issues associated with having a sense of place. Where do you feel rooted? Where do you have history? This aspect of home – the place where you have history – is sacrificed by every nomad.

The last couple of years have been a whirlwind of activity revolving around the idea of home. At this time two years ago, home was an 1890 Victorian brick building in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, that I had spent the previous few years living in and restoring. Houses have history; they're alive. There is nothing like a house to give one a sense of belonging. To be honest, I miss my house...and the sense of home that it gave me.

But life being what it is, change happened. And I found myself living in Hanoi, Vietnam, and I found myself liking it. And as I've learned the language and begun to understand the country and the culture more, my relationship to the place has deepened. I've begun claiming ownership over Vietnam, as it as begun claiming ownership over me. Will I ever be Vietnamese? Of course not. But I am as much a part of the fabric of today's Hanoi as someone who's family has been here for generations.

Nine months into my Vietnam sojourn, however, I needed a break from it. I found myself missing what I called "my" level of development. The world I come from has shopping malls, plastic-wrapped meats, and Starbuck's. These things I sneer at when I'm stateside became exactly what I missed. Maybe it was the lure of the familiar. For all I try to be a rebel, maybe at heart I'm a middle class bitch.

So I went on vacation into a part of the world that had "my" level of development. And then something funny happened. A few hours into my first Kuala Lumpur shopping mall, I was done with it. Though I continued to explore and enjoy the region, it was clear to me that I could not stay long there. It had "my" level of development, but it wasn't home.

Paul Bowles wrote that one difference between a tourist and a traveler is that a tourist "hurries back home" at the end of a few weeks, whereas a traveler "belongs no more to one place than the next." In Malaysia and Singapore, I was a tourist. But the place that I wanted to "hurry back home" to, funny enough, wasn't Pittburgh. It was Hanoi.

Arriving back in Hanoi's Noi Bai Airport on Sunday, it was hard not to contrast it with my first arrival, nearly ten months earlier. There was the jostling ride back to town over pot-holed roads, the cacophany of horns, the intersections with motorbikes and cars converging from all directions. There were the slow bicyclists and the conical-hatted yoke ladies forcing everyone to weave around them, and the mad drivers going the wrong way against the traffic. It was all the same lunacy that I'd stared at months earlier, with my mouth agape. But this time, it all seemed to make sense.

Conversing (in Vietnamese) with a passenger on the bus back to town, she asked me why I was studying her language. I answered, "Because I live here."

Top 10 Eats of Malaysia and Singapore

2010-02-28T21:04:00.007+07:00

One of the world's most travelled areas since ancient times, the cuisines of Malaysia and Singapore are a product of the area's multicultural fabric, an amalgam of Malay, Indian, and Chinese influences all blended together into a rich tropical stew. The sheer variety is staggering, and each day brings exotic and thrilling surprises to the traveler with an adventurous palette.

Food in this part of the world tends toward the spicy; if you can't handle a bit of chili, you'd best eat somewhere else. Beneath the fire, there's often an incredible blend of sweet and savory elements. Coconut milk with a scent of pandan (a local leaf with vanilla undertones), curry leaves, cinnamon, cloves, pepper, cardamom, and seafood flavors are found in abundance, in an array of rice and noodle dishes.

Now that my trip has reached its end, it's time to reflect on what have been for me my most memorable meals. Without further ado, here are the TEN BEST EATS I encountered in 18 days' travel through Malaysia and Singapore.

10.	Cuttlefish with Convolvulus (Yau Yue Ong Choy)
	Gurney Drive Hawker Stand, Penang, Malaysia

If you had asked me earlier, I'd have told you it's damn near impossible to find the convolvulus on a cuttlefish, much less get him to part with it. As it turns out, convolvulus is a leafy green vegetable (ipomoea aquatica, AKA Water Morning Glory), and at this well-known hawker stand on Penang's Gurney Drive, it's just the co-star to the squid. Mixed with a sweet, spicy sauce, and garnished with peanuts and toasted sesame seeds, the dish is surprisingly light. Personally, I just like putting something called convolvulus in my mouth.
9.	Char Koay Teow
	Gurney Drive Hawker Stand, Penang, Malaysia

While we're on the subject of Penang hawker food, let's not forget a dish Penang made famous: char koay teow. Wide rice noodles stir-fried in a searing hot wok with prawns, cockles, bean sprouts, onions, dark soy sauce and eggs, and served on a banana leaf to give it extra aroma, these noodles are chewy, oily, and packed with flavor in every bite. A must-have in Penang.
8.	Masala Thosai with Teh Tarik
	Mamak Stall, Johor Bahru, Malaysia

The influence of Indian (especially Tamil) culture on Malaysia is nowhere more visible than in the cuisine found at the ubiquitous Mamak stalls. Thosai is the local name for the southern Indian dosa: a crepe-like pocket filled with curried potatoes and vegetables, and served with dahl (lentils), and a couple of chutneys. The best I had was at a non-descript stall in Johor Bahru, across the causeway from Singapore; with a cup of teh tarik (spicy milk tea), it's a reliable meal anywhere in the region. For the authentic experience, eat it Indian style, using only the fingertips of your right hand.
7.	Baba Laksa, Assam Laksa, and Cendol
	Jonker Dessert 88, Melaka, Malaysia

There are two main types of laksa, a classic Peranakan noodle soup: curry laksa (called Baba laksa in Melaka) and assam laksa (or Penang laksa in...well, you can figure that out). The Baba laksa is cooked in a thick coconut milk broth, and loaded with all sorts of goodies, like prawns, fish balls, dried tofu, Vietnamese coriander, and sambal (a thick, mashed chili paste used as a condiment all over Malaysia). The assam laksa is the same basic idea, but with a sour (assam), tamarind-infused base. It's a matter of taste, but I liked the sweeter Baba laksa more, making Melaka my town of choice for this dish. Afterwards, a bowl of cendol. A mound of shaved ice served over red beans and various gelatin-based sweets, smothered in coconut milk with a generous helping of thick black syrup made from Melaka's famous palm sugar (gula Melaka), cendol comes as close as it gets to a perfect summertime dessert.
6.	Satay Celup
	Capitol Satay, Melaka

This Melaka institution, in business since the 1950s, usually has lines around the block. The reason is simple: the food is good, affordable...and fun! The specialty is satay celup, skewers of meat, seafood, and vegetables that you cook, fondue-style in a sweet and fiery satay sauce. The restaurant features no frills metal tables with a bubbling cauldron of satay in the middle, and businesslike workers who hustle about continually mixing and topping off the sauce. After awhile, the table becomes a dribbly, sticky mess, and the meal is as much a theatrical event as a culinary one.
5.	Nasi Lemak
	everywhere in Malaysia

As close to a national dish as Malaysia will give you, nasi lemak is simply rice cooked in coconut milk. Sold at hawker stands, Mamak restaurants, and bus stations throughout the country, the rice is usually wrapped in banana leaves into a triangular bundle, along with hard-boiled egg, sambal, ikan bilis (dried anchovies) and peanuts. It may be also be served as part of a more substantial meal, alongside beef rendang, or a number of other dishes. This is Malaysian comfort food, and it never fails to hit the spot.
4.	Swee Guan Hokkien Mee and Kwong Satay
	Sing Lian Eating House, Singapore

Hokkien Mee, like Penang's char koay teow, is a greasy, stir-fried noodle dish. But do not make the mistake of thinking all greasy stir-fried noodle dishes are the same – oh no! This dish, made from egg noodles mixed with prawns, squid, and chives, and served with a healthy dollop of sambal, is a fine example of Peranakan fusion: a Chinese-inspired dish with Malay ingredients. This hawker stall in Singapore's Geylang district is said to have the best in town, and an added benefit is the satay stall next door, which serves perfectly cooked skewers of chicken or pork with a lovely peanut-based dipping sauce.
3.	Ikan Bakar and Fried Oysters
	Gurney Drive Hawker Stand, Penang

There's a reason Penang's Gurney Drive keeps appearing on this list: it's where the best eats, in Malaysia's best food city, can be found. On this particular evening, I ordered a grilled skate (ikan bakar simply means grilled fish; the choice of fish is up to you) from one stand, and a plate of oysters, stir-fried with a mix of vegetables and eggs, from another. Washed down with fresh coconut milk, this meal was emblemic of the joys to be had eating from the popular hawker stalls in Penang.
2.	Assam Fish, Fried Kailang, and Roasted Duck
	A Famosa Restaurant, Melaka, Malaysia

This will be an unpopular choice among Melaka insiders, who seem to feel that the best assam fish is to be found elsewhere. But I only have my own taste buds to guide me, and in side-by-side comparison with other local establishments, A Famosa Restaurant – despite its reputation as a tourist trap – won hands down. The fish was perfectly cooked, and the addition of tomatoes and okra added flavor and heft to the hot and sour tamarind-based sauce. With a side of fried kailang – a local leafy green vegetable – and Chinese roasted duck, this was one of the best fish meals I'd had in a very long time.
1.	Black Pepper Crab, and Mee Goreng
	Eng Seng Restaurant, Singapore

Visually, the crabs looked like they'd been dredged from the Hudson River, but the first bite was intoxicating. In addition to the spicy harshness we normally associate with pepper, the sauce had a thick, molasses-like sweetness, with onion and ginger notes. The crabs were meaty, and had been cracked during the cooking process to allow the sauce to permeate the meat. Hương and I ate the meal in reverential silence, casting occasional glances at each other to confirm our mutual state of bliss. The mee goreng (fried noodles) served alongside was gooey and fragrant and cooked in a wok hot enough to slightly caramelize the sauce. It was the culinary highlight of three weeks' travel through the region, a meal to remember for a very long time.

So, what do YOU think? Did any of this whet your appetite? Which of these dishes would you most like to try? If you're a Malaysian and Singaporean food connoisseur, how did I do? Please add your comments below.

Penang

2010-02-26T00:58:00.027+07:00

Penang and Singapore are quite similar in many ways. Both are islands off the coast of penninsular Malaysia. They were both, together with Melaka, part of the Straits Settlements, through which the British controlled regional 19th century trade. Both have majority Chinese populations surrounded by a sea of Malays. And both have been economically successful since independence. While not quite up to Singapore's miraculous economic level, Penang enjoys one of the highest standards of living in Malaysia, having achieved this wealth through a mix of manufacturing and tourism.

The obvious difference, of course, is that while Singapore broke off to become an independent country, the island state of Penang has remained within Malaysia. Nowhere has this had greater effect than in the demographics.

Where Singapore went to great lengths to blur racial lines in order to form a national identity, Penang's Chinese community continues to play an important role in the region's economy and politics. Far from merging into the national identity, this Chinese leadership helped deliver Penang to the opposition Democratic Action Party (DAP) in the 2008 general elections, the first time the ruling Barisan Nasional (BN) failed to carry the state since independence.

Physically Georgetown, with a population of just under half a million inhabitants, has the look of a booming tropical resort built around an old colonial core. Brand new condos line the azure coastline against a backdrop of jungled hills, while air-conditioned shopping malls offer respite from the tropical swelter. The town's center, with its architectural remnants of British colonial rule and old Chinese temples, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Historical and modern elements coexist in Penang, with the modern element slightly dominant.

But I need to be honest about my intentions: while there is much to see in Penang, I didn't go for the scenery, I went for the food. Penang's reputation for great food is spread far and wide, and I am here to say it is richly deserved.

Along with Melaka, Penang is a center of Peranakan/Baba/Nonya cuisine, and although it has many of the same dishes as its southern neighbor, the flavors in Penang are noticeably influenced by its proximity to Thailand, with a decidedly more sour and spicy edge.

But what's truly remarkable about Penang cuisine is the diversity. The hawker stalls on Penang's Gurney Drive feature a veritable banquet of affordable eats, and four days of laksa, pasembur, char goay teow, fried oysters, grilled fish, hokkien mee, and nasi lemak were not enough to work my way through all of them. If I did nothing but eat in Penang, the food alone would have been worth the trip.

In terms of sightseeing, highlights included Ft. Cornwallis, where the British established their first toe-hold on the Straits of Melaka in 1786, and the floating mosque (Masjid Terapung) of Tanjung Bungah.

Francis Light, who commanded the settlement at Fort Cornwallis, was unusually progressive for his time. He spoke Malay, and by all accounts truly sought to use British rule to improve the lives of the people he interacted with. This notion of the "white man's burden," of course, still represented an imperialist mindset, but it helped the British gain acceptance in the region. Light's ability to balance the political demands of local leaders, while keeping the shipping lanes free from piracy, taught the British valuable lessons they were later able to use when developing Singapore.

The floating mosque of Tanjung Bungah represents the continuity of a tradition that predates British rule. Built after the 2004 tsunami had wiped out an earlier mosque, the floating mosque is a modern lifeline to Malaysia's Islamic past. Surrounded by fishing boats, the mosque rests on pillars at the edge of the sea. It has a serene, otherworldly feel, like something from an Arabian Nights tale, and is a peaceful and quiet sanctuary in the midst of Penang's economic boom.

Singapore's Social Contract

2010-02-24T10:59:00.003+07:00

With its famously litter-free streets and obedient, law-abiding citizenry, I was prepared to dislike Singapore. In this city where chewing gum was once illegal, I assumed it would be intolerable for a rebellious New York City bad boy like myself.

But after seeing the country first-hand, my opinions have changed. I'm not sure I could ever live there, but I've come to regard Singapore as a fascinating, complex, and multi-layered social experiment, a place where the sacrifice of individual rights for the greater good has actually produced a system with as much to commend it as to fear.

For the sheer fact of its existence, Singapore deserves respect. I can think of no other example in which a state has been expelled from a country, but this is what happened when Singapore was booted right out of the Malaysian Federation in 1965.

An island just over 700 km² in size with no natural resources, Singapore should not have been able to make it. But from the start Singaporeans signed a social contract with their government in which they gave up multi-party democracy, labor rights, a free press, and other individual freedoms in exchange for prosperity.

And boy did the government deliver. Not yet 50 years old, tiny Singapore has not only the most successful economy in Southeast Asia, it has one of the highest standards of living in the world. One need only walk down Orchard Road, Singapore's famous shopping street where every name brand in the world from Subway to Armani is represented, to see the results of Singapore's roaring tiger economy.

Much of the credit goes to the brilliant and charismatic Lee Kuan Yew. Ruling a single-party state since independence, Lee and his People's Action Party (PAP) have, with technocratic precision, built the modern Singaporean nation. In many ways, Singapore has been the model for what Confucius said was the best of all forms of government: a benevolent dictatorship.

Take some examples. One of the PAP's first acts was to curtail the power of labor unions, by limiting the issues labor could legally bring up with management. In exchange, the government defined fair working conditions, benefits, and salary structures for all workers on the island. The result was a stable labor climate that, alongside tax incentives and duty-free ports, lured foreign investors in droves.

Believing that conflicting political viewpoints would drain talent away from the task of building independent Singapore, Lee early on limited the political actions of parties, student unions and other associations. The belief that Singapore could only afford "one voice" was further reflected in the government's monopoly on the media. Some educated Singaporeans naturally feared the PAP's growing despotism, but as the country developed and prospered, it became more difficult to argue with success.

Singapore is one of the most socially engineered states on the planet, with such things as racial quotas for housing developments (to eliminate ethnic enclaves that would weaken a sense of national identity), and a history of radical family planning programs (at one point Lee even proposed sterilizing or incentivizing women to have babies, based on their levels of education).

But while government is the ultimate Big Daddy, Singapore is no welfare state. The country offers nothing by way of unemployment benefits, and few of the social safety nets found in other developed nations. Housing, education and health care, while subsidized, are not free. In Singapore if you don't work, you can just as easily leave.

Singapore is an odd mix of autocratic and free. These contradictions are what make it such an interesting social experiment. There's plenty to do in Singapore, and Singaporeans have enough disposable income to avail themselves of the island's amenities. So long as one accepts the social order, Singapore is attractive and emminently livable.

But there may be one consequence to the air-conditioned nation that Lee Kuan Yew did not foresee. Two generations into independence, Singaporean workers are generally regarded as intelligent and technically skilled. But what you get little of, according to my friend Sudesh who, like Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children has grown up along with his nation, is an entrepreneurial spirit.

Comfort may lead to efficiency, but innovation, it seems, is born of hunger.

Melaka

2010-02-21T23:18:00.012+07:00

For centuries an important port and prized possession for control of Southeast Asian trade, Melaka (sometimes spelled Malacca) today seems to have settled into a comfortable role as a tourist magnet. Here one glimpses the perhaps unintended consequences of commercial success, as village traditions seem to have given way to souvenier shops, trinket stalls, and other trappings of the tourist trade.

This doesn't make the town entirely unpleasant. With its meandering river, well-maintained streets, and neat assortment of Dutch, Portugese, Islamic, Hindu, and Chinese architecture, Melaka is nothing if not picturesque. One just needs to get away from the tourist core, and have an appreciation for history, to get a sense of what the town is all about.

Come hither and I will tell you a tale of sultans and spies, of gods and emperors, of seafaring rogues and exotic spices so fragrant and rare they moved empires to battle.

It starts in the early 14th century, when a Hindu prince by the name of Parameswara tried to break his principality away from the Southeast Asian Mahajavit kingdom, and was forced to flee to Singapore. Turning to piracy on the Straits of Melaka, he soon incurred the wrath of the mighty Siamese army, and fled further northward to what was then the small fishing village of Melaka.

Needing protection from the Siamese, Parameswara sent envoys northward to the Chinese emperor. The emperor, never one to pass up an opportunity for political influence, sent back one Chinese Admiral by the name of Zheng He, "the three-jewelled eunuch prince" (how do you lose your jewels, and still end up with three?) to keep the Siamese at bay. A wave of Chinese immigrants soon followed, married local Malays, and laid the foundation for the Straits Chinese, or Peranakan culture, mentioned in an earlier post, whose influence is felt in the region's architecture and cuisine to this day.

Under this arrangement, Melaka, mid-way between India and China, soon became the most important trading post between those two great nations. Islam was brought to the region by Indian sailors; when the third ruler of Melaka converted to Islam, he took on the title of sultan. At their height, the sultans of Melaka had a power equal to the mighty Siamese and Burmese kingdoms to the north, and were a major reason for the spread of Islam throughout Southeast Asia. Hundreds of years later, these sultanates would eventually become the foundation for the modern Malaysian nation.

The Portuguese, with the typical European diplomatic finesse of the era, sacked Melaka in 1511. But while they captured the city, they lost most of the trade, which followed the exiled sultan to his new home in Johor Bahru. Melaka thus fell into a period of decline, reviving slightly in the 1600s when the Dutch took the city from the Portuguese and used it as a port for their trade to the Spice Islands (modern Indonesia). Later, Melaka was ceded along with several other Dutch possessions to the British, but the British developed Singapore at the expense of Melaka, and the city never regained its former glory.

In light of this history, tourism may be no more nor less cataclysmic an event than any other to which Melaka has borne witness. What I will say about Melaka is that it's relatively easy to escape the tourist shuffle and find oneself on quiet streets. Away from Chinatown and Dutch Square – with its kitschy bicycle taxis bedecked in plastic flowers and blaring disco from tinny radios – Melaka seems a town where people go about their business at a languid pace. Strolling along the Melaka River one can even feel one has the town to oneself, and the sense of history reflected in the architecture provides ample opportunity for reflection.

I cannot say I found Melaka spectacular. It has its share of interesting museums and some excellent regional food (I intend to put together a fuller catalogue of Malaysian eats in a future post), but it's all served up just a little too neatly for my taste. Nonetheless, a trip to Malaysia would not be complete without a stop in this town. Melaka provides a glimpse into how Malaysia came into being, and further evidence of how the country's economic engine just keeps churning.

Batu Caves

2010-02-17T20:25:00.005+07:00

Hinduism is psychadelic, man. Less a religion than an agglomeration of assorted beliefs and traditions, Hinduism defies logic. It is at once monotheistic and polytheistic. It embraces practices that are among the world's most ornate, and the most austere. Its iconography includes a bewildering array of gods and the wildest creatures ever to be created by the human mind, but in the same breath the Rig Veda states that all is one. And its sway over an entire people is such that, when you are surrounded by 700 million people who believe in Shiva, believe me: Shiva exists.

It's been 16 years since I last saw India, a country in which I spent roughly a year and a half over the course of several trips in the early 1990s. But the experience of that vast and ancient land came back to me in its full technicolor glory on a trip to Malaysia's Batu Caves. Located only 13 km. outside of Kuala Lumpur, in an 400 million year-old limestone hill by the side of a busy road, the Batu Caves are a center of Shaivite worship for Malaysian Hindus, and one of the world's most popular Hindu shrines outside of India, attracting 3,000-5,000 visitors every day.

A flight of 272 steps leads up to the caves. At the base stands an enormous (42.7 meters) golden statue of Lord Muruga, also known as Lord Subramaniam, the son of Shiva. Lord Muruga is the patron deity of the southern Indian state of Tamil Nadu; the fact that the largest Hindu shrine in Malaysia is dedicated to a Tamil deity demonstrates the importance of Tamil culture to this country. The stairs to the temple are populated by wild monkeys, who take handouts from tourists and pilgrims, but remind you with menacing glares that they are neither friendly nor tame.

Like so many Hindu temples in India, the Batu Caves manage to simultaneously convey a sense of devotion along with a carnival atmosphere. At the top of the steps is a gift shop, and tourists can have their pictures taken with a bored albino python. Further in – the cave complex contains three large chambers – the mood gets more devotional. Statues displaying scenes from the Bhagavad Gita and other Hindu scriptures are arranged in niches throughout the complex. Pilgrims, many of their heads shorn and caked with sandalwood paste, file into the two main temples in the second and third chambers of the cave. Dhoti-clad priests offer flowers and sweets to the temple gods while devotees light butter lamps. Between the mesmerizing chants of the priests and the thick clouds of incense, one is easily transported to another world.

Once a year, the Batu Caves become the focal point for the Hindu festival of Thaipusam, where devotees make offerings to Lord Muruga on his birthday. Associated with this festival is the bearing of kavadi, or burdens, through which the devotee implores Lord Muruga for help. Some devotees go to masochistic lengths by skewering their cheeks and tongues with lances, hanging or even pulling heavy objects with hooks attached to their bodies. It is said that the kavadi bearers enter a trance state and feel no pain, and the hooks and lances leave no scars when they are removed. We unfortunately missed this important festival, when the Batu Caves are said to attract one million visitors, by two weeks. In the catalogue of the world's religious practices, Thaipusam has to be one of the strangest.

We completed our trip to the Batu Caves by stopping into a sweets shop at the foot of the caves. There, we shared a couple of Indian sweets and a large helping of ais kacang, a popular dessert in Malaysia and Singapore. Made of shaved ice, red beans, sweet syrup and a variety of gelatinized fruits, this southeast Asian sweet reminded me that I was not actually in India, but that this taste of India was just another facet of the multicultural medley that is Malaysia.

Kuala Lumpur

2010-02-15T12:33:00.001+07:00

If there was any question in my mind whether Malaysia is a developed country, it was dispelled on the drive from the airport. Everywhere are signs of Malaysia's economic miracle. From the glistening, well-paved roads, to the smart commercial facilities of Cyberjaya, Malaysia's high-tech "planned city" outside KL, Malaysia quickly impresses upon the visitor that it is a modern nation.

Three days in city confirm these impressions. While architectural remnants of colonial Malaysia can be seen in KL's Chinatown and Little India, the central core of the city is as modern as any city can be. To be frank, after experiencing an initial thrill of recognition – look, there's a Starbuck's! – the joy of being surrounded by so much modernity wears off, and I begin to feel like I might as well be in any other city. Notwithstanding, two things distinguish KL in my mind.

The first is the Petronas Towers. Cesar Pelli's twin monuments are a fantastic blend of Western audacity and Islamic aesthetics. It starts with the geometry. The towers' floorplan is based on two eight-pointed stars, interlaced with rounded columns. Their 88 floors are separated into five levels, representing the five pillars of Islam, and topped by minaret-like spires. Lateral ribbons of steel reflect the sunlight, giving the towers a shimmering gemlike quality. At night, they are lit up like diadems that have been extended skyward. A trip to the Sky Bridge on the 41st floor confirms the exquisiteness of the structures; from a distance or up close, they are as magnificent an architectural creation as any I have seen.

The second aspect of KL that sets it apart from other cities is its fabled multiculturalism. Throughout the city, you see a fantastic mix of Malays, Tamils, Chinese, Europeans, Arabs, and Africans, all pressed together, clad in keffiyeh and chadors, dhotis and saris, headscarves, songkoks, sarongs, dashikis, and of course, jeans, t-shirts, and Western business attire. Though political tensions have recently strained Malaysia's tradition of religious and ethnic tolerance, the country's multiculturalism is something of which Malaysians may justifiably be proud. It is reflected everywhere in the country's capital city.

Hương's first taste of a modern metropolis has, as anticipated, been an eye-opening experience. She's been impressed by the buildings, the roads, the ease with which anything can be purchased, and the politeness of the traffic culture. Hanoi has nothing like KL's ethnic enclaves, so she has enjoyed experiencing the contrasts between Chinatown's aggressive mercantilism, and Little India's languid pace, to take two examples.

Reflecting on what lessons Malaysia may hold for her country, she astutely notes that the difference in population densities make rapid development more of a challenge for Vietnam. While most people agree that Vietnam's modernization is just a matter of time, Hương would rather see Hanoi maintain its historic center unchanged, "because the high buildings would destroy Hanoi's culture." This is a lesson I too hope Vietnam learns from KL, Beijing, Seoul, and other recently developed Asian cities, (see my previous thoughts on the subject).

For both of us, the food has been a fun part of the journey. We are fortunate to be staying with our friend Miriam, a Kiwi woman we met some months ago in Hanoi. Aside from being a great conversationalist and offering us insights into Malaysian expat life, she has pointed us in the direction of some fine eats, in particular Namaste, a small Mamak restaurant near her house. Mamak restaurants are typically small cafes or roadside stalls operated by Tamil Muslims. They are a cultural institution in Malaysia, and the food, which has a distinctively Indian bite, can be quite good. A breakfast of nasi lemak sotong the other morning, washed down with teh tarik, has been one of the culinary highlights of the trip.

In all, multiculturalism and modernity are, for me, the hallmarks of modern Malaysia. KL rightfully stands as a symbol of what modern Asia can be, and may be considered Dr. Mahathir's finest achievement. I hope to see how Malaysian multiculturalism and modernity are expressed in the rest of the country.

Prelude to Malaysia

2010-02-11T17:43:00.004+07:00

As Vietnam gears up for its New Year's festivities, I am heading out. In Hanoi, the signs of Tết are everywhere - giant kumquat and peach trees on the backs of motorbikes, calligraphers lining the street beside the Temple of Literature - and part of me is sorry to be leaving during the holiday season. But it's exactly nine months to the day since I arrived, and I am as anxious for a sense of perspective on Vietnam as I am for a break from it.

The impetus to leave Vietnam is less of a drive on this trip than my curiosity to discover someplace new. In all the time I've been in Asia, I have yet to set foot in Malaysia and Singapore. The names alone conjure up exotic images of Dutch spice traders, bejeweled sultans, rogue pirates and galleons of the British Empire plying the Straits of Malacca. Alongside these histories, these countries also present parallel visions of modern Asia's economic miracle: Malaysia's Petronas Towers symbolizing the audacity of a modern autocrat's drive to place his tiny country on the global stage, and futuristic Singapore, also the scion of a modern autocrat, providing a vision of cleanliness, education, order, and wealth that much of the world continues to aspire toward.

Throughout the next 18 days I hope to explore the food, history, and politics of this region. My itinerary starts in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia's major city with a population of just under two million. From there, it's down to Melaka, the former center of the Dutch spice trade, and then on to the shining city state of Singapore. From Singapore I will take a short flight to Penang, which Time Magazine's Asia edition voted as having the best street food in all of Asia (let that sink in for a minute), before winding my way back down to KL.

My travel companion for part of this journey is Hương, who my astute readers will by now recognize is more than my housing agent and cooking teacher. I am excited to see Malaysia and Singapore through her eyes, the eyes of a well-educated modern Hanoian who is experiencing her first foreign travel. I believe most Vietnamese, viewing their own country, see progress; considering Vietnam's 20th century history, it's hard not to. But what I think will be impressed upon her will be a sense of just how far Vietnam still needs to go in its efforts to become a developed nation. She and I will be together as far as Singapore; Penang I will visit on my own.

I have two main areas of interest driving me on this trip. The first is political; the second, predictably, centers on my belly.

Politically, I am curious about Malaysia's Dr. Mahathir Mohammed and Singapore's Lee Kuan Yew. The modernity of both countries bears one thing in common: they are products of the egos of two brilliant and autocratic men. Singapore, with no natural resources and few assets beyond an educated labor force, exploded from 1965 to 1990 into one of Asia's economic miracles under the single-party rule of Lee Kuan Yew's PAP. Likewise, Dr. Mahathir Malaysia took only 20 years to be transformed from a typical third-world export-based economy to one firmly rooted in manufacturing and trade. In both cases, was the price paid, in terms of political freedoms, worth the wealth? What do the locals think? What unintended legacies have they left? These are things I wish to know.

As for food, I am interested in all the cuisines of this richly multicultural region, but I am particularly anxious to sample Peranakan/Nonya food. Beginning in the 15th century, Chinese immigrants began settling in Malaysia and Singapore, intermarrying with local Malays. 500 years later, their descendents are a fascinating blend of both cultures. This blend – variously called Peranakan, Baba, Nonya, Nyonya, or Straits Chinese – is particularly expressed in their cuisine, which blends Chinese cooking styles with Malay ingredients. It has been called the original fusion cuisine.

To be sure, leaving Vietnam at this time of the year is not easy, but I have worlds to discover and food to eat, and look forward to sharing my impressions as they emerge.

A Day for The Kitchen God

2010-02-08T02:06:00.002+07:00

On my way out my building yesterday, I was greeted by a sight you don't see everyday: a street vendor selling live goldfish. It reminded me that, before the day was through, I would have to make my offerings to Ông Công, the Land Genie, and Ông Táo, the Kitchen God.

Ông Táo lives in the kitchen of each person's home, watching over the hearth. On the 23rd day of the 12th lunar month, this most intimate of gods, privvy to the family's personal secrets, gives his report on the household to Ngọc Hoàng, the Jade Emperor in heaven. To ensure a favorable report, each family offers food, clothes, and money, and a fish (carp) for Ông Táo to travel on. Most households combine offerings to Ông Táo on this day with offerings to Ông Công, the guardian of each family's land. The day is thus a celebration of hearth and home.

The mythic origin of the ritual is Chinese, though it has been changed to suit Vietnamese sensibilities. According to the Vietnamese version, there once was a couple, Trọng Cao and Thị Nhi who, while poor, were very much in love. At some point they were separated (versions of the story differ as to why), and Thị Nhi married another man, Phạm Lang. A desperate Trọng Cao went off in search of his wife.

One day he came to the home of Phạm Lang while the master was away. Thị Nhi recognized her old husband, and to avoid embarrassing questions, hid him from her current husband in the hearth (or a heap of straw, depending on the version of the story). Phạm Lang returned and unknowingly lit a fire, killing Trọng Cao. Driven by grief, Thị Nhi threw herself into the fire and, when Phạm Lang realized what he'd done, soon followed her into the flames. The Jade Emperor, moved by this "tragedy of love, faithfulness and sacrifice," (Hữu Ngọc) made them into household gods.

While many Vietnamese may not know the mythic origins of the day, appeasing Ông Táo is a ritual few would fail to observe. To start, three traditional foods are offered: giò, xôi gấc, and bánh chưng.

Giò is a processed meat, similar to bologna, made by pounding lean pork meat into a smooth paste, wrapping it in banana leaves, and then cooking it. It's much better than it sounds: silky, moist, and sweet. Xôi gấc is xôi, or sticky rice, which has been cooked with gấc fruit (Momordica cochinchinensis), a bittersweet, melon-like gourd. The seeds of the gấc fruit have a thick, fleshy aril that gives the rice a red-orange tint, as well as a subtly sweet flavor. Since red is associated with wealth and prosperity, xôi gấc is a favorite of the New Year season.

The final food, bánh chưng, could be the subject of a separate post. Bánh chưng is a traditional Vietnamese cake made from sticky rice, and stuffed with fatty pork, mung bean paste, and seasonings. Ritually wrapped in bamboo or banana leaves and moulded into a square shape – symbolic of the earth – bánh chưng is as essential to Vietnamese New Year celebrations as turkey is to the American Thanksgiving. Its preparation ostensibly dates back to the Hùng Dynasty, when one of the sons of the emperor, after a divine visitation, made the dish and won the kingdom from his brothers. Bánh chưng could, as easily as spring rolls or phở, be considered the national dish of Vietnam.

Alongside the food, the proper observance of this day includes offerings of paper clothing to the kitchen gods. Ông Công is given a hat, traditional jacket, and boots; for Ông Táo there are three pairs of slippers and the fish, to transport him to heaven. This is where the live fish on the street come in. While some families offer paper carp as a symbolic gesture, the offering of live fish is still popular. After being offered to Ông Táo, these fish are later released into a nearby lake or river – in Hanoi, Hoan Kiem Lake is particularly popular.

All offerings are placed on the family altar. Three sticks of incense are lit; this is the occasion to pray for the health and prosperity of the household. Once the incense has burned out, the clothing is burned, and the food can be eaten. Partaking of this ritual, I felt immensely grateful for my home and hearth, and for all the blessings I have received in the past year. In my prayer to the Kitchen God, it was hard to think of anything to wish for. Thanks seemed more appropriate.

Vietnam's Lunar Calendar

2010-02-03T01:19:00.003+07:00

It was Friday, which was in and of itself nothing special, but I was planning to spend the day maintaining a vegetarian diet. I woke up and lit three joss sticks and placed them on the small altar I'd inherited in my new apartment. Then, in my own fashion I prayed for the well-being of my ancestors, my family, and for continued blessings for my home. The only reasons for these practices, foreign to my traditions, were my desire to adopt as much as possible of a Vietnamese lifestyle during my time here, and the fact that it was the fifteenth day of the lunar calendar.

In Vietnam, the Gregorian calendar is official, just as it is in the West. But this country gives its heart to the moon. As an agricultural society, the lunar calendar for centuries marked the passage of seasons, and determined the schedule of plantings and harvests. And since seasonal changes often brought the threat of meteorological calamities (floods, storms, and so on), the spirits had to be propitiated with offerings, rites and rituals. Many of these rituals later became the most important festivals of modern Vietnam.

This month marks the lunar New Year, known in Vietnam as Tết. To simply equate this holiday with the Western New Year would do it a gross injustice. Tết takes a hold over Vietnam like no western secular or religious holiday I can think of. The country comes to a standstill for about two weeks. Trains and buses are filled to capacity with people journeying to their home towns. Wherever they may be, Vietnamese feel a tremendous nostalgia, wishing to spend the holiday with their families. It is during this season that overseas Vietnamese most acutely feel the pain of being a diaspora.

The word Tết comes from the word tiết, which originally denoted the sections on a stalk of bamboo, but also has the semantic meaning of "season," or "period of time." Begun in 2637 B.C., the Sino-Vietnamese calendar measures time in 60-year cycles, called hồi. The year is divided into 24 periods, conciding with the phases of the moon (an extra month is added every three or four years, to synchronize the lunar and solar calendars). Major seasonal changes, such as the start of spring, are marked with tiếts, or festivals. So while this month's Tết, officially Tết Nguyên Đán, or "festival of the first day," is the most important of all the tếts, it is by no means the only one.

Right now, North Vietnam is abuzz with preparations for the new year. Peach branches, signalling the onset of spring, and festival cakes are starting to appear in markets. Crafts villages, which have been churning out paper lanterns, wood block prints, and other holiday artifacts, are beginning to scale back production. Hanoians at work, anticipating the long vacation, have gotten lazy, spending the day browsing the web or connecting with friends on Facebook. In the next week, the criss-crossing of Vietnamese returning to their home towns will begin, and if you didn't book your ticket weeks or months ago, don't bother trying to get them now.

Having no home town in Vietnam, I will be taking a three-week trip to Malaysia and Singapore (adding a week of vacation time to the 10 days automatically given at work). The goal, as always, will be to explore the history and food of the region, and I hope my readers will appreciate my scrawlings from the tropics. Having been here nearly nine months, I am looking forward also to a little separation from Vietnam, a little perspective, as it were. While my neighbors and friends enjoy their bánh chưng, games, temple visits, and other holiday rituals, I'll be engaging in my own private festival of renewal, occasionally casting a glance northward and wishing my friends and neighbors a happy, healthy, and prosperous new year.

Trying Out for TV!

2010-01-26T00:14:00.010+07:00

Writing this blog has yielded a number of unexpected bonuses. I've heard from people around the world, been visited by readers traveling through Vietnam, been reprinted (with permission) on a Vietnamese travel site, and formed a handful of lovely friendships I hope to maintain over the years.

Few things could have been less anticipated, however, than a response I received a few weeks ago to my post on finding a new apartment. Somehow, a casting agent for a well-known US travel show got a hold of my blog, and asked me how I'd feel about being on the show! Now, there's no certainty that I'm going to be on the show, but I've been taking the necessary next steps to make it happen, and enjoying the fantasy that I may finally attain the 15 minutes of fame Andy Warhol promised me.

The program, which airs on the cable channel HGTV in the United States, is called House Hunters International. It chronicles the exploits of American expatriates as they search for new homes overseas. I actually saw the show several times before leaving the states, so I'm familiar with its format: a prospective buyer looks at three properties, the audience is left hanging over which property the person's going to choose, there's a commercial break, and then the buyer/renter's choice is revealed. Some fudging of the facts would be necessary to make my home search fit the show's format, but I think it would be a fun way to chronicle my current life in Hanoi, and introduce American TV audiences to the whirlwind that is Vietnam's capital city.

At any rate, as part of the process of trying out for this show, I was asked to submit a casting video. Since my friend Hương played such a central role in finding this apartment, I was asked to include her in the video. The result you see below: three short clips featuring Hương and me in my apartment, in front of the Hanoi Opera House, and at the entrance to my building.

I have no idea if this is going to lead to anything, but Hương and I had a lot of fun making our casting videos, and I thought they would provide an entertaining diversion for my readers. The videos are rough, shot with Hương's digital camera, and as you can see, we are decidedly not professionals! But aside from satisfying my vanity, they give a little taste of my version of expatriate living in Vietnam.

So herewith I present: Hal & Hương in Hanoi!

Casting Video #1: Hal's Apartment

Casting Video #2: The Hanoi Opera House

Casting Video #3: Building Courtyard

Bát Tràng Pottery Village

2010-01-18T08:05:00.006+07:00

One nice thing about living in Hanoi is that when you need to buy dishes for a new apartment, there's a 600-year-old pottery village right next door.

Bát Tràng village (the word Bát means "bowl"; Tràng means "workshop" or "guild") lies on the bank of the Red River, about 13 km. from Hanoi. To get there, you cross the Chương Dương bridge out of central Hanoi, turn right onto a dilapidated, heavily pot-holed road, and try to avoid being hit by the buses, trucks, and motorcycles that jockey to overtake each other in both directions. Before long, the city's urban streetscape gives way to a surreal blend of building settlements, old temples, and dime-sized rice fields that characterizes so much of suburban Hanoi. Bát Tràng lies less than 30 minutes away.

The historical record places Bát Tràng's origin around the 14th or 15th century, though folklore places it much earlier. An abundance of white clay made the area suitable for ceramics production. There are various theories as to how the village developed its craft; quite likely it was, like so many Vietnamese traditions, imported from China, then given a local twist. At its height, Bát Tràng pieces were prized by the Imperial Court, and shipped as far as the Middle East. Centuries of pottery production eventually exhausted the local clay supplies, but white kaolin clay still gets shipped in from nearby provinces, helping the village maintain an annual export trade worth around US$40 million.

Having explored a number of these crafts villages at this point, I was suprised by both the scale and activity of Bát Tràng. The town is filled with cement and brick buildings housing glass-windowed showrooms, bundles of ceramic objects awaiting transport, and building placards advertising export services. A couple of traditional wood houses serve as galleries and information centers. Around 80 percent of Bát Tràng's population of nearly 7000 people is engaged in ceramics production and trade, and indeed, it takes just a short hop into a nondescript alley to find some small workshop with artisans diligently at work. The immediate impression is of abundance and affluence and full-on production.

After parking my bike near the entrance to the town, it was about a one kilometer walk down a shop-lined road to the central market. Once there, a plethora of busy stalls offered an impressive selection of wares. Bát Tràng produces both utilitarian goods, such as plates, cups, and vases, and decorative objects, such as altars and statues. The traditional styles are lovely: gray-white porcelain with hand-painted Asian landscapes, village scenes, and abstract designs. Most of the painting is blue or black, though other colors are not difficult to find. Special enamels and high-temperature firing give the pieces their durability. These production processes are as much a part of Bát Tràng's tradition as its designs.

In the end, I purchased a clay cooking pot (tộ); five medium-sized serving platters; a half-dozen bowls, plates, and ceramic spoons; sugar and salt containers; and a couple of smaller square plates for dipping sauces and whatnot, all for around US$25. I added a Japanese twist by purchasing mis-matched bowls and plates – each diner eats off a unique dish. I have no doubt they'll be functional and attractive elements of my home. And should anyone ask, I'll be proud to tell them about the old village by the Red River where I bought them.

Hanoi Sanctuary

2010-01-10T23:21:00.003+07:00

What is the value of sanctuary?

Two months ago, construction began around the house at Vân Hồ 3. Across the narrow alley, workers began gutting the top three floors of a modern, five-story Vietnamese tube house. The jackhammers were 30 feet from my pillow. And they started at 6:30 A.M.

At first, I tried to wait it out. The few months before Tết are always filled with noisy construction; everyone's trying to complete their home improvement projects before the lunar new year. Hanoi takes on the look of an adolescent with braces, awkwardly smiling through scaffolds and cranes. I couldn't imagine escaping anywhere in the city.

So for nearly two months, I tolerated a daily barrage from early morning till well into the night. At all hours of the day, the noise was jarring, a constant assault on the nervous system. Rings appeared under my eyes. I became irritable at work.

Then another building project began behind the house – a smaller project, just adding a couple of extra floors. And then they began tearing down the house next door. Jack-hammers pounding directly into the walls. With the whole house shaking, I felt like a wartime refugee trying to sleep through an air raid. It was time to move.

At this point, my friend Hương came to the rescue. Some weeks ago, Hương had told me of a furnished, one-bedroom apartment near the Hanoi Opera House (Nhà hát lớn Hà Nội). It was beautiful, it was perfect, but the owner wanted $600 a month, well outside my budget. Hương chatted with the owner, we waited a couple of weeks, and the owner called back: she was willing to go down to $400. We arranged a visit to the apartment. Upon walking in, I realized I was home.

From here on, Hương took over. She negotiated further, and got the rent down to $360/month – nearly half the original price. Hương looked over all the contracts, noting discrepancies between the English and Vietnamese-language versions, making sure all was according to Hoyle. I was useless, a smiling wallet, offering nothing but the promise that I'd be a decent tenant. In the end, I signed a one-year lease, and last Monday I moved in. Without Hương it would never have happened; I am grateful beyond words.

The apartment is 45 square meters, on the fourth floor of an apartment building in a prime neighborhood in central Hanoi. The décor is faintly modernist with Asian touches. The lighting is soft and delicious, with rice paper coverings to all the lamps. The living room is tastefully furnished, with two soft beige sofas around a glass coffee table.

The bedroom is slightly elevated, separated from the living room by a sliding glass door. It has a comfortable queen-sized bed and modern dark wood furnishings. Tucked in corner is a work desk. I have cable TV and high-speed Internet. Large frosted glass windows allow for ample light. In the back of the building, away from the street noise, I overlook a courtyard filled with plants and laundry.

The kitchen is spacious by local standards, with four gas burners (incredible for Hanoi), and a small kitchen table with four chairs. No oven, but there is a microwave, rice cooker, and ample cabinetry.

I also have a roof-top terrace all to myself. Once the weather warms up I envision getting some nice chairs and a table, and doing some grilling. The only drawback to the flat is a shower pump that wheezes like an emphysemic old man. Since I only need to turn it on when I shower, I don't consider it much of an inconvenience.

The neighborhood is brilliant: two blocks from the Hanoi Opera House, a block from the historical Metropole Hotel, five minutes' walk to Hoan Kiem Lake (Hồ Hoàn Kiếm). A short hop from the chaos of the Old Quarter, my street is quiet. In the morning, I wake up to the sound of birds.

There is a small altar on the wall above my work desk. My first act in my new home was to light incense and give thanks. Sanctuary is a holy place, a place of refuge and asylum. I have my sanctuary in Hanoi, and I am grateful.

The Morality of Eating Dog

2010-01-07T12:44:00.008+07:00

In the eight months I've maintained this blog, nothing I've written has generated as much reaction as my last post: a trip to a Hanoi dog restaurant. This wasn't entirely unexpected. Talk to somebody about the treatment of animals in factory farms, and they nod their heads in sympathy, then order another burger. Tell them you're eating man's best friend, however, and they're aghast: "How could you!?" "What's wrong with you?" "It's immoral!"

Rationally speaking, I have no problem with anyone who argues against meat eating as a whole. While I am not vegetarian, I understand the moral basis for vegetarianism, and respect that it applies a uniform standard to the question of eating animals. I also understand not eating beef if you're Hindu, or pork if you're Muslim or a Jew. But these are personal choices, based on religion and culture, and I see few Hindus, Muslims, and Jews attempting to dissuade others from making a different choice.

I do have problems with arguments, however, that apply absolute standards of morality to proscribe the eating of certain animals, and permit the eating of others. This is exactly what happens with dog. Animal rights activists, most of them based in the West, have been lobbying Asian governments for years to ban the dog trade. Comparisons have been made between dog-eating and cannibalism, slavery, child prostitution, and other heinous practices, to argue the inherent immorality of eating dog.

So let's ask a simple question: why is it wrong to eat dogs? Specifically, why is it MORE wrong than eating any other beast?

The most common arguments against dog-eating revolve around the idea that, alone among all animals, dogs are bred for their loyalty and companionship, raised to be "man's best friend." Their companion status offers them protection from our appetites.

The problem with this argument is that it basis the value of an animal entirely on how we treat it. If we raise it as a pet, it's our friend; if we raise it for food, it's meat. By the same standard, if a dog is raised to engage in dog fighting, is dog fighting okay? By the logic of the companion status argument, it is.

Aside from the companion status argument, what else is there? Dogs are no more (or not much more) intelligent than pigs, nor gentler than lambs, yet both those animals routinely find themselves on the Western table. What is the uniform standard by which to argue that dogs are morally wrong to eat, culture notwithstanding?

Absent a clear moral foundation, anti-dog-trade activists often rely on the argument that it is "uncivilized" to eat dogs. Coming from countries where factory-farmed livestock need to be blasted with antibiotics to survive the appalling conditions in which they're kept, this argument reeks of hypocrisy.

Consider that Vietnam consumes an estimated four to five million dogs per year. This is roughly the number of cats and dogs that are annually euthanized in U.S. animal shelters. So which country is the paragon of civilized virtues, the nation that incinerates the animals it murders, or the nation that eats them?

I think there are valid arguments to be made against eating dogs, but they don't rely on moral relativism or vague appeals to the virtues of civilization.

The first argument is political. Unlike Korea, which mainly relies on farm-raised dogs, almost all the dogs that are used for meat in Vietnam are either imported from other Southest Asian countries (especially Thailand) through a mafia-controlled underground network, or stolen from pet-owners. While some argue that this trade eliminates unwanted strays and nuisance animals, it also empowers criminal syndicates and corrupt government officials. Likewise, it's hard to condone the theft of family pets, with all the emotional devastation it causes.

The second argument is a basic matter of animal cruelty. Throughout Asia, food dogs are often horrifically slaughtered: either beaten or slowly bled to death, supposedly to improve the quality of the meat. Absent government regulation or oversight, there is little to protect these animals from their fates, so it is up to the consumer to prevent this method of slaugher by not contributing to the demand.

Let me be clear that dog-eating is by no means universal, or even popular, in Vietnam or any other Asian country where it is practiced. Only a small number of Vietnamese have any interest in eating dog. But few of them seek to prohibit their neighbors from doing it.

Having had the experience of eating dog, I doubt I'll seek to have it again. But this is a personal choice.

Links:
Wok the Dog: What's Wrong with Eating Man's Best Friend? (http://www.slate.com/id/2060840/)
Asia's Dog Meat Trade: A Look Inside a Seedy World (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/12/01/asias-dog-meat-trade-a-lo_n_375249.html)
How Many Cats and Dogs are Eaten in Asia? (http://www.animalpeoplenews.org/03/9/dogs.catseatenAsia903.html)

Eating Dog in Hanoi

2010-01-05T10:08:00.012+07:00

Vietnamese people love dogs. They keep them as pets. They also eat them, or at least some do.

Dog eating has deep roots in Vietnam; it is a practice steeped in ritual, and associated with certain dates on the lunar calendar. Dog meat (thịt chó) may be eaten for various reasons aside from culinary pleasure, such as to increase male virility or bring about good luck. By some estimates, Hanoi accounts for up to half of all the dogs eaten in Vietnam, so if I was ever going to chow on chow, Hanoi would be the place to do it.

Saturday, my friend Nhung was stinging from a bad haircut, Phương had had a recent string of bad experiences, and a spate of bone-jarring noisy construction was forcing me out of the house I'd been living in for the past seven months. It was past the mid-point on the lunar calendar, shortly past the Julian New Year, and a propitious time for eating dog. So Nhung, Phương and I collectively decided to go out for thịt chó in hopes of reversing our fortunes. For me, curiosity provided an added incentive; in all my years living in Asia, I had only tasted dog meat once, and I wanted to go in for the full thịt chó experience.

Traditionally, Vietnamese cuisine provides seven ways to cook dog, known collectively as cầy tơ bảy món. These seven dishes are:

Rựa Mận - Steamed dog meat with shrimp paste, rice flour, and lemongrass
Giềng Me Mắm Tôm - Steamed dog in shrimp paste, galangal, and rice vinegar
Thịt Chó Hấp - Steamed dog meat
Thịt Chó Nướng - Grilled dog meat
Dồi Chó - Dog sausage
Chó Xào Sả Ớt - Fried dog in lemongrass and chili
Canh Xáo Măng Chó - Bamboo and dog meat soup

The dog restaurant we went to, just past the north side of the Old Quarter, was one I'd passed many times. Unlike some countries, where dog is eaten in hidden alleys, Hanoi flouts its affection for eating Fido. Dog stands can be found throughout the city, selling cooked canines like any other meat. The restaurant we went to, on a busy street corner, was a well-known purveyor of canine cuisine, and a solid choice to provide the full-on sampler.

It was shortly past seven when we walked into the crowded restaurant. We passed the downstairs tables and headed upstairs to be served in the traditional style: sitting on woven bamboo mats. A young man laid some newspapers on the floor; we sat down and various herbs, lime, salt, chilis, lemongrass stalks, sliced cucumbers, and large crispy sesame-seeded crackers known as bánh đa, were placed between us. Oh yes, and mắm tôm, a ghastly fermented shrimp paste that a reader to one of my previous posts called "shit in a can." An apt description, but apparently a necessary part of the thịt chó experience.

The prepared dishes followed quickly after and were all spread out before us. A veritable banquet of mastif proportions! As a whole, the meat of your cuddly pet is not quite like any other mammal I've ever tasted. It has the sinuousness and grain of beef, but is surprisingly fatty, like pork. It's actually a very rich food, highly nutritious, and fattening if eaten often. The seven traditional dishes – using different parts of the dog (the Vietnamese are expert at not letting food go to waste) – each play to either the beefiness or porkiness of the meat.

The first dish I tried was the Rựa Mận, a plate of room-temperature meats served like cold-cuts. The proper procedure, I was told, was to wrap a piece in an herb called lá mơ, and dip it in the mắm tôm. This could be followed with a bite of lemongrass or other herbs, if desired. I expected to have a visceral reaction to eating dog, but in fact I found it perfectly normal. The meat had a rather pleasant, beefy texture, with no discernable smell or strong taste, outside of the mắm tôm.

The Thịt Chó Nướng – grilled dog meat – however, was another matter. In this dish, fatty cuts from the neck and back are basted in a galangal-flavored marinade, grilled, and topped with shaved galangal. It was delicious! While reminiscent of pork, the meat had a deep earthiness that worked very well with the galangal. This was clearly a method of preparation that expressed the uniqueness of dog.

The Chó Xào Sả Ớt, on the other hand, while quite tasty, could just as easily have been prepared with any other meat. The spices balanced well with each other, but I felt the taste of the dog was masked. And this was my reaction to most of the dishes I sampled. While flavorful – save for the dog sausage, which I didn't particularly care for – there was little to make dog, as a flavor experience, particularly unique. Whereas lamb has a distinct taste that shines through most recipes, dog disappears into its method of preparation. When prepared like pork, it could just as easily be pork; when prepared like beef, it could just as easily be beef. When it comes to meats, I felt there was little to make dog stand out from the pack, so to speak.

What was palpable, however, was a strong sense of community among the diners. Maybe because dog meat borders the edge of cultural taboos, even in Vietnam, the sense among the diners was of a select group enjoying a secret and decidedly naughty pleasure. As the only Westerner, I was greeted warmly, with toasts and smiles from other customers. Before too long, it felt quite normal to be among my friends and fellow diners. At the end of the day, we were all the same. We were eaters of man's best friend.

It's an experience I thoroughly enjoyed, though I probably shall not have it again. While I have little tolerance for some of the arguments I've heard against eating dog, for me dog eating sits in a moral gray zone. I shall like to explore the complex morality of this practice in a future post; for now, let me accept the experience as it was presented to me: as a unique culinary adventure and an opportunity to bond with friends.

Oh yes, and the day after eating dog, I signed a lease for a lovely, one-bedroom apartment in central Hanoi. So perhaps, eating dog brought me good fortune after all.

Learning Vietnamese: Past The Basics

2009-12-29T22:07:00.017+07:00

I'm eating breakfast in a café, when a tall, middle-aged blonde woman walks in. She sits down at a table with a small group of diners, and starts conversing effortlessly in Vietnamese.

I put down my book and stare into space, listening to the sound of good Vietnamese coming out of a Western mouth: the easy glide of the tones, the command of the vowels, the articulation of consonants that were learned in adulthood.

And I think: this is what I aspire to...

Two weeks ago, my Vietnamese language class finished the 300-some-odd page course book we'd been using for the past six months. My class began book "B," moving me, I suppose, past the elementary and into the pre-intermediate level.

Indeed, after seven months of studying six hours a week, coupled with daily practice, I am now fairly functional in Vietnamese. I can eat, shop, bargain, travel, and engage in basic conversation about the day. Grammatically, I can express past, present, and future, use relative clauses and conditional (if-then) structures, offer advice, express my hopes, and my vocabulary is expanding daily.

I have worked hard to get to where I am, and so last week, to celebrate...I got depressed.

Friday, I just couldn't bring myself to study Vietnamese. It was cold, I felt tired, and in no mood to fight with phonemes. Like an incontinent adult, I couldn't bear the humiliation of being less than fully-capable, so I begged off my afternoon lesson, vowed to return Monday, and put away my books for the weekend.

Then Monday came, and a profound sense of seasonal ennui interfered, so I stayed out of class again. The result was that I spent nearly a week avoiding Vietnamese.

And then without warning, I woke up this morning with a mad desire to speak Vietnamese! Like a powerful urge for a midnight snack, my lips and tongue wanted these sounds, these flavors, these nuances of thought that have, as surreptitiously as a thief, begun finding their way into me.

What had been despair and frustration overnight turned into renewed enthusiasm for learning. And I can't really tell you why.

Learning a new language is an emotional experience; don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Once the initial thrill of communicating wears off, you become hungry for intelligent discourse. Finding yourself unable to relate to others at the level to which you're accustomed is humbling; you wince at your own banality, the superficiality of your observations. "Bad people are...uh...bad." Groan.

It's not for nothing that psychologists have come up with the term "language ego." Our self-concept and self-esteem are intertwined with our linguistic abilities. Learning a new language is ego-annihilating...and this, for an otherwise capable adult, can be torturous.

But the stages of language learning are also fairly predictable, and the ambivalent feelings I've been experiencing are classic signs of a pre-intermediate plateau. For the pre-intermediate student, frustration stems from the feeling that, no matter how hard one has worked, the road ahead is still longer than the road behind.

Thankfully, my training as a language teacher helps me understand what to do. It is important for students at this stage to review basic vocabulary and grammatical structures, even as they learn new ones. Exposure to authentic input – reading and listening – is critical.

Listening may be the most important skill of all. Think of how long a baby learns mutely before making its first utterances. Given enough input, language production becomes inevitable; it's wired into our DNA. And so, pre-intermediate students need to listen, listen, listen...

And guard against frustration. Mostly, for the adult language learner, it is important to have faith, and to persist in one's efforts, regardless of how banal and unintelligent one sometimes feels. To do this, one needs role models, and the Western woman I saw in the café reminds me that fluency is attainable, and that acculturation and friendship are worthwhile rewards.

And so today, I return to my language studies, which at times feel like drudgery, and at times fill me with the joy of discovery.

Có công mài sắt thì có ngày nên kim.

("Who works at sharpening iron, should one day have fine metal" - the rough meaning is: effort brings success).

Vietnamese Lacquer Painting (Sơn Mài)

2009-12-27T09:29:00.026+07:00

Fifteen years ago, artist Ando Saeko came to Vietnam from her native Japan, and fell in love with Vietnamese natural lacquer painting (sơn mài). She was accepted as a student by Trinh Tuan, a master of the art form, and has been here ever since. Last Sunday morning at Hanoi's Uzu Gallery, Saeko explained the origins of natural lacquer and how lacquer painting evolved in Vietnam.

The term "lacquer painting" may be confusing; most of us probably think of lacquer as an additive to paint, or as a synonym for "varnish." I doubt many of us know that lacquer is a natural product made from the sap of an Asian sumac (the Vietnamese species is Rhus Succedanea). The sap is obtained in much the same way as rubber: an incision is made in the bark of the tree, and the resin is collected. The liquid separates as it sits; solids sink to the bottom and the pure resin at the top is skimmed off, mixed with pine sap, and stirred continuously for three days to give it an even texture. The resulting glossy material – processed natural lacquer – is used by artists.

The history of lacquer painting in Vietnam demonstrates this country's ability to take foreign influences, and create from them traditions that are wholly Vietnamese. Archaeologists have found lacquered objects dating back to the 4th century B.C., but lacquer was used mainly as an adhesive until the 14th century when, using techniques that are believed to have originated in China, it bloomed as a decorative medium. Lacquer began appearing as a glossy varnish on pagodas, wooden panels, palanquins, and other valuable objects, especially those of religious value.

It was the French who helped transform lacquer from a decorative craft into a modern pictorial art form. In 1925, teachers and students at the French École Supérieure des Beaux Arts de l’Indochine (Indochinese College of Fine Arts) began stretching the possibilities of the medium, taking traditional techniques and infusing them with contemporary artistic conceptions. The modern tradition of Vietnamese lacquer painting dates from this time.

Lacquer painting is a laborious process; it may take months or even years to complete a work. The term "painting" is, frankly, something of a misnomer; the medium is as sculptural as it is painterly. The technique of building a painting through layers, and of manually manipulating the surface, is as much a part of the process as the use of natural resin.

The foundation for a lacquer painting is a plywood board that has been covered by up to ten layers of lacquer. The artist may cut into this foundation to inlay crushed egg shells, gold leaf and other materials, or inlay materials directly onto the adhesive surface. Powdered pigments are lain directly onto the wet lacquer; color is built up in layers. Between layers, the artist continually scrapes, sands, polishes, and buffs the surface, to ensure an even finish. Since lacquer does not technically "dry" but rather hardens through the activation of an enzyme, the artist must be aware of ambient temperature and humidity; in less than optimal conditions one may have to wait days before applying new layers.

The result of all this layering, however, is that natural lacquer has translucent, muitidimensional qualities that could almost be described as holographic. Light plays on and under the surface of the painting. In much the same way that light fractures in water, the eyes perceive light and movement at multiple depths. One wonders what Monet, with his waterlillies, may have made of this stuff; it seems perfect for capturing the motile play of light and color that was so much a part of his oeuvre.

To some degree, lacquer may be suffering due to its recent popularity. According to Saeko, 100% of the lacquerware sold in tourist areas – and many of the paintings – is made from artificial, and not natural lacquer. This is because artificial lacquer, made from industrial polymer resins, does not require the same careful layering as natural lacquer; it can be produced quickly and inexpensively. While artificial lacquer lacks the depth of natural lacquer, it is also more brittle, tending to crack as the painting ages. Natural lacquer, on the other hand, ages like wine; colors deepen, become brighter and more true over time.

In other words, a lacquer painting, like the tradition it comes from, is fully and vibrantly alive.

Links:
Ando Saeko (http://andosaeko.com/)
Uzu Gallery (http://uzugallery.com/)

More Cooking with Hương

2009-12-20T00:31:00.013+07:00

Today's dishes:

Cá Bông Lau Kho Tộ (Catfish Braised in a Clay Pot)
Bò Lá Lốt (Beef Wrapped in Wild Betel Leaf)
Cải Xoong Xào (Stirfried Watercress)
Xúp Tôm Thái (Thai Prawn and Lemongrass Soup)

One thing that continues to impress me about Vietnamese cooking is how the most complex flavors are created through the simplest of means. The first time I ate Cá Bông Lau Kho Tộ (Catfish Braised in a Clay Pot), I was sure it must have been concoted through the same mysterious alchemical process that turns water into wine, and copper into gold. I was feverishly raving about this dish to my friend Hương, when she nonchalantly let drop, "Oh, I can make that. It's easy." Without missing a beat, I immediately invited myself over for another installment of...Cooking with Hương!

There are two keys to this dish: the first is the dry heat that comes from the tộ, a clay pot that functions like a Vietnamese Dutch Oven. The second key is the coconut caramel sauce, which, along with the lemongrass, galangal, and chilis, coats the fish with a burnt, savory, caramelized glaze. As with most Vietnamese dishes, there are regional variants; in the south they add garlic, and perhaps a little bacon, but the basic technique remains the same. Dry cooking is essential, as this is what allows the sugars to caramelize, and the catfish to brown.

To make the caramel sauce, Hương mixed about 1/4 cup of water with 1/2 TB of sugar, a squirt of nước mắm (fish sauce) and some gia vị (Vietnamese spice mixed mentioned in earlier postings). She then dipped the tip of a chopstick – no more, or the sauce develops a harsh, burnt taste – into a small bottle of nước hàng dừa (coconut caramel), and added it to the sauce. A little tasting and adjusting and the sauce had a nice balance of salty, sweet, and malty flavors.

The rest was a simple matter of assembly. A few stalks of lemongrass were crushed (to relase their flavors) and then chopped into roughly 1-inch pieces. About an inch of galangal – a magnificent rhizome used throughout Southeat Asia – was sliced and added to the mix. For those who are unfamiliar with it, I would describe galangal as a milder, more citrusy ginger, with elements of pepper, mustard, and pine. Hương lined bottom of the tộ with some lemongrass and galangal, added the catfish, filled the gaps with more lemongrass and galangal, poured in the sauce, and topped it all off with some minced chili and a dash of white pepper. The tộ was then covered and placed directly over a medium flame for 40 minutes.

When completed, most of the moisture from the sauce was gone, leaving a sticky, caramel glaze, scented by lemongrass and galangal, that seared the outside of the fish, keeping the meat inside perfectly moist. The flavors complemented, but did not overwhelm the fish; it was a remarkable balance of seafood with aromatic spices that could only have come from Vietnam.

To accompany the meal, Hương made Bò Lá Lốt, which has become one of my favorite street dishes at cơm bình dân joints throughout Hanoi. Bò Lá Lốt may be translated as "Beef Wrapped in Wild Betel Leaf", but lá lốt (Piper sarmentosum) should not be confused with Piper betle, the leaf that is used to wrap "betel nut" (the seed of the Areca palm) and lime, and chewed as a mild stimulant throughout Asia. The lá lốt leaf has a subtle flavor that is at once bitter and fragrant, with a hint of incense in the aftertaste. It serves as both a culinarily and visually satisfying wrapper for the beef.

The ingenious part of the Bò Lá Lốt is in the wrapping. To make the meatballs, Hương pounded together about 150 g. of ground beef with 100 g. of pork – the pork adds fat as well as flavor, and keeps the beef from drying out during cooking – with four or five garlic teeth and the usual spices: gia vị, pepper, sugar, fish sauce. She then steamed the meat until it was mostly cooked. To make one wrap, she filled the back side of lá lốt leaf with a spoonful of the beef mixture. Rolling the beef over – and this is the ingenious part – she used the leaf stem to secure the roll in place and...Voila! A perfectly wrapped meatball. With a little pan-frying, the leaf wilted around the meat, and I got to experience the best damn Bò Lá Lốt I've had since I've been in Hanoi.

Hương completed the meal with a simple watercress (cải xoong) and garlic stir-fry, and I contributed by making Xúp Tôm Thái (Thai: Tom Yum Goong), a spicy prawn and lemongrass soup I learned to make years ago in Thailand. It was the first time I'd made this dish since leaving the states, and having access to authentic Southeast Asian ingredients like galangal and kaffir lime leaves allowed me to make it exactly as I remembered it. As you can see, the meal turned out beautiful! But you'll have to take my word that it was every bit as delicious as it looked!

The Folk Art of Đông Hồ

2009-12-17T13:19:00.019+07:00

Sometimes, knowledge comes to us by a circuitous route. After I wrote about Vạn Phúc, the silk-weaving village outide Hanoi, a friend asked me if – there obviously being mulberry trees for the silkworms – there was a tradition of making mulberry paper in Vietnam. I was unable to find any such tradition, but in the course of searching for mulberry paper I discovered the folk art of Đông Hồ, a village 30 km. east of Hanoi. And so was born a quest to view this art at its source.
Đông Hồ is the center of a woodblock printing tradition that dates back 500 years. Đông Hồ pictures (Tranh Đông Hồ) are frequently displayed in Vietnamese households during Têt, the Vietnamese New Year. They typically depict a range of Vietnamese folk imagery, from traditional symbols of wealth and fortune, such as pigs, ducks and chickens, to bawdy tales that satirize the extramarital affairs of husbands and wives. These subjects, together with the stylized manner in which they are represented, constitute the Đông Hồ style.
What makes Đông Hồ pictures particularly impressive is that they are made using traditional dyes and inks, and production processes that date back twenty generations. The paper is produced from the bark of the Dzo tree; the bark is soaked in water for months, then mixed with seashells and made into a thin, lightly textured paper stock, which is then sometimes tinted. The colors are made from crushed leaves, burnt bamboo, pine resin, copper rust, eggshells, and other natural sources. The prints are finished with a rice paste glaze that hardens the paper and protects the colors so that they resist dimming even after long exposure to light.
Wanting to see this in person, I and a friend set out on my motorbike, on a drizzly Saturday morning, onto the northbound road to Hải Phòng. Forty minutes out from Hanoi, we veered off the main thoroughfare and began asking for directions. Just before the village, we stopped at a rural roadside vegetable market. Mounds of herbs both mysterious and familiar – dill, mint, and cilantro, alongside mồng tơi, mùi tàu, and rau răm – as well as twisted roots with medicinal powers, reminded me of the richness and antiquity of Vietnam's culinary traditions.

Were it not for a large sign announcing "Đông Hồ Pictures," I might have ridden past the village. With only 10,000 inhabitants, Đông Hồ looks much like any other rural village in northern Vietnam: slim houses with crumbling stucco exteriors, interlaced with rough dirt roads. Upon entering the village, narrow alleys lined with piles of bricks (a brick-making factory lies outside of town) remind me that it's building season in rural Vietnam as well as in Hanoi. Expecting a village built around its cottage industry, I was surprised to discover that only two households offer Đông Hồ prints for sale.

We veered into a courtyard and entered a low, traditional brick house that had been made into a workroom and showroom. There we found a large family altar, and framed prints on all the walls – some modern, some as old as 200 years. Piles of wood blocks, their edges stained with ink, lined the shelves around the edges of the room, amid bundles of Dzo paper. Across the floor, hundreds of prints were drying, and between them a young woman repeatedly inked a wooden block, laid it carefully onto a paper, rubbed the back of the paper to make sure the ink adhered, and set the print out to dry along with all the others.

We browsed, bought some pictures, and sat on a laquered wooden bench to wait out a sudden shower. While waiting for the rain to stop, I reflected on how Đông Hồ, in its way, symbolizes Vietnam's recovery from its 20th century conflicts. What was once a thriving cottage industry nearly died amid the ravages of war. Only a few families maintained the tradition, and in the 1990s, when the market recovered, Đông Hồ's pictures again began to be sold. Today, as Vietnam pushes toward modernity, millions of Đông Hồ pictures are sold every year to both tourists and Vietnamese households, and there is every reason to think the young woman I saw making Đông Hồ prints will one day pass her secrets onto her children.

Việt Nam Vô Địch!

2009-12-15T01:08:00.005+07:00

Everybody loves it when the home team wins. And in Hanoi, a victory in football (soccer), the national obsession, is cause for delirium. Tonight, I had the opportunity to see Hanoi erupt, as Vietnam roundly thrashed Singapore 4-1 in the semi-final match of the Southeast Asian (SEA) Games, in order to set up Thursday's championship match against Malaysia.

This victory does more than put Vietnam at the threshold of a championship; it signals the country's emergence as a regional sporting powerhouse. To put it in perspective, the 2009 SEA Games mark the 50th anniversary of an event that has been held biennially since 1958. The games, held under the supervision of the International Olympic Committee (IOC), not only feature perennial Olympic favorites, such as gymnastics, volleyball, and wrestling, but some lesser-known sports such as Pencak Silat, Pétanque, and the painful-sounding Shuttlecock-Kicking (one only hopes the athletes, and their shuttlecocks, are properly protected).

Since its foundation, the Games have been regarded as the premier regional sporting event for the 11 participating countries. In the all-time metal count, Indonesia and Thailand tower above the field. But Vietnam, third place in the last two SEA Games, has been moving up the rankings, and in this year's event, Vietnam narrowly trails arch-rival Thailand in the total medal count. This kind of success bolsters Vietnam's socialist government, which since 1975 has actively promoted sports with the slogan, "To be strong to construct and defend the country." At a more visceral level, however, Vietnam best chance to win its first-ever SEA Games gold medal in the national sport (previous soccer champion Thailand has already been eliminated) has fans frothing at the mouth.

The visible sign of all this frothing is, naturally, the traditional celebratory traffic jam. Apparently, every time Vietnam wins a major sporting event, Hanoians don their red jerseys, drape themselves in the national flag, get on their bikes and go clog the already-clogged streets of the city even more. The din is frightful; drivers lean on their horns with extra vigor, and roll through the city yelling and screaming like maddened yaks. Frankly, the yelling, along with the sudden appearance of yellow stars on blood-red fields, are all that differentiate it from normal Hanoi traffic. But it's hard not to get caught up in the fun, especially when one sees little children, scarcely aware of what they're cheering for, jumping up and down and waving their flags.

It's all jolly good, and reason enough to hope that Vietnam's Young Lions come out roaring Thursday night and crush Malaysia as they did Singapore. The victory chant, Việt Nam Vô Địch!, translates roughly into "invincible against adversaries." VIỆT NAM VÔ ĐỊCH! VIỆT NAM VÔ ĐỊCH!

Hanoi's Season of Building

2009-12-04T01:18:00.022+07:00

Today's magnificent, cool, and sunny day in Hanoi, licked by a northern breeze, has given way to a lovely crisp evening. Autumn is on the cusp of turning into winter, and in Southeast Asia, this is arguably the nicest time of year. Memories of summer's swelter still color the chilly nights; winter here has none of the sense of permanancy, the unending frost, of winters in northern climes. One feels like basking in this kind of weather, and enjoying its short visitation.

This time between summer and the long Tết holiday is also when work crews crawl over the city, transforming Hanoi's ever-changing landscape. Hanoians' daily activities take place against a backdrop of constant jack-hammering, which begins at 6:30 in the morning and continues until after dark. Buildings get covered with rickety wood-and-metal scaffolds, like adolescents getting a new set of braces. Hanoi becomes an obstacle course filled with cement, mounds of sand, piles of bricks, shovels, wheelbarrows, and wires strewn haphazardly about. If there is any question as to how Vietnam managed to rebuild itself so quickly after the devastation of the 20th century, it's answered by this season of building.

The story of Hanoi since the American War has been of a baby continually outgrowing its clothes. After 1975, as Hanoi experienced a post-war baby boom and increased migration to the city, the city's antiquated infrastructure began to strain. The government's solution was, and still is, to build Hanoi outward. Just last year, on August 1, 2008, Vietnam's capital city grew from 922 to over 3,300 square kilometers, by absorbing two neighboring provinces. Overnight, its population nearly doubled from 3.5 to 6.2 million inhabitants. And still, experts say the population is growing at a rate of 3.5% per year; an urban population of 10 million is expected by 2030.

The question isn't whether Hanoi is growing, but how. If you look at Hanoi's modern skyline, two things stand out: the absence of skyscrapers, and the abundance of greenery. Low, weathered buildings, tree-lined streets, small lakes, and numerous parks give Hanoi – for those of us who appreciate it – much of its charm. So it is logical to fear modernization and expansion, even as one recognizes its necessity. The question is, will Hanoi follow the model of Beijing and Seoul, where whole neighborhoods have been bulldozed, and cultural relics laid waste in favor of austere apartment complexes and saccharine office blocks? Or will Vietnam's leaders recognize Hanoi's historicity and verdant spaces as central to the city's character, and work to preserve them?
On the surface, Vietnamese government statements give one reason for hope. While Vietnam's leaders recognize the city's many challenges – traffic and housing congestion, flooding, the possibility of urban sprawl – they also publicly acknowledge the necessity of preserving Hanoi's cultural and environmental "assets." The three urban planning models currently on the table all include large "green corridors" for preserving Hanoi's parks and agricultural zones. Buildings showcasing the city's rich blend of Chinese, Vietnamese, French, and Soviet influences are being slated for protection. At the highest levels, the term "sustainability" is at least being discussed. There is reason to be sanguine about Hanoi's prospects.

But this being Vietnam, there is also reason for concern. Corruption remains endemic, and plans made at one level of government can easily be erased at another level by the greasing of a few palms. As Hanoi emerges into a modern Asian city, its rising real estate values provide potent incentives for investors to flock here with their capital. Money and corruption are powerful foes to historical buildings and green spaces, and so, a battle is poised to be fought between far-sighted leaders who favor cultural and environmental preservation, on the one hand, and short-sighted developers looking to tap the region's value, on the other.

How this battle turns out may ultimately depend on Hanoians themselves. In conversation, they speak glowingly about the city's many lakes, its blend of architectural styles, their love of green spaces. Balmy autumn days like today bring people outdoors in droves. But the lure of modernity is also strong for a long-impoverished people, and after all that this country has been through, it'd be hard to begrudge their taste for the good life. There's no way of knowing, at this stage of the game, how the story of Hanoi's development will play out. In the meantime, there is plenty of work available for the men coming in from the countryside, and I fully expect to be woken up in the morning by jack-hammers.

Xôi

2009-11-29T07:56:00.016+07:00

What is it about xôi that makes it so damn good? Steamed glutinous rice, known in Vietnam as xôi, has become a bit of a obsession for me. Some weeks, I might eat it as many as five or six times. If a week passes without it, I feel like I'm missing a basic nutrient. Truth be told, I'm hooked, and I'm not about to seek treatment anytime soon.

What exactly is xôi? In Vietnam, rice comes in two forms: regular "hard" rice, called gạo tẻ (Oryza Sativa Dura), and the sticky, or glutinous rice, called gạo nếp (Oryza Sativa Glutinosa). The hard variety is the medium-to-long-grain staple you eat every day: loose-grained, hard to eat with chopsticks, mixes well with other foods. Sticky rice, as the name implies, holds together firmly; in Laos they actually press it into a ball and use it to pick up other foods. It's unsuitable for soups because it doesn't swirl around in the liquid, but works great as a base for sweet or savory toppings – and the Vietnamese give you plenty to choose from.

The difference between the two rice strains comes down to a single genetic mutation. Let me explain: normal, hard rice contains two starches, amylopectin and amylose. Amylopectin is the starch that makes rice sticky. Normal rice contains around 30% amylose, however, and this ensures that the grains separate after cooking. As you can guess, glutinous rice has no amylose. As a result, the amylopectin is free to loose its stickiness upon the grain unhindered. Bless its starchy little head.

As a cultivar, sticky rice is of fairly recent origin. While evidence exists that hard rice was cultivated in China as early as 3,000 B.C., genetic researchers have traced the origins of sticky rice to a single genetic mutation that probably occured a couple of thousand years later. Where did this mutation occur? Most likely right here, in Southeast Asia. People obviously took to it, because farmers went on cultivating it. Even today, sticky rice remains the staple grain in many parts of Southeast Asia, notably northeastern Thailand and Laos.

What does all this have to do with dinner? Nothing, except that I like to know where my food comes from! And the fact that sticky rice has such deep roots in the Southeast Asian soil makes me feel that, in a macrobiotic sense, I'm eating exactly what I'm supposed to be eating while I live here.

So let's get to the yummy stuff: in Vietnam, xôi can be made into sweet or savory concoctions. Sweet xôi is called xôi ngọt, and salty, or savory xôi is xôi mặn. When it comes to toppings, the sky is the limit. Sweet xôi can be cooked with coconut milk, mixed with fruits, nuts, sugar, and even used as a base for ice cream! My taste, however, runs toward the savory varieties. Most especially, I love xôi xéo, in which the xôi is cooked together with green beans (giving the rice a yellowish color) and served with mung bean paste, fried shallots and choice of meat.
Hanoi boasts many locales in which to sample a good xôi, but Xôi Yến, on Nguyễn Hữu Huân Street, at the edge of the Old Quarter, could make a credible case as the best in town. Xôi Yến is easy to spot amid several xôi eateries on the same street because it's the one with all the people. The place serves a steady stream of customers, sitting at tables inside or upstairs, on low plastic stools outside, or getting their fare to go.
Xôi Yến offers three basic xôi varieties – xôi trắng (regular, white xôi), xôi ngô (xôi with bits of corn mixed in), and the aforementioned xôi xéo – with about twenty different possible toppings. These include various patés, boiled meats, chicken dishes, eggs, and vegetables. My favorites include gà nấm (chicken and black forest mushrooms, topped with kaffir lime leaves), thịt kho tầu (caramelized pork), and chả cốm (a kind of processed meat with green rice flakes inside) – all served with xôi xéo, of course.

A bowl of xôi with topping of choice generally runs anywhere from 8,000-15,000 VND (about 50 to 90 cents US). A light vinegary cucumber salad served alongside provides a nice complement to all these dishes. Throw in another 1,000 đồng for an iced tea, and you have one of the cheapest, and most delicious, meals in town.

The Cát Bà Archipelago

2009-11-23T23:52:00.018+07:00

Long ago, when a fish-monster was terrorizing people along the northeastern coast of Vietnam, Thiên Ngư, the Fish-God, descended from heaven on the back of a dragon, and engaged the monster in battle. The battle raged for months, during which time the god's dragon died of exhaustion and became an island. After killing the monster, Thiên Ngư threw his sword and club into the ocean; these too became islands. Later, a fairy woman descended from heaven on the back of an elephant – the elephant also became an island. Thus were born several islands in the Cát Bà Archipelago.

Located 50 km from Hải Phòng and adjacent to Halong Bay (Vịnh Hạ Long), the Cát Bà Archipelago is comprised of nearly 400 islands, all made of the same dramatic limestone karst topography for which Halong Bay is famous. Viewing these gnarled islands in the early morning mist one imagines some truth in the legends of their creation. Spectacular rocky spires, trellised with vines, showcase the sculpting power of the ocean and do, in fact, call to mind the dragons, elephants, and other mythical creatures for which they are often named. It's also easy to see how, for centuries, these islands, with their caves, hidden grottoes, and twisted outcroppings, served as refuges for pirates and other seafaring rogues.

Aside from its spectacular beauty, the Cát Bà Archipelago is an ecological treasure. The larger islands, including the 140 km² Cát Bà Island itself, are covered mainly by dense, tropical monsoon forest, but also contain mangroves, willow swamps, coral reefs, freshwater wetlands, and other habitats. They house a number of plant and animal species found nowhere else on earth, including the golden-headed langur (Trachypithecus poliocephalus) which, with only 60 in existence, is officially classified as the world's rarest primate (it looks oddly like the love child of Scatman Crothers and a Teletubby). Most of the archipelago – 4,200 hectares of ocean and nearly 10,000 hectares of forest – falls within the boundaries of Cát Bà National Park, and is protected from development.

The center of island tourism is Cát Bà Town, a community of roughly 10,000 people on the main island, with a strip of hotels and restaurants lining the edge of a small bay. Most of this development seems to have sprouted quickly; island residents tell me that ten years ago there were only a handful of places to stay. Indeed, the island has the feel of a boom-town, with scaffolding and work crews covering the façades of buildings in various stages of construction or repair. The only thing protecting Cát Bà from further expansion is the topography - the water's edge, of course, and the steep, densely foliated hills. Cát Bà looks about as full as it's going to get.

Like so much of Vietnam, Cát Bà's development only feels like a boom from the perspective of Vietnam's recent past. To an outsider, there remain visible elements of traditional village life. The harbor is filled with small, weather-beaten fishing boats that head out every evening after dark. Mid-morning, women sit dockside, cleaning the night's catch, and you see men mending nets, and performing other activities that affirm Cát Bà's historic standing as a fishing community. Outside of town are rice fields, lotus ponds, water buffaloes grazing between wooden fences, and signs of an island life as yet unaffected by tourism.

In the end, Thiên Ngư, the Fish-God, married the fairy woman who had descended from heaven on the back of an elephant. She brought with her a gourd of holy water, which restored Thiên Ngư's strength and fertilized the land. Rather than return to heaven, the couple decided to stay on earth, hunting and fishing for a living. Looking over the cathedral of rocks and water that make up the Cát Bà Archipelago, it is easy to see why.

Note: the story of Thiên Ngư and the monster comes from Hữu Ngọc. (2004). More Fascinating than Ha Long Bay. In Hữu Ngoc, Wandering Through Vietnamese Culture (4th ed.). Hanoi: Thế Giới Publishers.

Hải Phòng

2009-11-20T01:16:00.031+07:00

The walls of Hanoi were closing in on me, so last weekend I took a much-needed break from Vietnam's capital city and headed north-east toward the ocean. On the way toward the vacation island of Cát Bà, I decided to stop in Hải Phòng, Vietnam's second-largest port (after Saigon) and, with a population of 1.7 million, the country's third-largest city.

Located where the Red River meets the South China Sea, Hải Phòng is one of Vietnam's major commercial centers. The city's ever-growing port has enough docks, mooring points, cranes, pipelines, weighing stations, storage yards, warehouses, and manpower to handle loads from the world's largest freighters, and push them, through rail, road, air, and water, to every point in Vietnam. In addition to its transportation and shipping functions, the city serves as a center of heavy industry; Hải Phòng and Saigon together produce 70% of the country's GDP. The city is, if not the heart, then certainly a critical organ in Vietnam's economic body.

One needs a sense of history to appreciate the place. Founded in 43 A.D., the city has been one of Vietnam's principal ports and trading centers for nearly two thousand years. In the latter part of the 19th century, the French made Hải Phòng their major naval base in Indochina, and turned it into an industrial center. The city survived the infamous 1881 typhoon, which took an unbelievable 300,000 lives. After World War II, the French killed thousands of Hải Phòng's citizens in their effort to forestall Vietnam's independence. Later, during the American War, the U.S. subjected the city to heavy bombing and mined its ports to prevent Chinese and Soviet goods from aiding Vietnam's war effort. Seen through the eyes of history, Hải Phòng stands as an important symbol of Vietnamese perseverence and industry.

Whereas Hanoi has the sense of bygone grandeur, Hải Phòng feels like it's probably always had a seedy underbelly – a place where, in medieval times, Shanghaied sailors and pirates mingled with loose and deadly women, and fights broke out over rum and doubloons. Alongside the banks of the Tam Bạc River, the streets have an element of Dickensian filth. Rusted car parts, wooden crates, and black oily coils of metal cables line streets slicked with layers of trampled vegetables. Side roads provide another picture of blue-collar activity, with woodworkers turning table legs on wood lathes, young men grilling whole dogs inside metal drums, and roadside vendors selling shoes, plastic flowers, and the ever-abundant street food.

The people who work these streets have a distinct blue-collar air. One sees longshoremen, welders, machinists, and laborers, hard-bodied men accustomed to an honest day's work. Women with no-nonsense faces port vegetables to market on their backs, or load wicker baskets heavy with condemned ducks and chickens onto motorbikes, before whisking them away to slaughter. Hai Phong's reputation as a center of the Vietnamese mafia and drug trade adds to the mystique; one scours the faces and tries to discern if they're of pickpockets, racketeers, hoodlums, warlords, or women with daggers in their bras.

Lest I give the impression of pure ugliness, let me hasten to add that Hải Phòng has a rough beauty that couples with its unapologetically Vietnamese sense of purpose. Tam Bạc Lake, long and narrow like the river that carries the same name, but capped at both ends, weaves its way through the center of town. The old quarter houses lovely examples of 19th century French colonial architecture, weathered and layered like Rauschenberg collages. And above all, Hải Phòng serves some of the best food in northern Vietnam. Friends of mine in Hanoi take trips to Hải Phòng just to eat. I had a magnificent street-side bánh đa cua, filled with crab meat, fish cake, water spinach, tofu, dates, and the wide rice noodles (bánh đa) – produced only in Hải Phòng – that give the dish its name. It was a steaming, one-dish marvel of Vietnamese culinary ingenuity – complex, multilayered, and rich.

In sum, I liked the place. While it lacks the charms to attract the casual tourist, Hải Phòng is purposeful and busy, like the Vietnamese. It has played an important economic role in Vietnam for centuries, survived monsoons, wars, communism and capitalism both, and I have no doubts the city will continue to evolve for centuries to come. I will be back for the food.

Hanoi at Six Months

2009-11-11T00:39:00.006+07:00

I flew into Hanoi exactly six months ago today, and with the exception of a short trip to Ninh Binh, I haven't left. I still remember my sense of disorientation upon arrival – the traffic coming from all directions, the hustling touts of the Old Quarter, the sheer busyness of the place – but the Hanoi I live in today bears little similarity to the Hanoi I first saw. Actually, the city has changed little, but as I've grown to know the city, my sense of it has changed a great deal. And so, I'd like to take advantage of this semianniversary, if you will, to take stock, and describe Hanoi as I see it today.

Life in Hanoi is not for those who are set in their ways. The city forces people – especially Westerners, I believe – to adapt, and adapt quickly. Hanoi comes at you with at least as much vigor as New York, though the stress it engenders is of a different kind. Where New York is the quintessence of urbanity, Hanoi maintains the feel of a village that just happens to have six million inhabitants. This fucks with your sense of timing. One moment, there's a horrendous cacophany of horns and fumes, and some kid on a motorbike is screaming past you like a kamakaze. The next moment you're waiting for a conical-hatted woman to slowly make her way down the street with her baskets of fruits. It's difficult to completely give in to either movement or stasis. The only recourse is to constantly surrender and give in to the pace the street demands.

Hanoi's landscape evokes a constant sense of its history, but the country by no means lives in its past. The government has declared its goal for Vietnam to be "fully developed" by 2020. This term becomes easy to understand when you spend days among Hanoi's crumbling facades, cracked streets, and antiquated infrastructure. Impressions vary; a visitor from the developed world is apt to see lack, while a Hanoian who experienced the privations of war might see plenty. But history and progress are kept in balance – this is evident not only in the contrast between crumbling French villas and skyscraper cranes, but in the way that tradition blends with the exhuberant energy of youth. 70% of Vietnam's population is under 30 years old; they live among these crumbling plaster walls that have clearly seen better days, but they infuse the place with an energy that is palpable.

More than any country I've ever been in, language is the lever that pries open the box. Among the foreigners I know here, the difference in experience between those who speak Vietnamese (or at least attempt to) and those who don't, is night and day. My six hours a week of classes are clearly paying dividends. I'm fully able to get my needs met, and even small-talk to some degree. Today, I found myself fairly effortlessly conversing with some neighbors I hadn't seen for a little while. Vietnamese remains the most challenging language I've ever studied, but by no means is it impenetrable. After all, ninety million Vietnamese speak it. I sometimes have to remind myself: it is humanly possible.

It's important to come to Vietnam with as few personal agendas as possible. Expectations are disappointments in training. People hoping to find in Vietnam an antidote to Western consumerism will be disappointed by its capitalist fervor; people hoping to enjoy upper-middle-class comforts will be frustrated by Vietnam's lack of amenities. I would invite visitors to make every effort to see Hanoi as it is: not as a romantic vestige of colonial France, nor as a sequence of twentieth century wars, nor as an Asian economic dragon. Hanoi is all of these things rolled together; it is the melange that gives the city its flavor. It's a hell of a ride.

Vạn Phúc

2009-11-07T01:49:00.009+07:00

When I hear the word, "village," I generally think of a small community of houses built in a rural locale, surrounded by farms and all the trappings of a pastoral life. And when I hear the phrase, "silk-weaving village," I imagine a tiny hamlet wherein old women tend to small wooden looms, following local traditions handed down for generations. So these were the images I had in mind when a friend suggested we visit Vạn Phúc, a local Vietnamese silk-weaving "village," and center of Vietnamese sericulture for nearly two thousand years.

The guidebooks inform us that Vạn Phúc (please pronounce this to rhyme with "fluke," and not...well, you know what not...) is on the banks of the Nhuệ Thì River, 8 km. southwest of Hanoi. In actuality, you head down Nguyễn Trãi Road for about 20 minutes, turn right at a block of buildings, and you're there. There's no sense of ever leaving the city, and the "village," if it can rightfully be called that, at first blush appears to be nothing more than a line of concrete block shops with plastic awnings and large glass windows that just happen to be spilling fabric onto the asphalt.

But like so many places in Vietnam, it only takes a little poking beneath the surface to discover its appeal. First is the history; despite its modern appearance, Vạn Phúc really HAS been a center of silk production and weaving since...oh, about the time of Christ! The village claims to be where Vietnam's silk-making industry originated. Vạn Phúc reportedly provided the luxurious silks that were worn, first, by Chinese emperors (when Vietnam was still part of China), and later, by Vietnam's indigenous kings and queens. If nothing else, you have to give the place props for consistency.

Beyond that, there is a flavor to the place that becomes apparent as one walks around its narrow streets. Away from the shops one sees people engaging in every facet of silk production: extracting it from the cocoons of the silkworm (Bombyx mori), spinning it, weaving it, dyeing it, and so on. This is not a display for tourists; it's simply what people do, and there is something reassuring about the matter-of-factness with which Vạn Phúc continues to do what it's been doing for centuries.

To be sure, the village has been affected by Vietnam's emergence onto the world market. Large orders from French and Italian fashion centers have greatly expanded the scale of Vạn Phúc's silk production; where ten years ago there were a few hundred looms, there are now a few thousand. The repertoire of products has certainly expanded – Vạn Phúc silks come in a blithering assortment of weights, textures, patterns and colors. On the downside, the presence of tourists has created a market for cheaper, lower-quality materials, but the discerning shopper, I am told, still finds in Vạn Phúc the best silks Vietnam has to offer.

So long as one doesn't expect thatched roofs and grazing water buffaloes, Vạn Phúc is well worth the short ride from central Hanoi – for its interesting history, fine shopping, and, dare I say it, village charm.

Deep-Fried Tofu

2009-10-31T11:01:00.014+07:00

In modern Vietnam, tofu (đậu phụ>) production is something of a cottage industry, a hereditary skill handed down through generations. Its origins in Vietnam, however, are unclear. We know that tofu originated in ancient China; it was most likely introduced to Vietnam by monks, in association with the development of Buddhism. At first, tofu was an exotic food – people would have had to have gone to the temples to eat it. Later, it was popularized, and today is considered an inexpensive and nutritious staple.

In its early years, tofu served religious, medicinal, and dietary purposes. The rules of the Imperial Court required that vegetarian dishes be placed before the altar whenever the emperor prayed to heaven; tofu's culinary flexibility meant it could easily be included in imperial dishes fit for the gods. As for its medicinal value, early Chinese and Vietnamese doctors ascribed to tofu many health-promoting properties that have largely been corroborated by modern science. Tofu's protein and amino acids undoubtedly helped farmers – accustomed to a rice-centered, high-starch diet – maintain the strength needed to work the fields.

Economically, soybeans have long been an important Vietnamese commodity. The ease with which soybeans are cultivated meant that early farmers could plant them in crop rotations, enabling human survival before the rice harvest or in years when rice production was low. Soybeans can be eaten fresh off the vine or dried and stored, fermented, pickled, sprouted, and of course, made into tofu, which in turn can be dried, fermented, and so on. This means that soybeans, in one form or another, provide year-round sustenance. The economic value of soybeans is evidenced by the fact that in Hanoi's Old Quarter, among its original 36 guild streets, stands Hàng Đậu – "Bean Street" – where soy in all its forms was sold for many years.

Vietnamese tofu tends to be soft, with a pliable, rubbery skin and a custardy, curd-like interior. It frankly lacks the firmness I prefer in certain Japanese tofu varieties. But deep-fried, and served with bún (white noodles), it is one of my favorite street foods.

Bún Đậu Phụ is usually found in makeshift street-corner kitchens or ported by conical-hatted women off the ends of wooden yokes. The soft tofu expands slightly in the oil, developing an almost-crispy exterior and a light, airy core. The vendor cuts the tofu into bite-sized pieces and places it beside a mountain of fresh herbs. The bún served alongside is unlike the normal bún you'd find, for example, with bún chả. The bún served with bún đậu phụ is sticky, like leftover spaghetti, and cut into squares. This consistency enables diners to pop it into their mouths without dealing with the normal noodle stringiness.

Customers have a choice of two sauces, one of which is as ghastly as the other is sublime. The ghastly sauce, mắm tôm, is made of fermented shrimp paste and has a decidedly fecal pungence. Thankfully, the alternative is a standard light, sweet nước chấm, made of watered-down fish sauce, sugar, lime juice, and possibly a few chilis. In combination with the basil, mint, tía tô, and other herbs, bún đậu phụ makes for a nice breakfast or late-morning snack.

Seafood Spring Rolls

2009-10-24T09:03:00.008+07:00

I have a joke I tell my Vietnamese friends whenever they see me chowing down on the local cuisine: Tôi có da trắng nhưng bụng Việt Nam ("I have white skin, but a Vietnamese stomach"). This week, I learned just how true this was, when circumstances led me to spend TWO ENTIRE DAYS eating mainly foreign grub. I felt dirty, impure; it was...unnatural. Feeling a need to restore my body's equilibrium, I returned yesterday to my normal fare.

Lunch was bún chả and seafood spring rolls at one of my favorite holes-in-the-wall at 36 Lê Văn Hưu Street. My readers ought to be familiar with bún chả, one of the culinary specialties of northern Vietnam. It's normally served on street corners at 15,000 VNĐ (approx. US$0.85) for all the fixings. The particular establishment I go to on Lê Văn Hưu charges an astronomical 25,000 VNĐ (US$1.40) for a bún chả that really is that much better than most of its competitors.

But that's not why I go there. It's for the springrolls. Oh...my...ghod...

Little spring rolls (nem) are common lunchtime fare at bún chả joints; you dip them into the broth along with everything else. Most spring rolls are filled with pork, some are filled with crab. The place on Lê Văn Hưu serves GINORMOUS spring rolls (nem hải sản) that are more like savory French pastries, filled with an indulgent assortment of large, succulent pieces of crab meat, fat, juicy prawns, and the like. The pastry itself is light and flaky, and retains its crispiness even after being dipped. Combined with the dipping broth from the bún chả, it presents a mind-numbing combination of flavors and textures: sweet, savory, crispy, chewy; it's a taste of heaven in phyllo dough.
At 18,000 VNĐ (US$1) a pop the spring rolls cost more than the bún chả at most places, and once you add in a soft drink, the whole meal usually comes in at slightly under US$3, which is considerably more than I usually pay for lunch, and still half the price of the greasy French food my friends took me to eat the other day...which unsettled my stomach and brought back my adolescent acne. It's all a matter of taste, I suppose. One man's fish is another man's poisson.

New York Philharmonic in Hanoi

2009-10-20T01:47:00.011+07:00

It was somewhere in the middle of the second movement of Beethoven's 7th Symphony that I realized how incongruous it was. There I was, sitting on my motor bike, in front of the 100-year-old Hanoi Opera House, watching the New York Philharmonic on a giant outdoor screen with hundreds of other people, while honking motorbikes and wheezing buses growled all around.

Musical diplomacy has become a bit of a schtick for American orchestras, ever since the Boston Symphony Orchestra's 1956 visit to the Soviet Union, at the height of the Cold War. The New York Philharmonic itself paid a controversial visit to North Korea last year, becoming the first western orchestra, and the largest group of Americans, to visit that isolated country since the end of the Korean War. It would be tempting to view the Philharmonic's trip to Hanoi in a similar light.

But the Philharmonic's Hanoi visit – its first ever to Vietnam – was less an act of diplomacy, and more a logical step in a process of rapprochement that has been taking place between the U.S. and Vietnam since 1995. And if the Philharmonic's visit to Pyongyang could be criticized as helping to legitimize one of the world's most isolated and repressive regimes, the orchestra's Hanoi visit should probably be seen as simply one more act in Vietnam's ongoing effort to break out of its longtime isolation and join the community of developed nations.

To be sure, it was hard not to see a certain irony in both the venue, and the price of the tickets. The Hanoi Opera House (Nhà hát lớn Hà Nội) was built as a shrine to European high culture – a replica of the Palais Garnier opera house in Paris – between 1901 and 1911. With its luxurious period seating and world-class acoustics, it was a perfect venue for an evening of classical music.

What truly harkened back to the colonial era, however, were the ticket prices, which ranged from U.S. $80 to over $200 in a country whose median annual income hovers around $1,000. That the seats managed to be filled for two nights shows both the strides Vietnam has taken in terms of economic development, and the social stratification that seems an inevitable component of Vietnam's headlong rush into capitalism. At least the government's decision to broadcast the event for free – albeit into one of Hanoi's most hectic traffic circles – could be seen as a nod to the country's professed socialist values. One only wonders how long Vietnam will continue to give lip service to those ideals.

None of this seemed to matter Saturday night, however, to the few hundred people who sat outside and listened to a wonderful performance by one of the world's premier orchestras. The first act featured Brahms' Violin Concerto in D, and showcased the incredible virtuosic technique of soloist Franz Joseph Zimmerman (playing a 1711 Stradivarius!). After a brief intermission, the orchestra launched into Beethoven's 7th Symphony, with its famous second movement serving as a haunting counterpoint to the Hanoi traffic.

On a comfortable autumn evening, perched atop a 110cc Honda Dream, before one of France's colonial jewels, it was easy to get lost in the music.

Mid-Autumn Heist!

2009-10-14T00:51:00.013+07:00

It started as a simple idea: to check out the evening's festivities in Hanoi's Old Quarter, and learn something about the Mid-Autumn Festival. For weeks now, the festival had been building up, with red and gold boxes of "Moon Cakes" (Bánh Trung Thu), paper lanterns, ribbon stars, and other adornments springing up everywhere.

The Mid-Autumn Festival (Têt Trung Thu) is, along with Têt – the Vietnamese New Year – one of the major festivals on the lunar calendar. It is celebrated on the 15th day of the 8th lunar month – the full moon nearest the autumn equinox. The festival is related to a number of agricultural festivals celebrated throughout the world, festivals that traditionally celebrate the harvest, along with the shortening of the days, and the lengthening of the nights.

Têt Trung Thu is a holiday ripe with myths and folktales, many of them honoring the moon. People tell stories about the moon princess (who was banished to the moon after urinating on the sacred banyan), children wear masks to scare off the demon who would eat the moon, and of course, everyone eats moon cakes. Additionally, there are lion dances, dragon dances, and a host of decorations that carry deep mythic significance. These are truly the vestiges of ancient rituals and tales that have survived into modern times.

Hàng Mã Street, one of the original 36 guild streets of Hanoi's Old Quarter, serves as a center for the festivities; it is where people go to buy the lanterns, animal-shaped fruits, masks and toys needed to celebrate the festival in style. And so, when the day of the festival arrived, it seemed right to go to Hàng Mã and see what the fuss was all about.

Ironically, at least two people had warned me about the pickpockets that worked the crowd, and I, the native New Yorker, the experienced world traveler, the seasoned veteran of numerous shady deals, had made light of it. I even boasted with foolish bravado to one acquaintance, "I don't have to watch out for them, they have to watch out for me!" Smugly, I took the normal precaution of moving my wallet to the front pocket of my jeans, and headed to the fair.

In less than two minutes, my wallet was gone.

Here's how it happened: the crowd on Hàng Mã was, as expected, thicker than moose snot, with a tightly-pressed mass of people trying to move up and down the narrow street. I gave my pocket a last squeeze, moved to the edge of the swarm, and it sucked me in. Almost immediately I felt a sharp elbow press up against my side; a thin, middle-aged woman, it seemed, was trying to move past me. I rose my arm slightly to block her...and I believe that was it. Whether she or a companion did the lifting, I will never know.

It was clearly a professional job. Soon as I noticed my wallet was gone, a wave of heads started popping up from the crowd, each one complaining about a missing phone, wallet, or purse. My suspicion is that a team of pickpockets moved in, hit us, and moved out. Like bony-fingered wraiths, they floated through unnoticed, and we never even knew what hit us.

My first thought was revenge; I tried turning the tables. I picked up a piece of styrofoam I found on the ground, put it in my pocket, and tried to walk like a dumbshit tourist waiting to be robbed. I frankly intended to kick the ass out of anyone I caught trying to lift me. But of course, I fooled no one. Most probably, whoever had gotten me was long gone by the time I, and the others who got robbed, got wise to them.

Luckily, the loss was of little consequence: about US$12 in cash, and a VISA and bank card that were both immediately canceled. The wallet itself was worth about $3. Add the $6 it took to replace my bank card, and the whole experience cost me around $20 – a small price to pay for an interesting adventure (of course, adventure is what we call in retrospect that which is a pain in the ass when it occurs).

On the whole, Vietnam is not a dangerous country; by US standards it is quite safe. Violent crime is rare, and what crime there is tends to be by stealth. But if I took Hanoi's pickpockets lightly before, let me say they have earned my respect! Bravado aside, I am not an easy target. I have traveled the world with very few mishaps and I stand by the notion that New York provides good survival training. Additionally, it takes soft hands and steely nerves to be a pickpocket; it is, in its way, an art. So the person, or people, who got my wallet were total pros – artists, if you will – and for that I commend them. Congratufuckinglations.

Pictures from the festival:

EAS 2

2009-10-08T00:51:00.011+07:00

Twice in my life, I have seen a class fall in love. The first time was in my freshman year in college. The students and faculty members of The Evergreen State College's Democracy and Tyranny program gave our hearts and souls to our program. Our studies became our passion, and we bonded in a way that went beyond the normal classroom comraderie; it transformed our lives.

It has been 28 years since that class, and in the intervening years I have received vocational training, earned professional certification, and obtained both an undergraduate and a master's degree. I have taught hundreds of classes in various subject fields to children and adults in corporate, college, and foreign language school settings. And while I've been privileged to work with many excellent educators and some truly special students, I have never felt so bonded to a group of fellow scholars as I did that freshman year, when I was so young and eager to learn.

Until now. This evening was the last session of my beloved EAS 2 class. I handed out the certificates my students had so richly earned, and then we all went out to dinner and silliness at a karaoke club. As the majority of students were in their mid-teens, the evening ended early, and I am now home at ten o'clock, as I often am on the nights I teach. But this evening is tinged with a bittersweet flavor, for while I am happy for the time I got to spend with my students, I am anticipating the emptiness I will soon feel on Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights.

The EAS, or English for Academic Success, program at Language Link is designed primarily for teens and young adults who intend to study abroad. The program teaches the reading, writing, speaking, and listening skills students need to succeed in an English-language university. EAS 1 is designed for pre-intermediate students (just above elementary ability), EAS 2 is for intermediate-level students, and EAS 3 is upper-intermediate. The program is intensive: classes meet for three hours, three times a week, and students must complete a number of challenging writing assignments, deliver oral presentations, understand academic lectures, and perform well on a pair of grueling three-hour exams. And the program lasts three months.

I remember the first night of class, three months ago, in a cramped seventh-story classroom, on a July evening that was still sticky with the heat of a Hanoi summer day. I walked in, and could sense the mixture of anticipation and dread that students always bring to the first day of school. I started as I usually do, by having the students ask me questions so they could get to know their teacher. Then I introduced an activity to get them out of their seats, and getting to know each other.

It was like unyoking a team of wild horses. The students burst from their seats with a boisterous enthusiasm that took me by surprise. There erupted a din of conversation and laughter that I am certain would have carried on for hours if I hadn't channeled them into the next activity. That night established a pattern that was to persist for the rest of the term; once they got started talking, they were impossible to shut up! This is a teacher's dream, but that first night of class, I wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into.

I soon learned that I had been given a strong group of learners, with solid English skills, who were eager to absorb anything I could give them. Additionally, they were a cast of characters, each of whom brought an important flavor to the class. Like most teachers, I work hard to create a sense of community in my classes, and with an intensive class like EAS, it is vitally important to establish a sense of trust. But a teacher can only do so much. Like a gardener, a teacher can cultivate and nurture, but only nature can make things grow. With this class, the trust developed quickly, and the growing affection between the students – and between the students and me – soon became nourishing and palpable.

I don't think my students ever realized how much I grew professionally and personally. As a teacher, I had the freedom to try things out that I had never before tried in the classroom, knowing that if they didn't work out, my students would handle the experience with tolerance and humor, and move easily onto the next thing. While it takes a great deal of work to prepare nine hours of lessons every week, I frequently said over the course of the term that Language Link only paid me for preparing; going to class was something I did for fun. I frankly had nothing I preferred to do on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights.

EAS 2 became a close-knit family – something that occurs too rarely in life. I felt and continue to feel a deep sense of loyalty to my students. And if there was any question remaining over whether moving to Vietnam was the right decision for me, EAS 2 answered it. A year ago, I was in the midst of divorce proceedings and about to lose a job I honestly didn't care to hold onto. Today, I bid farewell to a group of young people for whom the experience of a class was, I hope, something they will continue to remember with gratitude when they reach my age, and recall the experiences of their youth.

Space does not permit me to give each of my students the individual thanks I would like to give them, so let me just say: Loc, Quang, Big Linh, Little Linh, Chi, Little Ha, Nhi Ha, Hai Ha, Ngoc, Trung, Trang, Hoang Anh, Nhung, Thuy, and Hien - it's been a beautiful ride, and I'm going to miss you all very much. Be well, my young friends.

Chi, My Linh, Hai Ha, Little Ha, Nhi Ha, Nhung, Loc, Quang, Trang, Trung, Big Linh (missing: Ngoc, Hoang Anh, Thuy, Hien)

Unhappy Westerners

2009-09-30T01:21:00.008+07:00

An American woman I know, who has been in Vietnam for six years, is leaving. I am sad for her, not because I know her well, but because she has had such a hard time here.

For six years in Hanoi, this woman led one of the more materially-charmed lives of anyone I know. Her house was a mansion, with high ceilings, fashionable furnishings, and tasteful mementoes of her many travels. Her son received excellent schooling at the city's most prestigious school. Her husband's high government position freed her from the necessity of work, and she enjoyed the services of a cook, a housekeeper, and a driver. But despite these comforts, she disliked the country, and will be bidding good riddance to Vietnam.

Many of the things she told me when I arrived – that Hanoians were rude, that they would pretend to not understand me if I tried to speak their language, that they would constantly try to rip me off – have simply not been true for me. She dismissed my favorable first impressions as naiveté. After some time, when my impressions of Vietnam only grew more favorable, she ascribed it to my work at a language school. She could not accept that Vietnam was not as bad for me as it had been for her.

Unhappy westerners abound here; most of them blame Vietnam for their miseries. Another example: the other day, an Australian woman I know, speaking about the Vietnamese, said, "This is an unkind race." I asked her on what she had based that opinion, and she mentioned the driving, and office politics at her workplace. I asked her if she spoke any Vietnamese, if she had studied the history, or the literature, or if she had any close Vietnamese friends. The answer, of course, was a mumbled no.

These attitudes are hard for me to understand. I like Vietnam: I appreciate its history, I like its food, and most of all, I like the people. I also have practices that help me to live here as a foreigner. First of all, I remind myself every day that I am here by choice. Vietnam did not invite me; I chose this place, and if I want to make the most of my experience here, I had better remember that.

In a similar vein, I don't look for Vietnam to entertain me, or fulfill me spiritually, or provide for me anything that I am unable to provide for myself. I came here assuming that Vietnam would at times be intriguing, frustrating, exotic, horrible, and beautiful – in other words, like every other place on earth. I'm not surprised by its discomforts. Vietnam gives you nothing you cannot give yourself. Why should it? It's as pitiless as the sea.

Happiness – and this is true anywhere – often depends on accepting things on their own terms, not on the terms one would impose upon them. When you take Vietnam on its own terms, you see an ancient culture where Confucianism and traditional agricultural village society have been thrown into a crazy blender with Voltaire, Marx and Mao, and produced a melange of dynamic forces that often operate at odds with each other. It's a country that has experienced enormous social fissures...and not entirely reconciled them. But the thing to recognize is that Vietnam's fundamental dialog is with itself – not with me, or any of the other foreigners that have recently begun to wash up here.

I try to live by the credo expressed in the Henry Miller quote that anchors this blog: look outside, forget yourself – the world is filled with richness and beauty. Learn to appreciate vignettes: the old women in conical sunhats selling mangosteens and pineapples; the weird wooden bong smoked by the uniformed security guard in front of a motorcycle dealership; the scent of rotting fruit peels that, in the summer heat, blends rank and sweetness in equal proportion. These moments anchor a place in memory, and become tomorrow's nostalgia.

Aristotle one day was sitting on a hillside outside of Athens, when a traveller came up to him and asked, "Are you from that city?" When Aristotle said yes, the stranger asked, "Tell me, what are the people like there?" Aristotle answered the stranger's question with a question: "What are the people like where you come from?" The stranger replied, "Oh, they are very nice, very friendly, kind and helpful," to which Aristotle responded, "The people of Athens are exactly the same."

Later, a second traveller approached him with the same question, and Aristotle asked this traveller too, what the people were like where he had come from. The stranger replied, "They're very mean, always fighting and unhappy," to which Aristotle replied, "The people of Athens are exactly the same."

Canh: Soup's On!

2009-09-24T01:02:00.014+07:00

A typical home-cooked Vietnamese meal consists of white rice, a meat dish, a vegetable dish, and soup, known in Vietnamese as canh. All dishes are placed in the middle of the table; diners grab tiny morsels and place them into their individual bowls. Rice is, of course, the staple, as it is in all of Asia, and the other staple is canh.

While some soups are complex and may form the centerpiece of the meal, canh is more often just a light, simple broth infused with some kind of herb or vegetable. This kind of canh is eaten at the end of the meal, poured into a bowl with rice, and used to fill up the belly after you've had enough of the main courses. The stock for this type of canh often comes from the water that is used to boil the main meat or vegetable; the Vietnamese are loath to let anything edible go to waste. At restaurants, a light canh may be served alongside a noodle or rice dish, as a palette cleanser and extra filler.

More complex soups can include clams, shrimp, chicken, fish, and various vegetables, and form the centerpiece of a meal. One famous example of this kind of canh, originally from the south but found all over Vietnam, is canh chua. Canh chua ("sour soup") is made with pineapples, tomatoes, onions, and tamarind or some other sour fruit, and may include fish, pork, or shrimp, and various herbs (there seem to be as many canh chua recipes as there are cooks). When a canh such as this is served at table, the meat or vegetable may be omitted.

At least in the north, there is a seasonal element to canh; it tends to be a bigger part of the meal in summer, when the hot, muggy nights militate against overeating. A light canh helps to satiate hunger without overfilling the belly, and makes it easier to eat rice. An example of a light summer canh is canh mồng tơi cua, which is made from river crab and a leafy green vegetable called mồng tơi (Latin: Basella alba; English: Malabar spinach).

The crab meat, which is bought from the market in 100 gram parcels and has the consistency of mud, is broken up into a liter or water, and allowed to simmer. A small package of crab eggs is usually included; these are added to the stock once the water has boiled, along with a little gia vị (prepackaged spice mix sold in all Vietnamese food stores). The mồng tơi is chiffonaded, tossed into the stock, and briefly boiled, before the soup is taken off the stove and cooled before serving. To really make this dish pop, serve it with Cà muối, a small eggplant varietal that is salted and pickled and becomes totally addictive if you eat it regularly. The picture at the top of this post shows the canh top right, alongside a lovely perch wrapped in lemongrass.

A more robust canh is the canh ngao, or clam soup. This dish – made from clams, dill (thì là), Vietnamese cilantro (rau răm), a little-known herb called mùi tàu (Latin: Eryngium foetidum; English: culantro), scallions, tomatoes, and gia vị – is weighty enough to hold its own against any meat dish, and can easily form a central part of a meal.

The recipe, again, is very simple: boil the clams until they open. Shell the clams and decant the water to remove the grit, and return the broth to the stove. Return the clams to the broth, and add all the chopped veggies except the rau răm and scallions. Bring to a boil, add the scallions and rau răm, and serve. That's it! It sounds simple, but the picture below hopefully attests to the richness of this meal.

Good Vietnamese food shows a great appreciation for the natural taste of fresh ingredients. Where the French delight in the mysterious alchemy of a sauce, Vietnamese chefs are just as likely to offer a simple broth, infused with little more than the taste of a fresh herb. This is not to say that Vietnamese cuisine does not produce complex creations, but the culinary philosophy seems to be: the simpler, the better. Nowhere is this philosophy better demonstrated than in the Vietnamese approach to soup, where the bountiful riches of the garden are enjoyed.