Travel Blog; Part Three (of Four)
I didn’t tour the Literature Museum in Hanoi. Rather I stormed it. After taking a motorbike taxi ride that, given the small distance covered was a significant rip-off geared toward the naïve traveler, I was finished being taken for my “money” in Vietnam. I pushed past the throng of Japanese tourists taking pictures of such useless figures as trashcans and billboards towards the interior of the museum which blessedly, was a aesthetically calming courtyard. A delightful retreat for a tired mind and body.
Debating every price really takes it out of me. Especially when the locals insist that you give them more than the price you agreed on and know just enough English to give you some far-fetched reason why they agreed to a price, but the conditions of the trip or transaction warranted more from my pocket book. Usually the circumstance allowed for me to give the negotiated amount and turn my back and simply walk away. This time at the museum however, I didn’t have the correct change so of course the taxi driver sped off with my larger bill. Sitting in the courtyard next to me was two 40-something American men, one of whom enthusiastically commented to the other, “Did you hear that tour guide say this place is where they used to train kids to Kung-fu?” Surely I don't act like those kinds of tourists. Such banter only served to irritate me further so with a very blatant roll of my eyes, I continued my journey inward to the next stop in the museum which happened to be a small room with a few chairs set up to listen to Vietnamese women play traditional instruments. Ahhh what a retreat this was. Much to my disappointment, the ladies only played for 30 minutes. I would have listened to them play those weird looking instruments for hours to sooth away the building tension I felt while traveling Vietnam, getting royally ripped off at every turn. As the ladies were packing their instruments up, I wandered up to the tip jar and of course, did what anyone else would in my position. I gave significantly more than I had paid for taxi rides all week.
The morning I left Vietnam on a flight to Bangkok, I had to ease through an alley past a man carrying a barely-live chicken upside-down by the feet, with it’s wigs splayed out across nearly the entire alley, feathers flying everywhere. Yes, I said to myself. It’s time to go home. A Buddhist proverb that I read recently says that nothing like traveling makes you realize where you home is. I guess I understand the concept here, but I would venture to say that Buddha (or whoever actually said this) failed to point out the significance of making one’s home fluid and transitional. Littleton is my home that I think is referenced in this statement, but I have certainly felt “at home” many places like Denver, Oklahoma and now Thailand.
These experiences in Vietnam left me yearning for some delicious Pad See Eww and the friendly Thai-English blend of conversation with motor-taxi drivers in Saraburi, while they genuinely drive around lost taking me home and actually get stuck in traffic jams, but of course never charge me extra for it :)
Debating every price really takes it out of me. Especially when the locals insist that you give them more than the price you agreed on and know just enough English to give you some far-fetched reason why they agreed to a price, but the conditions of the trip or transaction warranted more from my pocket book. Usually the circumstance allowed for me to give the negotiated amount and turn my back and simply walk away. This time at the museum however, I didn’t have the correct change so of course the taxi driver sped off with my larger bill. Sitting in the courtyard next to me was two 40-something American men, one of whom enthusiastically commented to the other, “Did you hear that tour guide say this place is where they used to train kids to Kung-fu?” Surely I don't act like those kinds of tourists. Such banter only served to irritate me further so with a very blatant roll of my eyes, I continued my journey inward to the next stop in the museum which happened to be a small room with a few chairs set up to listen to Vietnamese women play traditional instruments. Ahhh what a retreat this was. Much to my disappointment, the ladies only played for 30 minutes. I would have listened to them play those weird looking instruments for hours to sooth away the building tension I felt while traveling Vietnam, getting royally ripped off at every turn. As the ladies were packing their instruments up, I wandered up to the tip jar and of course, did what anyone else would in my position. I gave significantly more than I had paid for taxi rides all week.
The morning I left Vietnam on a flight to Bangkok, I had to ease through an alley past a man carrying a barely-live chicken upside-down by the feet, with it’s wigs splayed out across nearly the entire alley, feathers flying everywhere. Yes, I said to myself. It’s time to go home. A Buddhist proverb that I read recently says that nothing like traveling makes you realize where you home is. I guess I understand the concept here, but I would venture to say that Buddha (or whoever actually said this) failed to point out the significance of making one’s home fluid and transitional. Littleton is my home that I think is referenced in this statement, but I have certainly felt “at home” many places like Denver, Oklahoma and now Thailand.
These experiences in Vietnam left me yearning for some delicious Pad See Eww and the friendly Thai-English blend of conversation with motor-taxi drivers in Saraburi, while they genuinely drive around lost taking me home and actually get stuck in traffic jams, but of course never charge me extra for it :)
posted by carlymarie | 11:44 PM
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