We woke up to a dripping air con and scrubbed the travel grim off our skins before heading into the hustle of Saigon. We walked to a nearby market, and disappeared into the aisles of sweatshop merchandise. Breakfast began with durian and mangosteens, followed by spicy pho that soothed the acheyness of exhaustion with chili and lime, and the day was finally kicked into gear with iced coffee. It was love at first slurp. Ah! Strong, syrupy Vietnamese coffee, beans the colour of dark chocolate, glossy and sticky. "With milk" means condensed milk - a style that hits the spot with a bang (this is not easily admitted, being a strong supporter of the "Sugar does not belong in coffee club").
A gander through the stalls, then back on the street, where we get picked up by two motorcycle taxis. We were hesitant at first, having being warned about the risk of being ripped off, but they won us over in the end (the leader having some family connection to an American GI that made him incoherently entertaining).
The ride was better than any merry-go-round or fair ground attraction that could ever be invented. Clinging onto the hips of my driver, I let him do his thing, and suddenly I was in a movie, with the baddies chasing us in hot pursuit.
Next stop: War Memorial. We were suitably sober, but then spent more time in the souvenir shop than actually looking at the displays. Mr N and I had a half-hearted debate over the nature of evil - my main argument being that war is insanity, and how much responsibility can individual soldiers be expected to carry, when their generals are aiming to "bomb the Vietnamese back into the Stone Age"?
Back onto the streets, where we learn the trick to crossing the road lies not in waiting for the robot that will never change, but simply to step into the on-coming traffic and walk - slowly and directly - to the other side.
We wander for hours, lapping up the free entertainment provided by the anniversary of the Vietnamese victory, then finally clamber into a taxi. The driver tries to rip us off, but is too confused in his highness to pull it off.
The next morning we fly to Hanoi, which is an unbelievable smoothie of Europe and Asia. The architecture is an insane mix of skinny, multi-storeyed houses that have been cut from different buildings and dumped next to each other - like a cake made of slices from eight different cakes - with Tarzan vines swinging between them.
I thought the backpackers would be a welcome break from Japan, but it was strange being around so many foreigners - especially young Australians and Brits trying to assert their Independence after school or university by acquiring a cancerous tan, not washing their hair and wearing large amounts of paisley, whilst making Skype calls to anxious parents that, yes, they have been able to find Western food.
After settling in and a shower, we amble into the night and gawp at the group in the common room watching satellite TV. We aim for the chaos of the night market and eat more street food, and return some hours later to the same group, still watching TV, but now in the possession of a large quantity of pizza.
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