Outside the window there are crowds of mopeds, motorcycles, bicycles and the occasional Renault whizzing past, filled with men in baseball caps and white shirts, and women in cone-shaped hats, ao dais and face masks. It's hot here, but not as hot as you'd think — I'd compare it to August in New York — though the humidity can sneak up on you.
Our hotel is terrific — high ceilings, a karaoke bar two floors down (I seem to appreciate this more than Ellen does) — and, best of all, Western-style toilets. We've spent the day wandering around the city, fending off over-eager cyclo drivers, strolling along the canal and sampling different varieties of noodle soup, fried pork and Fanta. I haven't been adventurous enough to try frog or snake, but it's only a matter of time.
There's so much to see here — every time I turn around, I see an old French bank or hotel that's become a tourist information center or Communist headquarters. Everything is a strange blend of Vietnamese, English and sometimes French, and everyone has something different to sell...
I'm still taking it all in, but I have a feeling I'll have a lot of stories to tell by the time I return.
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