Hanoi, Vietnam
After a delish dinner (caramelized lemongrass seared tofu), I asked the restaurant owner if she would call us a cab. She did, but said it may be as long as thirty minutes before it arrived, as many of the streets were blocked off for a festival and traffic was slower than usual.
I wandered to the restaurant door and looked out at the sidewalk. The warmth of the day had cooled to pleasantness. On the top step one of the restaurant owner’s 8-year-old twin sons was playing what looked like a squash racket case as though it were a guitar.
Seeing me looking at him, he unzipped the case to reveal two badminton racquets and a shuttlecock. He took out one racquet and started bouncing the shuttlecock on its face. I was a fairly good squash player during law school (Stanford men’s team), so I picked up the other racquet.
“Game on?” I asked the boy.
“[Something in Vietnamese],” he replied with a grin.
We started volleying back and forth on the sidewalk, quickly (and non-verbally) devising our own set of rules. The place where the brick was cracked was the net line. If the shuttlecock landed among the parked motor scooters, the play was a do-over. If it hit a sign overhanging over the sidewalk, you lost the point.
Ten minutes, then fifteen, flew by. The boy’s brother subbed for him (they were great at taking turns) while Husband served as my coach. The restaurant staff and the patrons at the window tables cheered us on. I’m fairly certain the old man sitting on the overturned bucket was taking action.
I was sorry when the taxi finally showed. I high-fived my worthy opponents, bowed to the small crowd, and ducked inside the car, waving good-bye to the twins until the cab turned the corner.
Love of sport: it’s universal. And “pick-up games” is another entry on the (long) list of things I’m missing right now.
More Hanoi…
We ventured into Old Town, where there was block after block of stores, stalls, and open markets.
There were tons of lanterns, noisemakers, and dragon costumes for sale.
While strolling I struck up an acquaintance with ten-year-old Hung, en route to the park with his parents.
We shared thoughts on sports, travel, food, and changes we’d like to make in our respective countries. I said his English was terrific. (It was!) He said I needed to study harder at my Vietnamese.
We walked through the French Quarter, taking in the remaining examples of colonial architecture.
There were speakers posted on every block, blaring what I later learned was a mix of local news, bureaucratic trivia, communist ideology, and patriotic songs. I felt sorry for the nearby residents.
Behind the Hilton. I cannot figure out why the internet is so slow here.
