"Here in Saigon; nothing rude."
Saigon makes Hanoi look like a quaint village town. If Hanoi's insanity is one you can sink into, Saigon's brand is a rushing torrent that you jump into and hope you can swim. Here the question is not why did the chicken cross the road, but instead; how the hell did he make it to the other side?! Motorbikes flood every inch of the streets and people criss cross in every concievable direction. Street vendors pass bar to bar selling sunglasses or bracelets or photocopied versions of Catch 22, Lonely Planet guides, and Bukowski.
We landed in 'Hell Alley', the first room we looked at was priced at 300,000 dong, and when we asked for 200 the lady shook her head, shouted some words to her neighbors and led us deeper into the heart of the block. Past men sleeping in dingy beds on the ground floor, past small fires and decrepit doorways. The lady she took us to was sweet, had a completley crippled son incapable of speech, an old, fat chihuahua who protected him with what was left of his life, and the name of her husband, dead 6 months, on her business card. In the room you can hear hysterical screaming from the autistic girl next door, old women coughing and spitting into buckets, and men arguing.
We emerged from the alley and dipped into the bar across the street with the big sign for happy hour. As we sat down we looked up at the awning; the name of the bar we sat at, staring out across the street into the dark and smoke of our very own alley, was of course called Lost in Saigon.
Saigon makes Hanoi look like a quaint village town. If Hanoi's insanity is one you can sink into, Saigon's brand is a rushing torrent that you jump into and hope you can swim. Here the question is not why did the chicken cross the road, but instead; how the hell did he make it to the other side?! Motorbikes flood every inch of the streets and people criss cross in every concievable direction. Street vendors pass bar to bar selling sunglasses or bracelets or photocopied versions of Catch 22, Lonely Planet guides, and Bukowski.
We landed in 'Hell Alley', the first room we looked at was priced at 300,000 dong, and when we asked for 200 the lady shook her head, shouted some words to her neighbors and led us deeper into the heart of the block. Past men sleeping in dingy beds on the ground floor, past small fires and decrepit doorways. The lady she took us to was sweet, had a completley crippled son incapable of speech, an old, fat chihuahua who protected him with what was left of his life, and the name of her husband, dead 6 months, on her business card. In the room you can hear hysterical screaming from the autistic girl next door, old women coughing and spitting into buckets, and men arguing.
We emerged from the alley and dipped into the bar across the street with the big sign for happy hour. As we sat down we looked up at the awning; the name of the bar we sat at, staring out across the street into the dark and smoke of our very own alley, was of course called Lost in Saigon.
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