Travel Musings

ORD to DTW to...

SE Asia 2005 Trip Initial Post

My taxi driver arrives promptly at 4:45 a.m. Boy, is she loquacious! I lack the energy to explain the no talking before 9:00 a.m. rule -- it's a catch-22. I don't care for 4:45 a.m. It hurts. I flashback briefly to the ridiculous "Mornings are overrated" Garfield (!?!) poster that my weirdo freshman roommate hung in our dorm room. Traveling alone triggers useless, random memories and fuels my obsessive tendencies.

Did I unplug the curling iron?

I check-in for my Northworst ORD-DTW-NRT-BKK flight. No problems. With time to burn, I check my Blackberry. Boss's Boss, already at work for the day, has sent an e-mail: he would like my marketing piece (the one scheduled to go to print during my vacation) revised. I pretend I never opened the e-mail and turn the damned thing off.

I booked my flight nearly a year ago (NWA opens a limited number of award travel seats 350 days in advance of the flight; 330-350 days in advance for their partners), thereby avoiding the dreaded, ubiquitous *Rulebuster* fares. Booking award travel on the NWA website was painless: their online system offered more award travel flight options for this trip than did their standard service center.

DTW to NRT to...

If I *did* leave my curling iron on, would it simply burn out, or would it ignite?

The Northworst dinner looks unappetizing, at best. I pass, opting for an oversized cheese plate (surpisingly good), several glasses of Perrier-Jouet, and two Ambien. A perfect meal.

What?! Everybody Else in Business Class is mixing their alcohol and narcotics.

I visit the bathroom to remove my contacts. Crap. No lens case. Mission aborted.

I program my headphone music, recline to a near-comfortable 165 degrees, and adjust my eye mask. Ahhh. And as the Ambien and champagne envelope me, my thoughts drift off to...the damn marketing piece. What's so God-awful wrong with it?

Hours later: We land in Tokyo. Other than suffering a bad case of sticky eyeball, I feel fine. NRT is exceptionally bright and their signs are blurry. They should fix that.

I pocket several packets of Oreos in the NWA World Club, in case capitalistic snack products are not readily available in Vietnam.

I'm compelled to check. No Blackberry or cell phone coverage. Good.

Post-take-off: I don't like the guy sitting next to me. He doesn't adjust his seat when the restroom beckons me and I'm forced to clamber over him. And he laughs -- aloud -- at The Dukes of Hazzard movie. His water infringes upon my side of the tray. Jerk.

Day Three. Barely.

We arrive in Bangkok at 12:20 a.m. BKK rush hour. The trick to avoiding the long Customs lines is just to keep walking: the shorter lines are at the far end of the room, beyond sight.

I ignore the the taxi hawkers accosting me as I thread my way through the terminal. I'm not opposed to paying them an extra $7 for a non-metered cab, thereby avoiding a wait in line after 28 hours of travel. I'm opposed to them calling me Madame. I picture a drunken Patsy Stone hissing "It's Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" at an uppity fight attendant in the France episode.

The Miracle Grand Convention Hotel is a five minute ride from the airport. One night costs $49 through the internet -- a decent value (although its not half as glamorous as it appears in this picture). I stayed at the Rama Gardens Hotel for a night two years ago -- the MGCH is much better.

My contacts are sealed to my eyes. I eventually pry them off with a disconcerting "pop".

Ahoy, Hanoi

BKK airport tax is 500 Baht. Oanda has a printable "currency cheat sheet" (currency table) that simplifies currency conversions when traveling between multiple countries.

I Fly Vietnam Airlines to Hanoi. I booked my inter-Asia travel through Mr. Eddie, who was recommended by the good folks on the Fodors.com Talk page. Mr. Eddie is my hero: he is courteous, quick, and competent. He offered to mail my tickets to my hotel at no charge but I paid $20 to have them sent Fedex to me in Chicago instead. I didn't want to risk having to track them down at The Miracle Grand at 1:30 a.m.

Vietnam visas must be obtained in advance. I acquired my application form by e-mailing the Vietnam Embassy in Washington, D.C. The turn-around time was a few days.

Taxi fares are standardized in Hanoi and the cabs are readily available. My driver speeds off, indifferent to my destination. Neither of us speak one word of the other's language. I repeat the hotel name several times (likely mangling the pronunciation in the process), to no avail. I write the hotel name down but he still doesn't recognize it. I finally produce the address and we're in business.

The houses dotting the countryside fascinate me: tall, narrow buildings bedecked in dark pastels. I read somewhere that Vietnam property tax had once been calculated by streetfront footage (meterage?), which would explain their elongated profiles. Once inside the city and upclose to the buildings their detail is more discernable: bright trims peeling away, ornate but crooked balustrades, French doors with a broken pane or two: dilapidated chic.

The picture is actally Hue, not Hanoi, but it's an excellent example of the architecture I encounter throughout Vietnam.

Death by Vespa

I'm staying at the De Syloia, a French-colonial boutique hotel located in a quiet part of the Old Quarter (definitely the best section of Hanoi). I reserved my room through their website for a mere $60 a night -- a good value. Although, if money were no object, I would opt for the old-world opulence of The Metropole -- that place Has It Going On.

Local reviews of the new Hilton are positive, but it sounds so...American. And I refuse to contribute to Paris' and Nikki's inheritance.

I explore after a nap. Crossing the street is harrowing, at best. Sure, some intersections have streetlights, but they serve little purpose when stopping on red is apparently optional. Most intersections are sans signals, and armies of motorbikes charge one another from every direction, somehow materializing on the opposite side of the melee unscathed.

I eventually venture beyond the safe confines of my city block, thanks to the street-crossing advice I received from fellow bloggers prior to the trip: walk slowly and steadily across the street and don't stop! The motorbikes will circumvent you if you keep moving. The feat is akin to walking a tightrope: just look straight ahead, don't actually think about the insanity of what you're doing, and you'll be fine. 

Am I imaging this, or are the majority of the motorists shooting me the "I'm gonna getcha sucka" look?