84 - Frustration Rumination (Hanoi, Vietnam)

https://playingwithplays.com/hamming-up-romeo-and-juliet/

I WAS IN HANOI. Michelle was back in Ireland. “Parting is such sweet sorrow” as the cliché goes. Or is it? Depends on what the hell that means, I suppose. Juliet’s “sorrow” stemmed from her preference to snare Romeo in her twisted web of desire, thereby enslaving him to passion. And the “sweet”? Well, anything she does with Romeo is pleasurable, even parting as it were. Sadomasochist much? And therein lies the problem with misunderstood clichés. Misapplication makes you look like a literary douchebag dilettante.

Mayhap, “sorrowfully sweet” is more apt a phrase. I was sorry to see Shell go. No question about it. Still, this couldn’t obscure the inconvenient truth of failed expectations. Though our time together as a whole was excellent, I’d be remiss if I didn’t highlight the snags. We’d kindled a spark years before at a hostel in Kampala, Uganda, but there wasn’t time or opportunity to explore our possibilities then.

Vietnam was our carpe diem. Feet first. Eyes open. Take a chance. Have a fling. Threw our hats in the ring. Lewis Carroll said it best, “In the end, we only regret the chances we didn’t take, the relationships we were afraid to have, and the decisions we waited too long to make. There comes a time in your life when you realize who matters, who doesn’t, who never did and who always will. So don’t worry about the people in your past, there’s a reason they didn’t make it to your future.”

All did not go as hoped. First off, time wasn’t on our side. I felt pressure (self-induced) to organize the perfect getaway for my Irish lass. No doubt this compromised my laid-back disposition. My pre-reunion Hanoian social exchanges did nothing to rebuild it. Everything became a struggle, a struggle that continued after Michelle’s arrival and flowed right on to my departure. Most interactions with locals were neutral-negative, borderline hostile, or downright belligerent. Be it hotels, restaurants, markets, or pedestrians—we were often treated like unapproachable stray dogs. This can wear a brother down… sheesh.

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We also had transportation issues. I’d rented a motorcycle too small for two (all others were booked) which led to long, painful rides on a good day. A faulty map extended our chronic ass pain longer still. As a passenger, Shell had it worse. At least I had the road and constant fear of collision to take my mind off lower back discomfort. She began to dread the next day’s leg of our northern incursion, justifiably so.

Enter Typhoon Ketsana to frustrate best-laid plans of mice and men, skewing the timeline. More time (to explore, lolly-gag, rest, recuperate, etc.) could’ve gone far to mitigate damages, but she had a life and responsibilities to attend. I’m grateful she spent her precious free time with yours truly. I reckon this accounts for (though doesn’t validate) my relentless (see neurotic) preparations. The blame lies with me for trying to pack so much in for her benefit and my inability to curtail irascibility in the face of subpar hospitality. This came to a head just before her departure when we were again obliged to play musical hotels resulting from multiple “booking errors.” It didn’t help to be called a liar after explaining I’d negotiated a discounted rate in anticipation of our return. Grrrr… I let frustration get the better of me, and though I loathe to admit it, I did take out some of this frustration on Shell. Though we made up, my sourness left a sour taste in her mouth. Again, justifiably so.

Unanswered questions needed answering. They weren’t the answers we wanted. Had all gone smoothly, the writing was still on the wall: Romantically speaking, long-term compatibility was doubtful. Though we’ve lost touch over the intervening years, our issues at the time weren’t severe enough to derail our friendship. Time plus distance has a way of erecting no-fault barriers. We drifted apart.

I hated to see her leave. I enjoyed the company and needed time for redemption. Alas, there’s never enough. Something so visceral about the bereavement after a friend’s departure, ya know? Hanoi was lonely without the “abandonment.” I had to face the minor indignities of not-so-pleasant exchanges solo. There was no shortage.

My post-Michelle interactions continued in that familiar vein: patent unfriendliness, cool indifference, or fawning obsequiousness (emphasis on the former two). The latter usually occurred at a hotel with an ulterior motive (i.e. booking a tour). The reaction from many Hanoians lingered somewhere between a smile and a snarl. Let’s call it smarling. Smarl and the world smarls with you. Street hawkers could be intense. After failed negotiations for a motorcycle taxi, the driver followed me and then grabbed my wrist for persuasive emphasis. Strangely, I wasn’t convinced.

I never made a final judgment about Vietnam or its people. Just because it didn’t open up to me doesn’t mean the possibilities aren’t there. Who knows, with a local contact or even an acquaintance with language skills, my perspective could’ve shifted wildly.

Some fault lies with moi. Romantic interlude preparation monopolized my time. Normally, I spent more of it learning history, culture, and even a few words of the local tongue. I hadn’t done as much of that there. This was a shame considering the country’s rich heritage. (Since then, I rectified this somewhat, deepening my regrets.) I tried to learn by questioning locals, but the language barrier often led to more confusion. I bought a Vietnamese phrasebook but it might as well have been Klingon. “How much does it cost?” was the extent of my retention.

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Status? Alone and perpetually annoyed one month into my three-month planned sojourn in Vietnam. I aimed to rent another motorcycle and head south. I can’t deny the grandeur of remarkable landscapes and natural beauty, but the hassles were too much to overcome. More time and some meditative breathwork might have solved the puzzle. Sure, I’d read that northern folk were a harder lot and softened the farther south one ventured, but I just didn’t have the gumption. All that is to say, I threw in the towel. Maybe I will return someday to reevaluate…

Decisions, decisions. Laos? Cambodia? No, sir. I needed a change of venue. I needed mountains. I needed the roof of the world. I needed Nepal.

A funny thing happened after planning my evacuation: I chilled the f**k out, refurbishing my attitude. I was back to my old “hakuna matata” self… mostly. Can’t say I was a hundred percent rehabilitated, but the improvement was dramatic, a “live and let live” dynamic… until the airport.

I had a mild panic attack after my laptop malfunctioned. The power source overheated and shit the bed. No replacement? Bite thy tongue. My netbook, though excellent, wasn’t a popular model, a fact I feared might hamper my quest. I’d tried to buy a spare back home but came up empty, settling on the “cross your fingers” strategy. Freaking out never helps. I pulled myself together and pounded the pavement.

Most commercial streets in Hanoi have a theme, and it wasn’t long before I happened upon “Computer Row”, a hotspot for all things electronic. After two strikeouts, I hit pay dirt. You’d think I’d won the lottery. Even with the “white guy screwing” I probably received on the price, it was only about $18. I was so giddy, I bought two. Back at the hotel, I plugged in my debunked unit for farts and chuckles… the light came on. What was that about panic never helping? Patience is a virtue. I took a proverbial piss in my pants and overreacted. Good work. I went from zero to three power supplies within two hours.

https://www.deviantart.com/dasprid/art/Pinkie-Pie-freaks-out-434301079

A minor coronary over losing my netbook? Yes, that was a tad pathetic but also revealing: I really, really enjoyed writing and wanted to keep doing it. The act of chronicling forced me to pay closer attention while I was living the journey. It brought a consciousness, an awareness that fostered deeper appreciation.

Sometimes, between getting the perfect shot and scribbling notes, I had to remind myself to be present, but my pseudo-journalistic tendencies were a net positive, compelling me to remember more details than I otherwise would have. I needed my power supply snafu to underscore the pleasure I received from documenting my experiences. Perhaps, this was a coded message from my subconscious.

https://www.iconfinder.com/icons/2206453/antenna_connectivity_internet_signal_wave_wifi_wireless_icon

I’ll say one thing for northern ‘Nam— it’s wired out the wazoo. High-speed internet/WiFi occupies every nook and cranny. Even mountain hotels had WiFi, as did tour boats in Ha Long Bay. While plying the waters there, I was shocked to discover many a router beaming out signals. Add cell towers and you have enough radio waves flying around to fry brains and sterilize reproductive organs. Careful.

My last days in Hanoi were low energy. I couldn’t bring myself to do much of anything beyond sipping jasmine tea and aimless strolling. I guess I needed a break, time to vegetate and breathe. Ten months on the go and the constant social struggle of Northern Vietnam had taken a toll. My flight to Nepal was set. The Himalayas awaited. Recommended protocol? Rest and recuperate. I’d be going balls out up high.

I watched a near-collision between a man on a motorbike and a woman transporting oranges on a bicycle. Although there were no injuries, a few pieces of fruit escaped. The “gentleman” adjusted and sped off with nary a thought of helping the woman reclaim her errant produce. It warmed my coronary bivalves to discover callous indifference and social frigidity might extend beyond the interloper. It made me want to smarl.

Got drugs? Pharmaceuticals are much easier to come by in many parts of the world. Vietnam is no exception. I purchased amoxicillin (40 tablets), doxycycline (50 tablets,) and ibuprofen (40 tablets) for less than ten dollars. I may or may not have acquired a few four-sided blue pills as well… allegedly.

My departure segued nicely with my overall Vietnam experience. Nothing like a near fistfight with a cabby before getting on a plane to put your mind at ease. The hotel arranged my taxi at the normal $14 rate. On the way to the airport, a Japanese gentleman flagged him down. He misunderstood the driver, hearing $50 instead of $15. I ejected and set him straight. He returned. We were on our way. I thought, Cooool, two people. Now I only pay $7. No good deed…

I’m a moron. As soon as Team Japan secured his bag at drop-off, he disappeared ninja-style. Then the fun began. I questioned the driver on price, believing a modification was in order. This triggered incessant babbling in Vietnamese. I quote his response verbatim:

“Blah-blah-blaaah-blah-blaah-blah-hotel-blah-blah-[head nod]-blah-blah-blah-[hand gesture]-blaaaaah-blah-BLAAAAAAAH!”

http://www.onyxtruth.com/2014/05/16/is-it-ever-ok-for-a-man-to-lay-hands-on-a-woman/

I repeated my question, which prompted another unintelligible anger-sodden burst. He snatched my bag and started dragging it towards the car. I resisted. So, he seized my wrist and began pulling harder. Now Richie angry. Richie considered bitch-slapping irate cabby man. An airport employee investigated the ruckus. He halted. He smiled. He left. Much obliged, sir.

I started repeating “Police” at increasing decibel levels. Then I came to my senses and realized even if I won, I lost. I paid the fucker and walked away with my blood pressure at fire hose proportions. Hindsight is a bitch. I now realize he was going on about how I made the deal with the hotel and the price I agreed upon was $14. Therefore, I owed him $14. If he turned his cab into a clown car and stuffed Manchester United inside, I would’ve owed $14. He charged the other guy $15. I pointed this out. How did I know? Team Japan paid in US dollars, dollars the cabby dropped on the floor in full view. Whoops. If not for me, Mr. Ninja would’ve found another taxi. I earned the petty bastard an extra $15 US, a gesture he repaid by bending me over sideways. I’m ashamed to admit I wanted to open-hand slap this guy on the chin and scream, “STICK THAT IN YOUR ASS!” before spiking balled-up cash on the ground. Thankfully, I internalized and moseyed forth. Yeah.

I made it past the counter without surrendering my backpack but was stopped and forced to weigh it before immigration. Rebuffed again. The female rebuffer was as pleasant as you might expect. Maybe the cabby called ahead. I trudged back to the check-in desk in defeat. In Bangkok, I didn’t even try. I hadn’t the strength to resist. That made me 7 for 10 in the perennial carry-on crusade. Frown.