Cold beer, heavy traffic, and forbidden love in Hanoi
In which our protagonist gets drunk, soaking in the Vietnamese capital's ambiance
The very last Vietnamese money I had was spent on a cold beer and a warm banh mi sandwich.
Both fed the body, nourished the soul, but were so spectacularly overpriced that they boggled the mind.
But then again, I was at Noi Bai International, where everything — including knickknacks, novelty items, and noodles — cost three to four times as much inside the airport than outside.
Take beer, a product I have continued to work with in both professional and personal capacities, here and abroad.
In Hanoi, a can of beer at a convenience store costs 11,000 Vietnamese dong or — get this — 25 Philippine pesos. In short, you can get two cans of beer in Hanoi for the price of one in Manila; an injustice that's enough to drive you to drink (happily, as the case may be, in Hanoi, and miserably, as is the default, in Manila.) As of this writing, I have been privileged to experience a bit of both. Whoever said life was bittersweet knew their shit.
At Hanoi's Old Quarter, a tourist area right by the impressive Hoàn Kiếm Lake, a cold one in a regular establishment can range anywhere from VND 20,000 (Php 46) to VND 60,000 (Php 138).
Anything fancier — say, local and imported craft beer — can reach up to VND 120,000 (Php 277) or more per mug.
On my second to the last night, I tried local pale ale at an open-air shop located at a corner of a busy intersection.
I sipped my (pricey) beer and took in the ambiance of a cool and crisp Saturday evening.
It felt like rush hour.
Everyone was in a hurry to occupy every available road space to get wherever they were going.
Practically every driver on two wheels and four blew their horns at anyone who got in their way. Strangely enough, no one took these loud and aggressive gestures personally. It was probably part of their culture of modesty and understatement. They did win the war against the US, after all.
Two days earlier, while walking on a congested road, I saw a motorcycle driver plow right into a crowd. His right handlebar knifed into the belly of a hapless middle-aged pedestrian who was about to cross the street. Both stopped immediately and looked at one another. When they found out that no one was hurt — save for a crease in the fabric of the guy's sweater — they shrugged their shoulders and moved on. The driver roared past the unaffected crowd and the pedestrian shuffled along, fixing his outfit.
The whole thing reminded me of Philippine basketball when Robert Jaworski reigned supreme: No blood, no foul. If it didn't bleed, then the game should proceed.
In Manila, if that kind of minor hit-and-run took place, the driver would most likely get it.
However, this was Hanoi, a city where encounters — vehicular, transactional, and otherwise — occasionally led to mutually beneficial arrangements.
That Saturday night, I was seated right beside someone who drove a motorcycle taxi for a living; his bright green jacket gave him away. On his right was an older French tourist who asked him whether he spoke his language. He didn't.
Despite the language barrier, driver and tourist were later engaged in serious conversation made possible by grunts and Google translate. One typed into his phone, showed it to the other, who then replied by doing the same on his own device.
This pseudo-digital tete-a-tete went on for about five minutes.
Finally, for some reason, the tourist was prompted to say "boom boom" in a voice I could overhear. That was when we realized he wanted something more than just hang out and drink beer with us girls.
As if on cue, the driver nodded and called someone up.
About three-fourths into my mug of beer, a young and pretty woman drove up to my companions in a light brown scooter.
The tourist then chugged his drink, stood up, and eagerly climbed behind his newfound friend. Similarly, our seatmate got up and left for parts unknown.
Left all alone, I then finished my beer and called it a night. It was too much action for this grumpy, low-rent layabout.
After all, I needed to get some shut-eye.
Around that time the next night, I was expected to be at the airport. I was to catch the red-eye flight back to reality.
And on that Sunday night, I got a beer and a sandwich at prices so inflated — VND 220,000 (Php 508) — they reminded me of Manila.
Fortunately, I consoled myself with the fact that I could always save up and go back to Hanoi, if only to take an affordable, refreshing break from a city that I called (for better or worse) home.