Hotel China

-or-
Why Didn't We Take the Bus?

My trip to Vietnam was largely influenced by TC3's and my friend, D. He had been top Vietnam over the summer, and he's one of those people who plan a vacation with Excel. He had the entire thing mapped out long before he set foot on a plane. That also means that he has concrete details to hand over to friends who are hoping to go to the same places he did (and have no patience for such minutiae). So, if D stayed in a hotel, we stayed in the same hotel (even if it wasn't in the Book -- and I am a firm believer in the Book).

To get from Hanoi to Hue, we flew. It cost a little less than the train, and it was a lot quicker. But to get from Hue to Da Nang, we took the train. It was about a two and a half hour trip, so it seemed like a good way to see a little bit more of the country and the people.

Since it was only a short trip, we reserved the soft seats instead of sleeper bunks. We arrived at the train the half hour before, like the ticket said. Although we had asked the hotel for a taxi, there was some meeting (or something) and taxis were hard to come by, so we got a ride with the hotel clerk on his scooter. One at a time, of course.

The waiting room was packed with travelers. It was rather China, or at least seemed so to TC3 and I. Of course, coming off of 5 months in China, we were a bit sensitive. We found a bare patch of ground and set down our bags. TC3 had done some scouting beforehand (she had the first scooter ride), and she had learned which door we were supposed to go through. We waited in the fog of vague confusion bordering on panic that haunts every traveler in Asia (or at least me).

We suddenly heard an announcement, and the crowd started making for the door. That seemed as good a cue as any, so we picked up the backpacks and joined the crush. Oh China, you are never far away. It was different though. When I got near the doorway, where a man was actually checking tickets, it was between me and this other guy, and instead of pushing through, he motioned me ahead of me. Yes, Gentle Reader, he was polite! I was just as shocked as you are.

Sadly, it turns out they were all waiting for a different train. Our train was an hour late, said the man checking tickets. He certainly didn't have any reason to lie to us, so we turned around and pushed our way back OUT of the crowd.

Forty minutes later or so, the scenario repeated itself. We waded through to the door, and this time it was our train. We waited outside for another twenty minutes until the train pulled up. We made our way onto the train and started looking for our seats. The train was pretty run down, so it was no easy task. The numbers were all rubbed off, and of course, most of the space on the overhead shelf was taken. But, a considerate man moved his bags, and we both found a place to stash our belongings. TC3 even got help clipping hers to the railing so it wouldn't fall on anyone's head.

Once we settled in, I noticed that everyone was looking at us. Not looking, but staring. Staring at the two obviously whitegirls on the kinda nasty train. TC3 had been trying to put the seat cover back over her seat to protect her from the un-defined icky underneath. I was trying not to stare back at those staring at us. I was tempted to toss a "Ni hao" in their direction, but I don't know how to say hello in Vietnamese (ignorant whitegirl that I am).

Once established, we began to bemoan our fate. Vietnam had seemed so different, so enlightened. There had been other Westerners, and the locals seemed to ignore us at worst, and engage with us kindly at best. And now we were just a couple of freaks, sitting up on a train instead of in a nice soft sleeper with all the other whiteys. We were female and traveling "alone". We were knitting and reading. We were on the grimy SE7 instead of the shiny new SE2. (To be fair, I thought we would be on the SE2, but the hotel got the tickets for us, and I have no idea what.)

We discussed our sorry state as one does in Asia: frankly and in English. These people did not look or act like people who had, or paid attention in, English class, so we assumed they didn't understand. I have no idea if they did or not, but no one said one word to us. I suspect we were right.

The fog of vague confusion bordering on panic continued as the train stopped and started at various stations. There was no map. There were no announcements (that we were aware of). But we endured.

And then there was the smoking.

We were sitting one row back from the center, so the four men in front of us were facing each other and playing cards. They were slapping down their cards, taking a break only to stare, and then they took a smoke break. They got up and went to the space between the cars. Some of the smoke wafted down the car, but that was only marginally their fault. I mean, smoking is still largely accepted in Asia. We were a bit to blame for being such prudes.

The men came back and continued their card game and occasional staring. And then one of them started smoking. Right there. In his seat. He didn't even bother to open a window. And there wasn't a window latch at my seat. So, I dealt. I sneezed. My eyes watered. I could feel the acrid smoke irritating my soft palate. The four prior days of near-constant aggravation from motor bikes didn't help my ability (or desire) to cope any, but my choices were rather limited.

And then the drink lady came by. Just like bus travel, I tend to dehydrate myself on trips, especially on trips in sketchy circumstances, and this definitely counted as one of those occasions. So I concentrated on my knitting, or more like, I let the known monotony of my knitting lull my brain into a Zen-like trance. Knit. Knit. Knit. Knit. Knit. Pull on yarn. Knit. Knit. Knit. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I heard the man across the way talking to the Drink Lady, but it didn't register. And then TC3 turned to me and said, "They're Chinese. That's why."

I admit, I was confused. Oh, of course. He kept on saying "bin" because he wanted ice. "Bin" is one of the the words I know, as in "bin shui" or "binda pi jiou", "ice water" and "cold beer" respectively: all important in a country that finds drinking cold beverages wrong and bizarre.

But I still looked at her with some confusion. Why did I care what this man was drinking. It was mildly amusing that he was Chinese (and asking for ice), but how did this merit disturbing me from my "all-important" knitting? "That's why they were staring. They're Chinese," she explained to me.

Of course. Why didn't I see it before? Why didn't we recognize the language before? I guess by this point we are so used to Chinese customs, that while they are still frustrating and annoying, they are also invisible. Why? Because that's just how people do in Asia.

Unsaid was her implication was that the four previous days where we had lauded the Vietnamese for being accepting of Western tourists and pleasant to be around were not unfounded.

I leaned over to TC3. "Just wait until they start spitting."

Wouldn't you know. Not five minutes later, there it was: the deep-nosed hawk that comes from a place that only those who live with daily levels of pollution far beyond those in the West have. TC3 looked at me. I lost it. I let out that maniacal laugh that can cut through a crowd and have everyone looking to see who the weirdo is. I was too busy laughing to notice, but TC3 later said they all looked up at my laugh. We still don't know if they put two and two together.

Another 15 minuted after that, I witnessed Mr. Bin hawking his own loogie on the floor, but he was a bit more demure than the card players.

It was then the TC3 and I really started counting the minutes until we were off the train. Not that we weren't before, but it got a lot more desperate. It was to the point that even though I was pretty sure we hadn't been on the train long enough, when we slowed down, I set TC3 off to ask the staff if it was our stop (she had the aisle seat AND she's an extrovert). Sadly, no.

Every time the train slowed after that, we looked for the crew to tell us we should get off. When they didn't show, I knew it couldn't be a stop (because they are always there to help people getting on and off), but I didn't stop looking for them.

When I finally saw the word "Da Nang" out the window, I woke TC3 from her iPod-induced coma (she had given up and was really trying to disengage from the situation), and we spent the next 40 minutes staring expectantly out the window while trying to waft away Smoking Man's contributions to the atmosphere.

And then we arrived. We arrived at a gloriously disgusting, dirty train station after 10 and an hour and a bit late. There was rubbish on the ground and a profusion of chaos. Nothing looked so lovely.

We had requested a transfer from the station, but these things are always a source of consternation from me. I can't decide which is worse, asking for the hotel to pick me and worry that they won't show and I'll have to figure it out on my own, or just knowing from the start that I'll have to do it on my own. They both suck. Thanks Dad; the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.

We walked outside, and there was the nice man with the piece of paper with TC3's name. We got into a comfortable, air-conditioned car, and rode in relative bliss to out hotel. When we got to the room, there were even flowers on the pillows.

Later, relating our trials to fellow travelers (TC3, the eternal extrovert, was constantly making friends with others), they asked the obvious question: why didn't you take the bus? The train cost us $17.80 apiece; the bus takes just as long and costs $5 (at most), even so close to Tet.

We had no good answer. Somehow saying that D took the train, so we took the train, doesn't seem honest. D took the train from Hanoi to Hue, and we didn't. So why take it to Da Nang?

I can only suggest that it didn't matter what we did; we have checked into the Hotel China. And as we all know, you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.


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Location:Da Nang, Vietnam