I’ve been in Hanoi about twenty-four hours now & am mostly recovered from the flight, except for a slightly stiff neck from all that sitting while sleeping. Driving in from the airport yesterday, I was struck by how ordinary it seemed to me. I’ve now made that drive a dozen times or so & though the driver–you didn’t think I was driving did you?–was still weaving in & out of traffic & horns were blaring & buses belching & . motorbikes merging from every direction, it all felt pretty normal. Not that I’m jaded, but Vietnam no longer feels exotic to me. Even an historically informed & culturally sensitive Western intellectual–& I’m not necessarily claiming those attributes–cannot help feeling a sense of pleasurable cultural disorientation on first coming to Vietnam. The place is different. It looks different. It smells different. People behave differently. Nothing wrong, I think, with noticing & even enjoying the differences; but one probably should not let the differences define the place, even to celebrate them. Exoticism chooses a few such differences & aestheticizes them; inevitably, this involves a form of condescension.

On a trip several years ago, it struck me that I ought to do the Vietnamese the favor of letting them irritate me, when appropriate. That was a first step away from treating the places as an exotic outpost from my own middle class American life. Yesterday, it just felt normal to be here, an interesting & pleasing part of my life & this morning, jet-lagged, I walked around the city with a big smile plastered on my face because this is a place I really love. More than just about any place on the planet except my tiny little patch of riverfront back in rural New York. Why? It makes sense to me–not that I’m claiming any profound insights into the national character or anything. It’s just that I’ve spent enough time walking around Hanoi that I know where I am most of the time. This city is alive.

It has been a long time since I’v read Jane Jacobs’ The Economy of Cities, but I remember that she emphasized the importance of many cross-streets & short blocks in American cities; presumably, that can be generalized to cities in other parts of the world as well. Hanoi not only has short blocks with many intersections, the oldest & to my mind most vital part of the city has narrow streets & some alleys that only pedestrians, bicycles, & motorbikes can fit through. There are no right angles in this part of the city, either. When the French came, they build a new part of the city on a Cartesian grid, but the Vietnamese have been chipping away at that arrangement for better than 100 hears, enlivening what must have originally a sterile neighborhood of offices & private villas. The French did build wide sidewalks, which the Vietnamese have successfully converted into outdoor living space. Continue reading

The Full Ceremonial Monte

Attended the opening ceremony of the translation conference this morning — hundreds of people in the new, monumental National Convention Center.  There was dancing and singing and speech-making and then lunch. I met a lot of the writers — American and Vietnamese — that I’ve corresponded with over the years, or seen in passing on one of my trips. I’m not crazy about being stuck out at the West Lake compound, but I’ve been able to get off on my own enough to get some work done on the classes I will begin teaching next week. And I’ll spend the last couple of days of my trip back down town, so it’s all good. I feel energized and excited about developing some translation projects, work that will begin tomorrow when we begin doing small-scale workshops.


My Vietnamese must be improving. Walking back to my hotel after dinner this evening, I watched as a big garbage truck picked up the Vietnamese version of dumpsters and without thinking about it read the motto on the side of the truck: Green — Clean — Beautiful. Civic uplift is the same everywhere, apparently. And during dinner I was able to tell in a rough way what the Vietnamese couple seated near me were talking about.

Blustery Evening

It’s a blustery evening in Hanoi. I’m sitting in a cafe near the cathedral drinking tea and watching the world go by. I’m much looser, less brittle, than on my last trip, who knows why? But I’m definitely living in calmer psychic weather, even as the leathery leaves of the trees along the street whip around and tear loose, swirling through the neon dusk. Trees and lakes and a tragic history: this is a poet’s city.

Walked around the Old Quarter this afternoon, but didn’t take the camera — just wanted to stroll about and stare at things. I did find a market I want to get some pictures of, though, if only to demonstrate to my students the, let us say, catholic range of Vietnamese foodstuffs. Lots of eels and crabs and fish and frogs and all manner of fowl as well and all of them alive in basins, tubs, and cages: this is a cook’s city.