I [heart] Hoi An
I've been in Hoi An for the last couple of days, and I don't want to leave. This place is so incredibly vibrant. At first it seems very commercial - everyone wants to sell you something. But between the kitchy souvenir shops are proper art galleries, patisseries, a sprinkling of temples, book exchange stalls, laquerwear workshops and shrines. Despite the bustle, the mood is relaxed.
The city centre is basically three main streets running parallel to the river, bounded by two bridges. It's cosy and very friendly, with lots of French architecture and traditional facades. There are traffic restrictions in the city, so there are a sprinkling of motos in the daytime, but children play shuttlecock on the street at night. It's a perfect city for walking.
Everyone wants to try out their English on you. Little kids call out "my name is (kid's name). What is your name?" Teenage boys pose languidly next to their motos and ask, "you want ride?" (Their second favourite phrase - "I love you!").
The most absurd, though, is from the tailors, who have a steady rehearsed stream that bubbles up whenever you walk by, tweaked for national/aesthetic specifics. "Hello! What your name? Where you from? You very pretty!" they exhale, grabbing you by the arm. "Where your boyfriend? Why he not travel with you? Very pretty, skin very white! Very good complexion! You want come see my shop? I have shop in market, you come see it, okay?" They grin at you and it's impossible not to grin back, because the entire exchange is a game; their goal is to get you inside the market, yours is to think of a plausable yet creative answer, and escape.
The cloth market - the market they're talking about - is insane. Everywhere stall-holders pile fabrics high above their heads, in little booths with stall numbers on a sign. In the middle of these booths is a table with a sewing machine, some pattern books and magazines - no-one uses patterns, the main method being for a customer to point out something they like, the tailor to take mesurements, and then sew it to those, making the pattern up as they go.
Next to the cloth market is the market proper, which, as it's on a river, is also a fish market. The smell is everywhere, there's dust and fruit and sardines drying in the sun. Tarps are slung between stalls creating alleyways with a roof just a bit lower than my head, so when I go it's always bent double at a scurry.
What else? The food is excellent, there's proper coffee to be had - although I must admit I'm beginning to get a bit addicted to Vietnamese coffee. What you get, when you order it, is a glass with a stripe of condensed milk; sitting above that is a cup full of hot water on a saucer, with coffee compressed at the bottom. This drips through I think two filters, and comes out very strong. There's a technique to drinking it; mix the condensed milk with the coffee, and then when it's still very hot, tip it down your throat. If you get it at the right angle, you can avoid most of the sugar-detecting tastebuds, and just get a thick, fragrant coffee hit. It leaves you feeling jumpy, being basically sugar and caffeine, but when, say, you're an insomniac on a 24-hour bus journey, it's just the ticket.
I've been using it to drain off any physical fatigue, as I've gone back to getting about three hours sleep a night. I don't know why - I'm fine during the day, and apart from a mid-afternoon slump don't feel it that much, so it's not too much of a problem. I do worry about what I'll be like if it goes on for too much longer, but there's so much to see here that it's nice to have some time at night - say, four or five hours - to just digest things and hang about.
By the way, apropos of nothing, or of me writing on this blog: there's no way here for me check the comments section, as I can't seem to access any page any page with the word 'blog' in the address. I assume it still exists, as I can still write here, but if have no way of knowing whether this problem is specific to Hoi An or whether I'm just writing into the ether. Somebody, let me know?
The city centre is basically three main streets running parallel to the river, bounded by two bridges. It's cosy and very friendly, with lots of French architecture and traditional facades. There are traffic restrictions in the city, so there are a sprinkling of motos in the daytime, but children play shuttlecock on the street at night. It's a perfect city for walking.
Everyone wants to try out their English on you. Little kids call out "my name is (kid's name). What is your name?" Teenage boys pose languidly next to their motos and ask, "you want ride?" (Their second favourite phrase - "I love you!").
The most absurd, though, is from the tailors, who have a steady rehearsed stream that bubbles up whenever you walk by, tweaked for national/aesthetic specifics. "Hello! What your name? Where you from? You very pretty!" they exhale, grabbing you by the arm. "Where your boyfriend? Why he not travel with you? Very pretty, skin very white! Very good complexion! You want come see my shop? I have shop in market, you come see it, okay?" They grin at you and it's impossible not to grin back, because the entire exchange is a game; their goal is to get you inside the market, yours is to think of a plausable yet creative answer, and escape.
The cloth market - the market they're talking about - is insane. Everywhere stall-holders pile fabrics high above their heads, in little booths with stall numbers on a sign. In the middle of these booths is a table with a sewing machine, some pattern books and magazines - no-one uses patterns, the main method being for a customer to point out something they like, the tailor to take mesurements, and then sew it to those, making the pattern up as they go.
Next to the cloth market is the market proper, which, as it's on a river, is also a fish market. The smell is everywhere, there's dust and fruit and sardines drying in the sun. Tarps are slung between stalls creating alleyways with a roof just a bit lower than my head, so when I go it's always bent double at a scurry.
What else? The food is excellent, there's proper coffee to be had - although I must admit I'm beginning to get a bit addicted to Vietnamese coffee. What you get, when you order it, is a glass with a stripe of condensed milk; sitting above that is a cup full of hot water on a saucer, with coffee compressed at the bottom. This drips through I think two filters, and comes out very strong. There's a technique to drinking it; mix the condensed milk with the coffee, and then when it's still very hot, tip it down your throat. If you get it at the right angle, you can avoid most of the sugar-detecting tastebuds, and just get a thick, fragrant coffee hit. It leaves you feeling jumpy, being basically sugar and caffeine, but when, say, you're an insomniac on a 24-hour bus journey, it's just the ticket.
I've been using it to drain off any physical fatigue, as I've gone back to getting about three hours sleep a night. I don't know why - I'm fine during the day, and apart from a mid-afternoon slump don't feel it that much, so it's not too much of a problem. I do worry about what I'll be like if it goes on for too much longer, but there's so much to see here that it's nice to have some time at night - say, four or five hours - to just digest things and hang about.
By the way, apropos of nothing, or of me writing on this blog: there's no way here for me check the comments section, as I can't seem to access any page any page with the word 'blog' in the address. I assume it still exists, as I can still write here, but if have no way of knowing whether this problem is specific to Hoi An or whether I'm just writing into the ether. Somebody, let me know?
posted by Jess at 6:17 AM
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