Ha Long Bay | Zoo Koo

After a long, exhausting day of travel which included leaving for Taipei Airport at 6:30 am to catch a 3 hour flight, another 3 1/2 hour, 40 km/hour ride along Vietnamese roads, of uneven quality, in a van no doubt assembled in a Communist nation (“Mercedes Benz — bringing you vehicles built by Socialist labor — and definitely free of German-engineering, too.”), to directly board a 3 hour boat tour of scenic Ha Long Bay, we arrived at our home away from home, the local Novotel, to find a bath tub, rising gracefully from the floor of the bath room. I looked for the shower stall. Sometimes, they’re separate.

No shower. Whaat?

There was, thoughtfully, a shower attachment, which was stored in the side of the bathtub. And, thoughtfully again, a surrounding shower rod and curtain, hanging beautifully nearly a foot away from the edges of the tub, designed in such a way as to in no way hinder shower water from flowing directly onto the bathroom floor. That probably explains why the designer had intelligently omitted to provide a way to attach the shower head anywhere above the level of the tub.

Always a good idea to leave lots of space between shower curtain and tub to allow the free flow of water onto the floor.

The only way to have a shower was to kneel, hunched over in a tub, knee cartilage crackling against the cold, unforgiving porcelain, with the handheld shower held, well, in one hand. Which left but one other hand with which to hold the soap, lather up and attempt to get oneself clean. One couldn’t place the handheld shower attachment back in its place to have both hands handy, as it was stored in an upright position in the side of the tub — meaning, if the water was running, and you put it in its cradle, you would potentially shoot the water directly out of the tub, or straight into your face. That is, unless you adjusted the water pressure to a mere trickle, to minimize rinsing efficacy and maximize the amount of time one’s kneecaps were in agony.

When it came time to shampoo, in order to unscrew the shampoo bottle, one had to clench the shower attachment between one’s knees unless it didn’t bother you to leave it writhing at the bottom of the tub, randomly spraying gushes of water at you and around the room.

On top of all that, it took two of us to figure out which of the bottles was actually shampoo. While the ‘Novotel’ name was emblazoned identically on the bottles, the distinguishing labels of ‘shampoo’ and ‘shower gel’ were craftily placed on neither the front or back of the bottle, but rather, the side, running up and down the bottle, in font-size that requires anyone over the age of 40 to have their reading glasses ready in order to bathe.

When we complained about the lack of shower facilities in our room, it was matter-of-factly explained to us that only half of the rooms in the Ha Long Bay Novotel offered showers. As if that was an explanation. Did the hotel people think that only 50% of hotel guests would want to shower?

Yes, I know that Novotel is a French chain. Am working very hard to refrain from making any snarky comments about the French and bathing — it would just be too easy.

In my 46+ years of international traveling, I have, if memory serves, only once encountered a hotel room which didn’t have a shower. And that was in, uhh… Paris.

Never mind.

Yes, it’s been a long hiatus. I apologize to those of you who have been faithfully checking an un-updated blog for several months. This past year has been full of changes, which has made it difficult for me to get into a rhythm and routine in daily life. Joey going away to boarding school has upped the travel quotient in this family — and his homesickness sometimes has made me hesitate to record the amusing bits about our daily life. I think of him reading the blog and feeling left out, and that makes it hard.

I’ve missed writing the blog though, and look forward to making it once again a regular part of my life. Having just gotten back from a trip to Vietnam with my mom and some of her high-school friends has given me some good blog fodder, too, and I’m looking forward to sharing that with you.

Our trip to Vietnam took us first to the north, Hanoi and a side trip to Ha Long Bay. There is only one road currently to Ha Long Bay from Hanoi, and you may only drive 40 km/hr along it — so what would usually take an hour in many developed nations takes a bone-rattling (I’m exaggerating — a little) 3.5 hours.

Our little party (which consisted of my mom, three of her high-school mates including my godmother, my godfather and myself) was greeted at the Hanoi Airport by a young lady from our office in Hanoi who would accompany us to Ha Long Bay to ensure everything went without a hitch, as well as a company-provided tour guide named Dong. (“I am your English-speaking tour guide! Call me Mr. Money! That’s because Vietnamese money is called the dong! Hahaha!!! (Imagine Eddie Murphy as the panhandler in Trading Places, but with a Vietnamese accent.))

Our tour guide, Dong. "You can call me Mr. Money! All my friends do!"

I knew he was in trouble when bottles of water were passed out shortly after we boarded the large ‘Mercedes Benz’-emblazoned, Third World-assembled van that would drive us to Ha Long Bay. As my godmother worked to remove the plastic seal on the bottle, Dong offered his assistance and handily peeled the plastic away. She thanked him politely.

Dong replied, “I am always happy to support some old peoples!”

Uh-oh.

A few minutes later, with Dong laboriously keeping up the English patter he did it again. As he monologued on about what we would see, he said, “You old people will like it very much, I think!”

Those of you who know my mother understand that while she is a kind and generous person, she is also a woman who is not afraid to speak her mind. From the back of the van, she spoke up.

“Dong. Let me tell you a story. One time, when I was in China, I went into a store and just as I was about to buy something, something expensive, someone there called me an ‘old lady’. I turned around and left the store without buying anything. Most old people do not like to be called ‘old.’ I’m doing you a favor by telling you this, because knowing this will help you in your career as a tour guide. Now, please sit down, you’re blocking my view.”

(Dong spent the rest of the drive up trying to tell me how young I looked. I’m not sure he realized I was my mother’s daughter. )

This, of course, did not stop my mother, when, upon arriving at our destination, from chastising Dong for not assisting her friends to alight our vehicle. “Dong, you should give us your hand and help everyone get off the car. Can’t you see we’re old?”

As she stepped down, she looked him in the eye again. “We can call ourselves old. But, you, may not.”