20251110_122135 The receptionist, dressed in his resplendent turquoise traditional wrap‑around suit, is lovely—I mean really lovely—but boy, I wish he would get on with it! I don’t need to be shown the places to visit on our little tourist map at this time of night. I need to see the room, dump the bags, and nip out for a beer before it’s too late. Eventually, we prized ourselves away from him—hopefully with some dignity intact.

Almost immediately after stepping out of the hotel foyer, I have to admit I felt quite apprehensive, and so did Wendy. Hanoi is like an attack on the senses; I have never experienced anything quite like it!

Hanoi can easily paralyse you before you ever get into the flow of things here. There are perfectly good pavements, but you cannot walk along them—it’s impossible. Every inch is taken up by motor scooters, little kitchens, shops, and clutter filling what’s left. You have to walk in the busy road with the traffic. You can’t wait for a break in the traffic to cross a road; there isn’t one! You just walk, and the cars and bikes avoid you. It’s hot, it’s pouring down, and the smells are not bad—just alien.

Our first half hour looking for a bar was painfully slow as we edged our way along the streets. It was hot, humid, and overwhelmingly alive with noise. And I was thinking: I’ve signed up for five weeks of this? Oh well, flights can be changed—it’s only money, heh!

We found a bar—a “Craft Bar,” it said in big bright lights. It was busy, mostly with western faces, all perched on tiny deck chairs spilling out right up to the very edge of the busy road. Tiny chairs are novel, I thought, but how the hell do I get up and down from them with my dodgy knees? Wendy found this amusing, but eventually I was sat down, looking out on the nearly flooded street, sipping a local pilsner. Happy days.

Ah, the pub settles the nerves! We listened and learned from fellow travellers, all having the time of their lives and keen to tell us about their amazing adventures—filling us with confidence. In the space of an hour, I had gone from full‑on nervous wreck to someone overwhelmed with excitement.

Just before we left, a little lady with the most gorgeous face smiled and offered us fruit for sale. She had a bamboo pole over her shoulders, bending under the weight, with ropes at each end holding wicker trays filled with fruit. She wore a conical hat and wellingtons, and she was soaked. I had no idea how old she was—anywhere between 30 and 60—but she smiled at me, and I melted. I didn’t know what most of the fruits were, so I bought two bananas. It was quite a fuss because my notes were too large, and the waitress lent me the money.

“How much was that, love?” I asked Wendy, trying to work it out at 37,000 dong to the pound. “About 2 pounds,” she replied, raising her eyebrows and nodding her head in disbelief. “More expensive than home!” “Ah well, she looked happy,” I smiled. “She would do.”

I know Wendy thought I was a muppet, but it made me happy! She especially thought I was a muppet when we arrived back at the hotel and I casually announced, “I left the bananas on the table in the bar. Never mind, love—they’ll probably have some at breakfast.”

How does she put up with me?