Our hotel sits in a small alley that serves as a morning market. Six feet from the hotel entryway is a dude selling fresh shrimp. At 7:00 this morning a kid rode up on a scooter with two massive vats of live shrimp. They were still alive, swimming in sea water which was oxygenated by a bubbler which was driven by a small electric motor mounted between his legs. Hose went around to the vats of shrimp.
You could live a life confined to this alley and get fat.
I took a bag of laundry down the way to a small shop that cleans clothes by the kilo. And when I say small…
There’s clothes hanging everywhere, a line of small washers. Little bald guy runs the place. When I walked up, he pulled a scale out and weighed the bag.
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“No…I need same day,” Rebecca had a pair of pants in there she wants to wear on a scooter outing tonight.
“OK. Six O’clock,” He held up six fingers. I looked down at the little bag of clothes, a lone little American amidst a mountain of Asian garments.
“You need a name?”
“No!” And then he smiled and pointed to his head. “Is all here!” OK then.
On my way back I passed a small cart selling Banh mi thit—a lovely little french baguette filled with pork, veggies, and pate’— for 10,000 dong. Like thirty-five cents. Damn! I was full from breakfast, and just couldn’t do it. Which is a small slice of my daily torture: Everything I eat takes the place of something else. I fill up, then on the next block see some amazing dish being prepared on the street and I need to walk on by. And that hurts.
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