One of the surprising places we visited on this trip was Danang. I didn’t really know what to think of it at all other than knowing that many large and fancy hotel properties and golf courses were being constructed there due to the beautiful beaches there. I knew of Marble Mountains, of My Son Sanctuary, which is a sanctuary made in a similar style to Angkor Wat in Cambodia. But other than that, I had no expectations. So when we arrived and spent an evening eating and roaming around the streets of the urban area of Danang, I was a bit shocked. It probably felt the cleanest of all the cities we’d visited, not to mention the most developed. The streets reminded me of walking through Seoul, which was also supplemented by the fact that endless signs in Korean and Korean barbecue restaurants and spas lined the streets (this is clearly a major South Korean tourist destination). Lots of bright lights adorned buildings and bridges. The one major bridge had a dragon descending upon it and was constantly changing color; I read that for special occasions, this bridge actually shoots out fire! And it’s a bridge both for cars and pedestrians!

The food we ate here was delicious, as well, as Chris declared the main meal we had on Thursday evening to be his favorite and the best meal we’d had in Vietnam, which is saying a lot considering how much we’ve eaten thus far. We found a tiny banh xeo place in the back of an alley and feasted on banh xeo and grilled beef wrapped in lalot leaves. The two surprising things about these banh xeo were that 1) the sauce accompanying it was not the usual nuoc cham (“all-purpose”) light dipping sauce that was ubiquitous and that my mom and I make at home, but rather a thick, fermented shrimp/hoisin/pig liver sauce that had a brownish-red hue. Chris gorged on that sauce. And 2) these particular banh xeo actually had scrambled eggs on the edges of them. People often mistaken banh xeo for having egg in them because they are yellow, but they’re actually yellow because of the turmeric it is spiced with and usually have no egg product in them. but these ones definitely had egg scrambled at the edges!

“Maybe you can try this at home next time you make banh xeo,” Chris said, giving a not-so-subtle hint that he wanted this.

We ended the evening at a hole-in-the-wall che spot, a Vietnamese bean, jelly, and fruit place, where we shared a bowl of assorted colored, flavored, and textured jellies, taro, jackfruit, and a huge lump of durian added in, all mixed with a pandan and coconut milk liquid base.

Definitely gaining weight by the end of this trip, but it will all be worth it.

Most people in Vietnam do not own cars because they are far too expensive. As one local Vietnamese person told me today, a person can spend his entire life saving to buy a car. But why would he do that if he could use that same money to buy a house? So instead, pretty much everyone in Vietnam owns and rides a motorbike. They are far cheaper and easier to attain, the license is easy to get, and they’re an efficient mode of transportation. And the Vietnamese certainly use them to the max — sometimes, we saw as many as five people, an entire family, on a single motorbike!

The first time I rode on a motorbike was in Qui Nhon, the major seaside city in south-central Vietnam that is closest to my mom’s village where she grew up. We stayed in the city and visited relatives frequently, and when there were times we needed to get from point A to point B, we needed transportation because the distance wasn’t quickly walkable, and thus the only way to get transported was to get on the back of my cousin’s motorbike and hold onto his waist. My mom initially refused, saying she didn’t feel safe, but my cousin insisted, saying there was no other way to get around. So she had to cave in. And so that began a series of motorbiking rides for me. It was certainly fun, even if it resulted in my losing one my favorite cardigans that was tied around my waste, and it was fun this trip to go on a motorbike tour with Chris to see the countryside of Hoi An.

It was just the two of us and our two local Hoi An guides and their bikes. They took us to many little towns and areas outside of Hoi An proper, including a pig farm and a pottery village. With them, we got to have pretty in depth conversations about life for local people and the change in times. One of our guides spoke really great English, and with her, I realized she was probably a bit more well off because she said that she frequently would fly to Hanoi, where her family was, for visits. Pretty much everyone else I asked said they would either take a bus, train, or their own motorbikes to visit family that didn’t live locally. They even laughed when I asked them if they flew. “That costs too much!” one of the guides in Hue said to me yesterday.

With this guide, Trang, I asked her if she had any family in the U.S. This time, she laughed, and she responded, “No! No way. My family is poor, just in Hanoi.” It’s funny that she would respond this way because to my mom and her family in her village in Binh Dinh province, several hours outside of Qui Nhon, they would say that Trang’s family had money given they lived in the “big city” that is Hanoi. City people in general have more money than those in smaller towns and in the countryside. Yet, it’s clear that Trang and her family likely look at any family in Vietnam that has relatives in western countries as “rich.” It just goes to show again that it’s all relative, the statements that we make and the judgments we come to.

Hue is known for a number of things in Vietnam. It’s been said that the most beautiful women in Vietnam come from Hue. Whether that is true or not — I have no idea or opinion; it’s just something I’ve heard. It’s also known for its rich and varied cuisine, reputed to be the best in all of Vietnam. It’s known for its most famous dish, bun bo hue, or lemongrass beef noodle soup with thick round rice noodles, pig’s feet, and blood cubes. It’s also known for imperial Vietnamese cuisine given its history. It was once the capital of Vietnam where the Nguyen dynasty emperors lived and subsequently built their many elaborate and extensive tombs. So many of the most laborious dishes in Vietnam are said to have come from this general region. When I think of the things I ate growing up that my mom would buy and take home from Vietnamese bakeries in San Jose, I think of banh beo, which are tiny steamed rice cake discs topped with shredded shrimp, drizzled in scallion oil, and dunked into nuoc cham dipping sauce. I also think of the far more elusive banh it tran, which I just recently discovered the name for. It’s a sticky rice ball that is stuffed with mashed mung bean, minced pork and shrimp, topped with scallions, and also dipped into nuoc cham before eating. This was one of my favorite snacks growing up that my mom would get me. I realized I hadn’t had it in ages when I was reading about Hue for this trip.

We visited a number of sites on the tourist track today, including the Khai Dinh (a Nguyen emperor) tomb that had both elaborate eastern and western architectural influences, as well as the Hue Citadel or Imperial City. We were short for time in Hue, much to our regret, but a day trip with a small group tour was all that worked. This also meant that lunch was already arranged and included, and sadly other than the small bowl of their version of bun bo hue, the dishes were all fairly generic.  I also felt a bit rushed while at the Citadel to take the photos I really wanted. And to make things worse, the group we were with was probably the worst group we’d ever traveled with: most of them were mutes, some were completely disinterested in the backstory of these sites being told by our English-speaking guides, and another was a total loud mouth talking about everything he knew about Asian culture overall.

I’d really like to go back to Hue, if not just to see the other sites that are in this historic city, but also to really taste the real food of Hue that makes my mother and many other Vietnamese people I know salivate.

After spending the morning paying a visit to Ho Chi Minh’s dead body at his mausoleum (and cutting an entire city block’s long school group so that we could ditch the queue and get in faster), we boarded our flight down to Danang in Central Vietnam, and then spent the evening exploring Hoi An, a little ancient town that has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It was exactly as it looked in photos I’d previously seen – a  small river with boats beckoning tourists to hop in for a ride, floating lanterns lit by candles dancing atop the water, old storefronts decorated with lanterns of endless colors. Each and every street was decked out with lit lanterns hanging across it. And while it was beautiful and worthy of many photos, it irked me that I heard so much English everywhere, not just from the swarms of tourists on the main drags, but also even from the shop owners and workers. I saw signs advertising menus and souvenir items fully in English and with prices quoted in U.S. dollars. This is not what I wanted to come here for.

One of the restaurants on my list, Morning Glory, is a reputed establishment in Hoi An, known for their mi quang and cao lau noodles, both specialties of the city. Unfortunately, when we arrived, there was a huge crowd of tourists waiting to get in and be seated, and when I tried to tell the host at the front that we were a party of 2, I was dismayed to see an Excel spreadsheet fully in English of all the dinner reservations by time and party size on her screen. While we were waiting, we briefly looked at the menu and noticed that everything was priced at about three times the cost of anything else on side streets that had a more “local” feel. So Chris insisted we not eat there and we wandered off to lesser traveled to streets and ate at three different spots for a third of the price. We didn’t  come to Hoi An to feel like a tourist and be around other tourists. We came because we wanted a local feel.

And a local feel we certainly got. After enjoying banh mi sandwiches at a local spot that was known for its house-made pate and mayonnaise, we both were overwhelmed by how light the bread was; crunchy on the outside, but probably the lightest and airiest insides that we’d had… ever. Even though we both ate a sandwich each, we didn’t feel full at all and instead were able to enjoy two more dishes at two other spots. We proceeded to a mi quang restaurant and had these noodles with mixed seafood and meat, and then ended the evening of savory foods in a tiny alley where of the three dishes they served, one was their main specialty: banh canh, a tapioca-noodle soup dish with fish cake and vegetables that had noodles with a chewy and nearly addictive texture. It was served with a baguette (delicious and airy, just as we expected), pickled chilies, and teeny tiny limes that had an orange flesh and tasted more like a cross between a lime and an orange. Yet while we were entering the alley to be seated on Chris’s favorite tiny stools, the camera bag he was holding accidentally knocked over some bowls, resulting in two getting damaged. We were apologetic, and I realized I never looked up the translation for “sorry.” So at the end of the meal, we paid 30,000 (about $1.30 USD) dong for the bowl we shared, and gave an additional 20,000 dong (about $0.86 USD) and waved towards the bowls we broke. The workers initially seemed confused at the extra money we put on the table and looked at us and each other quizzically, but when we motioned towards the bowls, they hesitated, then all broke into big smiles. And while we said “thank you” in Vietnamese, they looked at us warmly and said “thank you” in English.

And even walking out of the tiny alley as they closed up their food stall, I tried to take a photo of their stall sign, and one of the workers noticed me taking a picture and even adjusted the light so that I could get a better picture. When he looked at the frame on my screen and saw that another light was in the way, he adjusted it so that it pointed another way. He smiled at me, and I thanked him and said goodbye.

The little moments of travel when you have interactions like this are always enjoyable and heart-warming, and remind me that even when stupid things happen, the kindness of strangers is something we rely on. So many good people exist in the world and just want to be good to each other. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember that, but these moments serve as a good reminder to me.

The vastness of Vietnamese cuisine can be surprising. When thinking about how large the country is in terms of land, it really doesn’t seem like that big of a place…  until you think about the fact that it a densely populated country of over 95 million residents, plus a healthy number of visitors who arrive from around the world every single year. People often talk about the diversity of cuisine in China and India, but Vietnam, though far smaller in both population and size, is quite different depending on the region you are in. For example, com ga tam ky, which is Vietnamese style chicken and rice, is really found everywhere mostly in Quang Nam province, or in its city by the name of the rice type, Tam Ky. Pho has regional differences between the north and the south. Bun bo hue, or spicy lemongrass beef noodle soup with pig’s feet, is a Hue dish, but much beloved throughout the entire country. In Northern Vietnam, you can find goose (well, they call it goose, but I read that it’s technically called Muscovy duck, which can be likened to goose in terms of what they eat and how they live). In Southern Vietnam, the banh mi cold cuts are far more varied than in the south due to historical reasons — since in the past, meat was more readily available in the south vs. the north.

During this trip, I’ve been surprised by a number of dishes we’ve come across. We tried  the grilled muscovy duck, which was delicious, rich, and fatty. We also had a dish I’d never heard of before called pho chien phong, which is basically flat squares of fresh rice noodle battered, then deep fried, and tossed with stir-fried greens and beef slices. Rice is the king here in Vietnam, whether it’s in pure rice, broken rice, or rice noodle form, and here was just another way of eating it. We could hear each component being prepared as we waited for our food. The fried squares of rice noodle, beef, and vegetables came on a plate that was nearly towering over. It was a hearty and filling dish, one that overwhelmed Chris. The fried noodle cubes were like poofy little pillows, hollowed out when you bit into them, revealing the light and soft rice noodle square inside.

This is one of those dishes that seems like it’s Chinese, but given the use of rice noodle in this manner, is most definitely Vietnamese. The amount of preparation to cut each of the noodles into shapes like these and then to batter each is only a Vietnamese thing given how painstaking it was.

Since we’ve arrived in Vietnam, Chris has been excited and eager to try the food, but depending on how simple and hole-in-the-wall the restaurant or food stall is, he’s been dreading the seating situation… as in, do I actually get to sit in a proper chair, a normal-height stool, or a teeny tiny stool that barely clears one foot tall?

For whatever reason, the first time I came to Vietnam in 2008, the tiny sitting stools didn’t phase me. I just accepted them and sat on them. The more no-frills the place was, the more likely the establishment was to have these small stools for sitting. As several people we spoke with joked and commented, “Vietnamese people are a small people. We are not tall.”  Even my dad, who is the same height as Chris at 5’9″, found them comical 11 years ago when we came together, reminding him of the past, and commented that they weren’t great for his back. But he didn’t complain at all and just took it all in.

At this point in our trip, it’s hard to count the number of times we’ve had to sit on these tiny stools while eating. Then when we arrived at a much anticipated banh cuon shop (these are steamed Vietnamese rice rolls typically stuffed with minced pork, shrimp, cloud ear mushrooms, and shiitake mushrooms, then dunked in nuoc cham dipping sauce; one of my absolute favorite dishes on earth), Chris immediately whined and whinged. “Are these people trying to kill me?! I don’t know how long I can sit like this. Order quickly so we can eat quickly and go.”

We ordered our banh cuon, Vietnamese cinnamon meatloaf slices, pork and lemongrass skewers, and freshly pressed soy milk. Although Chris usually doesn’t care for soy milk, he has been really enjoying the soy milk here, which is what I call real soy milk as it was meant to be prepared and enjoyed: fresh pressed from steaming soy beans, with just a touch of sugar to sweeten. I have fond memories of enjoying this beverage almost every morning off the streets in Shanghai, and also on the last Vietnam trip. During my childhood, my mom frequently bought fresh soy milk from a reputable Asian shop on Clement Street in San Francisco. So the taste and texture have been with me forever. So while I still like soy milk in the U.S. out of a carton, even with its added preservatives, thickeners, and who else knows what got added into it, I will always have a soft spot for real Asian soy milk. And now I know I can get Chris to drink soy milk if I get him the authentic stuff.

As soon as we were done eating, Chris pressed me to pay as soon as possible and leave. I guess this is just another one of the small benefits of being petite: the tiny sitting stools don’t bother me as much, and I could probably sit all day like that without any pain or knee buckling.

Today, we finally enjoyed pho at a local spot called Pho Thin in Hanoi. We’ve been fortunate to stay at beautiful hotels with lush and extensive breakfast buffets complete with local Vietnamese dishes including pho, but I really had a need to try pho in at least one spot in the north during this trip. Pho is said to have originated in the north, somewhere near Hanoi. From what I have studied, both in eating and in reading, I’ve learned that there are two types of pho, northern and southern. Both region’s basics are the same in that they use the same spices, the same charred onions, and cook their bones down to nothing so that their soups are fully flavored, but the difference is in the level of sweetness and the herb additions. In the south, a sweeter broth is preferred, so a tad more rock sugar is used. In addition, herbs like bean sprouts, basil, and Vietnamese greens are added to the noodle soup while at the table. The northern pho stands alone with perhaps a sprinkling of green onions and a squeeze of lime on the top. Since the majority of the Vietnamese who fled Vietnam were from the south who now reside in the U.S. or in Australia, it then makes sense that the pho we are accustomed to is the southern style soup.

From a historical perspective, it’s been said that the regional differences of pho have to do with what was available in each region. In the north, food scarcity was at many times an issue. In Vietnam overall, beef is considered a luxury meat vs. pork or chicken. Whereas in the south, food has always been more plentiful, perhaps due to the warmer climates and the terrain. This resulted in the additions of many herbs and vegetables in the southern pho, and even variations of beef, including tripe and other cow parts.

I did a lot of food research on this trip, and Pho Thin was supposed to be one of the top local favorites for pho, and since, has been discovered by tourists, as well. Pho Thin was kind of what I imagined it to be. We arrived at around 9am (as pho is typically eaten for breakfast in Vietnam; some popular places close by 9am because they run out of noodles and broth!) to a crowd outside, waiting for their bowls of pho bo, plus a fully packed dining room of boisterous and soup-serious slurpers. This little hole-in-the-wall is bare-bones with little decor, long metal tables, and short stools. The front is open, with the workers busily stirring and scooping out the broth, noodles, stir-frying the meat, and dishing out long, fried Chinese donuts so that diners can enjoy their rich broth with a dip of crunchy fried savory donut. You line up at the front, place your order (you have the option of pho bo, pho bo, and pho bo. Oh, and if you want the donuts, you have to tell them. But they don’t speak much English at all). You pay, they give you your change, then you find a seat inside, where they will bring you your pho. We shared one bowl after a hotel breakfast, and as soon as it came, I knew it was going to be a delight. The top of the broth had a nice film of beef fat (my mother would not approve; she would have taken a spoon to that and quickly scooped it all out to dispose of it), a thick layer of chopped spring onions, and lean stir-fried beef on the top. The first thing I did was put my spoon in and take a taste of the broth. It was full bodied, rich, complex, and fragrant of beef, star anise, and charred onion. I could really have sipped that soup all day long; it was so good. These are the moments I’m so happy I have not given up meat. The noodles were fresh, not dried, and were soft and springy, but with a little bite. We devoured that soup in just a few minutes. And then it was gone.

As we left, I took photos of the outside and watched the workers in the front scoop out the broth from one vat to the next. I saw another worker quickly speed walk and deliver steaming hot bowls to diners two storefronts down. Another was barking out orders for the server to bring to tables. This is my kind of eating when I’m in Asia; quick, delicious, cheap, no frills, and all about the quality of the food. One does not go into Pho Thin for the ambiance or to socialize. Nope. They go there to inhale the pho, have zero conversation while eating, and leave. Your company is really just the pho, your chopsticks, and the spoon. Your dining partner, if you have one, is just a silent partner in eating.

I have only made pho ga (chicken pho) and not pho bo given the amount of effort it takes. But maybe now that I have an Instant Pot, this will finally be my chance to take a stab at my absolute favorite soup in the world. I’m going to remember this visit for a long, long time.