If Hercule Poirot did not hate boats, he might have been found on our journey. The weather, cold and misty, the passengers, a hodgepodge mess of travelers from all around the planet. As darkness fell, we huddled in the main dining cabin under blankets, drinking tea, telling stories, watching the karsts disappear into the dark. There was no shot in the night, no screams, no missing gems, the worst to occur was a round of bad bellies and a surpluss of seafood, even at breakfast. Fried squid for breakfast is tough to stomach at the best of times, at the worst, well… pass.
Halong Bay was unbearably lovely in spite of the cold. The junk raised saffron colored sails which must be stunning at sunset, when you can see the sun. The cabin was a neat little rattan lined cubby with fluffy duvets and narrow bunks, and the food was quite splendid. A surprising number of junks ply the glassy waters, there’s a bit of a traffic jam and some of the honking we’ve come to expect, but it was a peaceful journey. I snapped dozens of photos but finally gave up, the mist and the sheer expanse of the bay getting the better of me.
We returned to Hanoi for an eight hour stopover, a frustrating state of affairs set to right by our companion who suggests the unthinkable and perfect: Let’s go to the spa. A tiny woman climbed all over me for about an hour and change, pressing her hands and feet in to my travel weary muscles. I scrubbed the dirt off in the steam bath and paid a whopping 24 dollars for the pleasure of getting clean and unwound, but there was something weird and colonial about the whole experience.
Don’t think I could handle the honking…but I’d be all over the walking on your back thing. Although, agreed, sort of weird in a colonial vibe kinda way.