posted about 3 months ago by brenaj
about the venue: Music Shop (Ma May)

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I never planned to review a CD shop because CD shops in Ha Noi are like anarchists at a Black Flag concert – throw a rock and you will hit four. But after coming here I now understand that those proverbial four shops/anarchists are, in addition to being illegal in many countries, more often than not full of the same half-done trite tracks.

At this shop don’t even mess with the wall racks. Go straight to the fat binder at the back. Thousands of CDs are listed. Of the ten I requested, nine were in stock and all were perfect. No scratches, missing tracks or random cuts of boy bands. The selection is no more than a step above standard, but I am convinced that if you cannot find your disc here you will probably not find it in Ha Noi at all.

On that note, to my mind the answer to the poor CD selection in Ha Noi is to encourage more people to order CDs from abroad. My theory is that customs officials open packages, copy whatever CDs they find inside, replace them, and then reproduce them en masse for distribution. (Those of you who have imported all of Bjork’s albums, you know who you are.) But regardless of how they come, you will find them here. Happy shopping/shipping!

posted about 3 months ago by brenaj
about the venue: Hanoi International Clinic

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I came here after a duckwit on a Honda sped through a red light (on the wrong side of the street) and broadsided me. I flew (that was super) and then landed (not super) kinked up like a straw in a mango drink, hit the pavement, the bikes (but unfortunately not duckwit’s head) and heard: thunk, thunk, thwack, CRACK. I goose-stepped out of the traffic – which did not stop, which was only picking up, which niggled that suspicion in the back of my head that everyone in Ha Noi is trying to kill me (why else would they keep driving straight at me with that pinched, wild-eyed look on their faces?) – and tugged my bike apart from duckwit’s. We faced off. He was angrier than me; I was taller than him. We shared universal gestures of disapproval and, reluctantly, stalked off.

I was hoping that the CRACK had been me, and not my bike (which I love, and which I took for a thorough check-up post-disaster), and fortunately it seemed I was right. Something was very, very wrong with my rib. After four days of moving through my office like the Terminator, avoiding funny people and NEVER sneezing, I caved in and sought a doctor.

Ok, that was a lie. My supervisor caught me lying on an ice block on my desk, moaning, and called a taxi.

I panicked. But I didn’t want to admit I am frightened of doctors. So I told her I had no money. She robbed the petty cash and pushed me out the door.

This is a private clinic. There is no wait, the staff is excellent and the price is FAR better than what you get at the ex-pat joints (doctor visit 200,000 dong and X-ray 200,000 dong). No surcharge for being a foreigner. I couldn’t say if the technology is state-of-the-art (because duh, I avoid doctors) but it LOOKED really fancy. Just make sure that if you don’t speak Vietnamese, you come with someone who does.

My visit went really well. It turns out the CRACK was my bike, not me, so I had to go back to work and mop up the mess from all that melted ice (and return the petty cash).

The best part is I got to keep my X-ray. It’s bluish and kind of risqué. Exactly what I was looking for to hang in the front hallway.

posted about 4 months ago by brenaj
about the venue: Nutz

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I rocked up here late one night, Vina girlfriends in tow, wearing a short skirt and bad shoes (I found them in my garden last week). The guards were frisking all the men at the entrance. I tried to get frisked too, in the interests of gender equality, but they refused – even the kinda-sorta cute one who looked like a good frisker. Then they shot a nasty look at my feet. I tried to explain about recycling resources, and the dangers of pre-menopausal camel feet and varicose veins but my language skills are a bit, ah, perforated, so I gave up and allowed the girls to pull me inside without my frisking.

Inside, the club is what it tries to be: a shiny pleasure vault for foreign men with big gold cuff links and neglected goatees. Trawlers. They swirled their scotches on ice (swirled, not sipped; more than a drink or two and they wouldn’t have been able to pay for the after-party) and looked the girls up and down as they bumped and twitched on the dance floor. They didn’t notice me, thank god (was it the shoes???), so I ignored them and did my own thing. Which was dancing (not twitching). But my girlfriends, I must admit, have sticky fingers and palpitate for foreign passports so, dizzy from the attention of a scary thug hovering nearby in a starched white pirate shirt and diamond stud, they tried to encourage his leering by doing that chick-on-chick bump and grind thing.

I hate that. I am not Madonna. There isn’t any part of me that I sell (in college most girls tried to sell a glimpse of their tits, school fees being what they are, but all I could sign on to part with was my plasma; and then I passed out at the sight of the needle).

Someone grabbed my waist and I ran away. On the way out I stopped in the bathroom. I would like to give Nutz 5 stars for its bathroom. This is a really, really nice toilet and I have since stopped by twice just to use it. Highly recommended.