Single White Female in Hanoi Read Online Free PDF Page B

hurried goodbye and take off in search of a xe om out of Vietnam. I spend the trip home planning my escape. I can’t go back to Sydney – too humiliating. I’ll have to move on to a new place.
    By the time I walk through my gate I’ve decided to email my friend Kate, who’s teaching English in Prague, and tell her I’m coming over.
    But once again, back in my living room, I’m soothed by the high moulded ceilings, the air of sanctuary and civility, the comforting hum of the ceiling fan. My panic cools.
    â€˜There must be more to Hanoi than this,’ I tell the leafy plants in the window box outside my living room. There’s a cup of green tea in my hands, and my little speakers are emitting the soothing tones of Marvin Gaye’s ‘What’s Going On?’
    Richard gave me the mobile phone number of a friend of his, Owen, who arrived recently from the US to help a floundering local college improve its administration and curriculum. I turn down the stereo, pull out the phone number and call it. The receptionist locates Owen quickly. He’s very friendly, and tells me to turn up tomorrow morning. When I locate the college on my map of Hanoi, I see it’s barely a block from my place. Auspicious.
    The day is getting on. I improvise a meal with leftover rice and coconut milk, and make another pot of green tea. Nga or someone has let themselves in while I was out and put a large thermal flask on the desk, so I can make hot tea any time of day or night.
    I pore enthusiastically over my Vietnamese phrasebook. I’ve learnt a few words now – in theory at least. I can count to a hundred and say ‘thank you’. Best of all, I’ve mastered the art of saying ‘ Xin chao’, which is the polite greeting. ‘ Chao’ must be said with a downward tone. An accidental rising intonation changes the meaning of the phrase to an Oliver Twist-like ‘Please may I have some rice porridge?’ It’s an easy mistake to make, and when I do accidentally make it, I remember I’m in the company of such greats as Bill Clinton, who greeted the locals with a request for porridge during his historic visit to Hanoi in 2000.
    The last of the daylight fades, and I decide the best way to cheer myself up is to head straight into the Old Quarter, make use of a cheap Internet café and go on a CD-buying spree.
    As I leave the compound, a small, terrified, ginger cat falls on my head, seemingly from thin air. I unpick its claws from my scalp, put it down and keep walking. I’m starting to adapt.

All too perfect
    With every passing day I feel my slender thread of attachment to this place strengthen.
    Waking early in the morning is not without its merits. People have been telling me this all my life, but I never listened. Now I enjoy the morning light in my apartment and the relatively mild weather that precedes midday’s thermonuclear onslaught.
    But most of all I enjoy the ‘street-singing’ that reaches my bedroom window from the alley beyond the gate each morning. Although it’s quite loud, it feels like it’s coming from a long way away, and not just in space, but in time. And in a sense, it is. The singing comes from street vendors who wander the streets hawking their wares. Each type of ware has its own instantly recognisable signature call – a short, lazy phrase – and has probably had this same call since time immemorial. The phrase is such a unique fusion of melody and syllables that it seems unrepeatable, yet, like a digital sample, it plays over and over, perfect each time.
    I’m riveted by the man who calls out ‘ Pho’ from his bicycle. He starts on a low note, then slides it slowly up to the high register – the syllable is ‘ fuhhh’ . There’s a gap of about five seconds, then the voice returns, forming an ‘ ahoyyyyyyyy’, which starts high and then cascades down very slowly, tailing off