stinge-ing out in paris and london. part one

The creme de la creme of famous dangles

 We are no luxury travelers, but we have certainly not been down and out in Paris and London. Stinging out though? Yeah, a little bit.

Our journey from Chatellerault to Paris only cost us a few hours of slightly awkward small talk with strangers- we even learnt something. Did you know that 80% of France's power is nuclear? Neither did we.

We arrived in the city of love and, with our stingy hats firmly upon our heads, bought two children's tickets for the train to the 'burbs and our first night of Parisian couchsurfing. Which turned out to be more about celebrating the multicultural side of Paris than the 'stripey-shirted man with a croissant and a cigarette' side. We were staying with an Asian guy who lived with a family hailing from somewhere in Africa and we dined on Vietnamese pho (which was so good we were back in Vietnam for a minute).

We came round a bend on the river and saw this...

We had a far too brief 2 days in Paris and I'm sure we walked at least 100 kilometres in our efforts to see as much as possible (as well as, the metro is kind of expensive). And we saw a lot...of course the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs Elysee (which meant I had that song stuck in my head for far too long), and Moulin Rouge. Also the final resting places of Oscar Wilde (Egyptian themed and covered in red kisses), Jim Morrison (covered in flowers) and George Melies (unfortunately no magic tricks were to be found) in the too big to be believed Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise. It is a wending, winding, tree-lined 110 acres with over a million "customers", that has been a fixture in Paris since 1804. I don't know if this is appropriate in a cemetery but I had to giggle when we came across a huge mausoleum housing somebody called 'Stroggonoff".

Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise

 The fantastic thing about Paris is that you don't really need to know where you're going (excellent for us, as we will often study a map, decide where we need to go and head off in exactly the wrong direction) because there is usually something to see around every corner. On our first morning's stroll we stumbled upon the Notre Dame! (Though if you fail to see that whilst walking around Paris I don't know...you may not have eyes). You will often be walking along a street, admiring the elegant old apartment buildings, and you'll turn a corner and be in front of a wonderful little park strewn with statues or a grand old municipal building or a shop window beckoning with its rainbows of macarons or, much to our literary delight, one of Ernest Hemingway's past homes.

For some reason, me kissing fish has become a theme.

We were walking along the river one rainy afternoon and as we passed the Musee D'Orsay we noticed an enticing lack of crowds so went inside and whiled away a couple of hours admiring Monet, Cezanne, Van Gogh, Rodin and lots of other people that aren't so famous and therefore aren't so easily recalled. Ahhh, Paris. They also gave us discounted tickets for the museum as we are under 26. It is actually surprisingly easy being in Paris with very little money (as long as you have somewhere free to sleep and can resist the very strong temptation to buy everything) because you can look for free and there are many, many things to see. Also croissants aren't very expensive.

As we made our way down to the Eiffel Tower on our first Parisian day we crossed a bridge covered in engraved padlocks, proclaiming the love of thousands of couples (it is called 'Love Lock Bridge', I later learnt from eavesdropping on two American girls of questionable intelligence- they were certain 2 days would be enough in Paris as there was really only 3 things to see: the Louvre, the tower and this bridge...). Anyway we posed for a couple-y photo and were continuing on down the river when Will, in nervous earnest, told me not to expect a proposal at the Eiffel Tower, as there were no engagement ring sized surprises in store. He must have been growing ever more anxious about how to avoid becoming engaged without hurting my feelings ever since we arrived in the most cliched romantic city of them all (indeed, we saw two separate brides posing for photographs at the Eiffel Tower). I told him not to worry- I wasn't interested in marrying him until he could provide me with a house, a car and 2.5 children.

Love Lock Bridge

So the city of art, love, shopping, food (pastries for breakfast and cheese and wine for dinner anyone? How Parisians stay so thin when there endless displays of incredible food everywhere, I have no idea.) and wandering...we did so much walking in our time there that my ankles actually swelled up and I was rocking some serious cankles for the next week. It was also freezing, freezing cold while we were there but this did nothing to deter us from our hours of exploring the streets. In fact, if you can handle the cold- which all the Parisians said was completely normal and not actually very cold at all- this is the best time to visit because the places which I'm sure are over-run with tourists in the summer are completely empty now.

The Sacre Coeur at Mont Martre

And then, abruptly, our little Parisian sojourn was at its end. We had morning bus tickets booked for London, our bags were packed and we were ready to go (physically, if not mentally). We said goodbye to our wonderful host Pierre, an incredibly friendly and open-minded man who couchsurfs around the world with his 3 children and spends his Sundays giving food and conversation to the homeless of Paris, and made our way to a bookshop I wanted to have a quick look around before I left. The famous Shakespeare and Company has been a fixture of the Latin Quarter since 1951 and is a literary institution. Unfortunately the shop only opens at 10 and we had to catch our bus at 11 so we could only have a very, very quick browse. This, as I should have known, was impossible. We found ourselves still immersed in the tiny corners and bursting shelves of this densely packed space at 10.20. Thus ensued an incredibly stressful and frantic race between metro stations all the way across the city to make our bus, our tickets for which, if we missed it, would not be refunded. As you have probably guessed, we missed the bus.

While this made for a stressful morning (and a realization that we would not be winning any sprinting medals any time soon) it actually worked out rather well for us. Thanks pretty much entirely to two of mum's good friends who happened to be staying in Paris as well. We had come to our last 20 euros and Pierre was in the country visiting his children, so if it wasn't for Christine and Melvin's incredible generosity we may have spent the evening getting to know the ins and outs of the Paris metro stations. As it was, we stayed in an amazing apartment with a view of Notre Dame. We also found ourselves with an afternoon of bonus exploring time which we used to watch bocce in the park, stare greedily at incredible chocolate creations in shop windows (and succumb to two of the best macarons I've ever eaten), admire expensive chess sets in a charming old toy shop and climb (i.e. ride an elevator) up the tallest building in Paris, the Montparnasse Tower. From here we could visually retrace our steps all over the city and I have to say, I was very impressed.

But the next morning we really did have to leave and in a responsible, grown-up manner we arrived at the bus station a whole hour early. The bus ride was very boring, as they often are. The two moments of anticipation came upon leaving France- we had stayed a whole two days over our allowed time in Europe and didn't know what to expect from the officials...as it turned out, they didn't even check our dates and I'm sure we could have stayed weeks over and they wouldn't have cared- and entering the UK. I have previously gone through a horrible barrage of questioning at UK border control and wasn't really surprised when the official at this border was less than friendly. I kept so cool under all his ridiculous questioning that he gave up and with narrowed eyes -I'm sure- and a sigh of resignation, he stamped me in. Will, on the other hand, was expecting to be welcomed in with open arms being almost English himself, and was completely thrown off by the manner in which Australians are now dealt with. It was only after 15 minutes of questioning, bank cards and phone numbers of English family members offered for inspection and a lecture about return tickets that he was allowed to enter, shaking his head in disbelief, the little island of cold.

Parisian dusk.

a cottage in the countryside

As I write this I am sitting in front of a fire, in a little cottage, in the French countryside. A magical place where two amazing and huge meals a day are cooked for us, the dog can open and close the door by herself and the local history goes all the way back to pre-historic times (paradoxically enough). We are staying with the wonderfully welcoming and accommodating Virginia and Nick, (Will's grandfather's sister and her husband), in a little village called Chaumussay in the Loire region. It isn't all ribbons and charm though...today we spent all but 40 minutes inside, sheltering from the kind of weather that is just waiting for you to tentatively venture out, so it can wrap it's icy fingers around your neck while slowly soaking your clothes with drizzle and laughing maniacally.

To get here we first had to get from Porto to Bordeaux. The plane did most of the work there. We arrived in Bordeaux in the afternoon and the city looked so inviting in the late-autumnal light that we decided to spend the night, before heading into the country. We found, after a bit of desperate panic, the only hostel in Bordeaux, got ourselves a private room and hit the streets to make the most of the quickly disappearing light. Bordeaux gives the impression of being a very well-heeled city, perfectly dressed, not a hair out of place, always on time and with lovely manners. Perhaps there is a seedy underbelly, but we didn't see it. We saw the the lovely old buildings standing proudly on the river-front, a church spire turned gold in the rich afternoon light, long wide streets lined with the sort of shops that tantalize you with all their beautiful things you could never afford and clusters of noisy little bars tucked down side streets. We went into one such and got a rude shock when we ordered two pints and had to hand over 12 euro. Why, there must be some mistake, we thought, Europe is cheap, what is going on?! Apparently wonderfully accessible Spain and Portugal are the cheap exceptions in this western side of the continent. Anyway, we drank our budget busting pints (and they were actually much better than the beer in Portugal, but don't tell), decided we could ill-afford another and went back to the hostel to rest up for a big day of hitch-hiking.

We could not afford the train; it was going to cost 40 euro each to go two hours up the road- absolute insanity in which we would have no part. So hitch-hiking it was. And we made it...it took about 8 hours, and we became very familiar with the servos along the auto-route, and we did have to sit in freezing cold drizzle for a bit, but we also met some very obliging French people who were only too happy to help us (and to speak in English, thank goodness) and we rode in a very fancy BMW with a man who had no qualms about reaching speeds of 150km. And at 8pm boy racer in his beema dropped us right in the middle of the town we needed, at a cafe, and we spent our last 5 euro on beer while we waited for Nick to pick us up.

And we arrived at their charming little country cottage to a hot dinner on the table and a separate little house, very warm and cosy against the outside chill (which we thought we may have to sleep in), where we would be staying. Not bad...I guess...

This area of France is absolutely saturated in local history, from local families who have been in the area for hundreds of years to Joan of Arc and her capers all the way back to the pre-historic people who roamed the area searching for top quality flint (of which there was an abundance here). With a combination of long walks, bike rides and little day trips in the car we have seen a lot of the area and its stories. We snooped around the grounds of a castle that has been in a nearby village for nearly a thousand years and has been in the same family for about 700; now there is just one man left there, going slowly bankrupt while living in a castle. We saw a geometric spired church in another village which was built by a local lord and his wife to give thanks for the safe passing into the new millenium...the first new millenium. We went on a family outing to the castle at a town called Chinon, where Joan of Arc first met and accurately identified the Dauphin, thus enabling her to lead an army to re-take the city of Orleans from the English and liberating France. We rode our bikes out to a museum that told the story of the prehistoric people that moved through the area thousands of years ago, scouring the ground for its superior flint from which they made their weapons. We have seen the remains of a chateau that was sent  up in flames of retaliation when a retreating German army was attacked in WW2, and the poles marking what was the demarcation line between German-occupied and free France from 1940 to 1942.

As well as living in a history lesson, I have been making my 8 year old self very jealous indeed by living in an Enid Blyton story. We have been walking through woods (proper woods with woodland creatures and autumn coloured leaves), collecting chestnuts and subsequently roasting them over the fire, building little homes for hedgehogs...we've yet to see Moonface or any flying chairs though. So we're basically just living out an English childhood. But I had an Australian childhood and Enid Blyton was as close as I got to chestnut roasting and so you see, the two are inextricably linked.

And any time that is left in between all this is filled with cups of tea and coffee, reading by the fire (this is becoming more and more prevalent as the weather becomes less and less inviting), games of Scrabble with the insurpassable Virginia (we've won maybe three or 4 games between us, out of probably 15), long lunches and dinners with garden fresh vegetables and home-made wine, walks through the surrounding woods and farmland and scrumping (I'm going to stick with that) sunflowers from fields we see along the way.

Oh how we love the French countryside. How marvelous, how refreshing, how ridiculously picturesque. How we will miss our brisk country walks.

Paris awaits.

can we just get two of the custard tarts please...

Our journey to Portugal was, to borrow from Enid Blyton, perfectly horrid. It involved two sleepless nights, sleeping on the cold ground, and various forms of transport, all public, all slow. By the time we arrived in Tavira, our first stop, I was literally shaking with exhaustion and cold. Luckily our time in this small land of bacalhau and pastel de nata (that's salted cod and Portuguese tarts) has been a perfect delight.

To save money (mostly) we decided to couchsurf all the way through Portugal- and we managed to, save two nights- and as a result, I think it is all the people we have met that will stay with us more than the places we have been.

Our first host was in Tavira, a little village on the ocean where we saw wild flamingoes feeding in the salt lakes. His name was Paulo and he welcomed us into his little home with open arms, a very comfortable couch and a chicken dinner. He was a lifeguard who loved the ocean and his town and he made us little maps and itineraries of places to visit and things to see. One day we walked six kilometres along a long deserted beach, from an anchor graveyard in the sand to Paulo's little life-guard hut; it's a fantasically exhilirating and anticipatory feeling swimming on an empty beach with storm clouds gathering in the distance. Unfortunately those storm clouds then broke and the next few days were flood-like.

Then the weather cleared, we said goodbye to our life-saving friend and tried to hitch-hike to Lagos, a town at the other end of the Algarve. We made it as far as Faro, then decided to catch the train and therefore made it to Lagos before nightfall. Lagos is an extremely touristy place but for good reason- the beaches are amazing.We were lucky enough to have one last day of "summer", and spent it swimming in crystal clear water on tiny little beaches surrounded by huge orange cliffs. Then we watched the sun go down over the Atlantic, atop a cliff. We stayed in a hostel in Lagos, our couch requests bearing no fruit, but it was definitely worth the expense. After our summery swimmy day at the beach we caught the bus out to the town of Sagres, from which it is a 6km walk to the desolately, breathtakingly windswept southwestern-most point of Europe. Atlantic waves crashing into rocks a hundred metres below you, insane fishermen perched on the very edge of the cliff hunting for the catch of the day, huge sea birds gliding on updraughts all around, and wide flat blue for miles. And Europe's most southwestern hotdog stand...
Not feeling extremely enthusiastic about a return 6km walk we tried our luck sticking out our thumbs and were surprised and delighted when, after four or 5 cars drove past, one stopped and took us all the way back to Lagos. From where we caught an afternoon bus to...

Lisbon! A picture perfect city; all cobbled lanes, old yellow trams, pastel pink and yellow and blue houses and a huge square opening out onto a harbour, from where we could see the "Golden Gate Bridge" and Rio's "big hilltop Jesus". Despite all this, and despite the abundance of pastel de natas all over the city, it wasn't a place that I wanted to live in (and this is how I determine a good city). I think this may have had something to do with the people we were couchsurfing with though, or if not the people, definitely the house. I say house...I mean tiny little bottom floor apartment with 3 tiny bedrooms and smaller kitchen and no living area that was home to seven people...and then couchsurfers. We found it a bit odd that these people hosted couchsurfers at all, what with all their minus space and all, and it wasn't until we were leaving and the man asked us for eighty euro for the 4 nights that we understood...scoundrels.
Rather than spending any more time than we had to in the apartment, we spent hours wandering around Lisbon. Up and down the hilly streets, overdosing on charm in tiny little tiled gardens, eating pastel de nata in Belem, the home of said delicious, finding aqauducts, a castle and hordes of tourists...not a bad city, not a favourite city.

After handing over 80 of our precious euros to our landlord (ahem, "host"), we sat fuming at the train station waiting for our train to the inland university town of Coimbra. We were heading into Harry Potter territory now...did you know old J.K. taught English in Porto (the 'capital of the north') and gained inspiration from a lot of the surrounding places. Like the university in Coimbra, a beautiful old stone complex on a hill above the city where tradition has students going about in black capes...sounding familiar?
Uni means students and students mean parties and our host in Coimbra was a very friendly, happy, enormous Bulgarian who loved to go out and party. So we met lots of people in Coimbra, stayed up way past our bedtimes and slept all through the mornings. To get out of the house one afternoon, after a long hard day of sleeping, we duck-spotted along an autumnal river with a Venezuelan chap called Jeremia.
We ended our time in Coimbra with a huge codfish dinner at a Portuguese house (an eternally tardy friend of our host's mother cooked), another late night that included Jenga and an impromptou oboe performance and a warm, fuzzy feeling inside from the extent of Bulgarian and Portuguese hospitality. And a vow to visit Bulgaria and all our new friends there.

In Porto, the place from which we reluctantly farewelled this lovely little country, we stayed with another Bulgarian who we met in Coimbra. Dilyana is in Porto on exchange, studying fine arts and living with another arts student from Slovenia and a plaster artist from Porto itself. So we were feeling very arty...even though the only thing we created while we were there was a chicken soup "surprise" and a chocolate fondue.
We had far too short a time in Porto, it's an exceedingly picturesque city perfect for exploring. On our first morning Dilyana and Helena took us on an impromptu little tour of the backstreets, to opshops and fabric stores, past cheap bars and cafes (students area of expertise). Past a little park that was to us a point of orientation and was to the elderly, the arts students and the local prostitutes a meeting place. Then they left us and we climbed a big tower for a panoramic view of all the red rooves, the river and the vine covered walls of the city. We dove back into Harry Potter in the Livraria Lello, an amazing bookshop that has been in business for over 100 years, has been voted one of the most beautiful bookshops in the world and was, reputatedly, inspiration for the library in Harry Potter. It's walls are lined in very old books encased in glass-faced panels and the staircase to the second floor is an Alice in Wonderland wonder...google it.
We saw the city from both sides of the river, climbed over the bridge designed by Gustav Eiffel (there is a resemblance, indeed) and were treated to another impromptu performance at another dinner we were invited to- this time it was fado, the traditional, melancholic music of Portugal. Our performer (one of the girls we were having dinner with) was a little audience shy so she turned off all the lights and sang to the open window...she was quite incredible.

And with these delicious memories we snuck onto the metro (since we were leaving we felt we need not buy a ticket...) and settled into our uber cheap, ad-riddled plane, ready to fly to Bordeaux.

mo-roccan beats.

Which are..."hey, my friend, what you need? hey, my friend, you can trust me! hey my friend, tip?" With only slight variations, these are the beats of Morocco. Though, I am sure our cynical, weary, tetchy judgement of  country we were in for only two and a half weeks- and only in the 'big hitters'- is entirely subjective and not an accurate representation of the people at all. In fact, our few encounters with "real" Moroccans- those who are not at all involved in the tourist tricking racket and don't live in any of the massively touristy areas- were very positive.

The very first hour we were in the country, we encountered some very helpful lifesavers (unlike those pesky 'unhelpful' lifesavers...). Having caught the "8.30pm" ferry from Spain (it left at about 10pm), we arrived at midnight, at the new port 50kms out of Tangier. Having no idea of the existence of this port until we arrived (we thought we were at the other port, 5 minutes from the centre of Tangier), we had no idea how to get to the city without being completely ripped off by an over eager taxi driver who'd spotted us. Luckily there were some other men who lived in Tangier and needed some people to share a taxi- save money, you see- so in we jumped. All six of us, and the driver. Off at about 120km, into the night, down roads that would be comfortably navigated at about 80km, with a driver who had no qualms about tail-gating every single car he came upon.

We made it alive, obviously, though as Will and I were sharing the front seat I was white-knuckled on the door handle every time we rounded a corner. With a huge sigh of relief we arrived and our new friends helped us get to the medina to find a hotel and bid us farewell. We thought everyone would be like this- especially after a kindly old taxi driver gave us a discount on the fare because he didn't understand where we wanted to go, 'only' speaking French and Arabic. We soon realised that almost everyone else who offered us help was doing so with the expectation of a great big tip for their troubles. One man at one bus station literally begged us to go and look at this hotel- we did, only because it was night time and he wouldn't take no for an answer- and then once we arrived and discovered it was actually lovely and decided to stay, demanded a tip! Oh, the audacity.

But I will move on from our dubious relations with the Moroccan people to the towns we saw which, overall, we had better relations with (just don't talk to us about Fez).

We started our jaunt off in celebrity style...drinking incredibly sweet tea in the very square that William S. Burroughs (friend and collaborator of Jack Kerouac) used to admire the local 'talent' in. In the evening we moved on to the very posh (as in, when the waiter came over to ask if we were here for dinner or drinks I had a fleeting fear he was discreetly going to ask us to leave) hotel which has served the likes of Yves St. Laurent, John Malkovich and William Hurt. And a bunch of others. We drank fairly expensive wine, ate all the free snacks provided and pretended to be fancy for a couple of hours. This was in Tangier, a surprisingly nice port town, full of European style cafes and French accents.

The next stop on our hastily and rather unresearched route was Chefchaouen, a little village  surrounded by mountains and notable for all the blue paintwork in the medina. (Quickly, a medina is like the old part of town...in every city we went to there was the medina- usually the touristy part- with all the little alleys and picturesqueness you can imagine, and then the ville nouvelle (new town) with all the administrative and important city buildings.) We spent a lovely few days exploring the medina, rocking the kasbah (old king's quarters, walled off from the rest of the medina), climbing a very steep, very rocky mountain and admiring all the lovely shades of blue upon the houses. This was especially exciting once we discovered the colour select function on our new camera...we now have far too many pictures that are black, white and blue. Once we had been charmed out by the adorable little village,  we left Chefchaouen bound for our one mistake of the trip, Fez.

I'll say this first. We were both a little ill in Fez, we got very lost upon arrival and ended up choosing a hotel on a very loud and busy road just because it was getting dark and we had no idea where we were really. A map is a purchase that will never be regretted. So the next day, after a sleepless night in a hotel on an incredibly busy road (Will slept a little and all his dreams were driving related), we decided to look for greener pastures and set off to the medina. Where we were immediately accosted by somebody who had rooms- without toilet or shower- for 150DH (about $19). To put this into perspective, in another far nicer town, we stayed in a "pent-house suite" (but seriously, for us it was) with a balcony, bathroom and even a couch for 150DH.

I digress. Fez. Wouldn't recommend it. Insanely, inanely touristy, unjustifiably expensive, hot...and just not worth it really. My fondest memories are of sitting in a cafe in the ville nouvelle writing my last blog post and of sleeping.

Next! Rabat, the capital of Morocco. I'd say come here over Fez. There is a medina, it is smaller, less crowded and still sells all the same things. It was really quite nice to wander through (apart from one very, very, very crowded street)...there was the main street with all the hotels and the smells wafting around from the delicious sandwich stalls and the clothes shops and carts piled high with pomegranates, grapes, herbs and figs and dried apricots and garlic; there was the "market" lane...think fruit and veg stalls, little shop fronts piled high with glistening olives, every second tiny shop selling bread, boys lounging in shelters with boom boxes selling coal, a big room full of sheep and kids running all over the place and the smells of mint, cumin, olives and preserved lemon mingling in the air. Chaotic and my favourite part of the medina. Then there was the ubiquitous tourist alley...alluring shops calling to those with fat wallets with their lovely leather bags, colourful textiles and other shinies. Nice to wander through, but don't get too close.

This lane opened out onto the kasbah, which opened on to the ocean. Right across the road from the kasbah was probably the biggest cemetery I have ever seen...I'm thinking a couple of acres...complete with tomb-stone guarding cats. There was a little carnival near the beach where we spent a good 10 minutes deliberating which ride to spend our pocket money on. (We went with the spinny-around-in-the-air-in-little-cages option). There was a beach, but not so good for swimming, better for people watching at dusk when all the strollers came out. And then sunset watching.

We visited some Roman ruins, with a lovely little garden green with fruit trees and pretty flowers and a lot of storks who had made their homes on the tallest towers. We visited the sweets stall in the medina and went a bit overboard, walking away with at least 15 different treats (they were very small though...). We drank fresh orange juice in the street, coffee and mint tea on the cafe strewn footpaths and avocado milkshakes in the milk bar.

Then we left Rabat. And there I will leave this post. We still had two more towns to visit before we returned to the stress-free shores of Spain, but I will return to those in another post...this is quite long enough I think.

sigh...gone.

From the very punny title of this post you would be right in guessing we decided to come straight to Saigon and spend our last week in the city.

Although we did have an extra day in Can Tho and spent it riding around the town on bicycles, having a little look around. And as a welcome to the south we found a little cafe in a little corner of Can Tho where the proprietors were extremely friendly and eager for us to enjoy our coffees and even brought us some odd peanut/chilli/salt mix to go with our strawberries. We found real Vietnamese people! After being in Asia for 2 months that is way more exciting than it sounds on paper.

Anyway, Saigon.

We thought we would get really bored being here for 8 days but actually the time has flown by....and we leave tomorrow!

On our first day we dove straight into war history with visits to the Reunification Palace (the building whose gates were crashed through by North Vietnamese tanks when the South surrendered on April 30th 1975) and had a look around the 70's decor that hasn't changed since that historical day. We then visited the War Remnants Museum, which holds a horrifying photographical account of the war (from the side of the North Vietnamese, so a little biased against the Americans). That was depressing.

The control rooms of the 1970's.

The next day we concluded the war tourism aspect of the city with a trip to Cu Chi tunnels, one part of the VietCong tunnel system that stretched on for more than 200km (when you remember this was dug completely by hand and mostly at night, it becomes more incredible). We looked at some booby traps and listened to the stories of a veteran from the South. Will fired an AK-47 and crawled through the claustrophobic tunnel for 120m (I opted to stay above ground because I definitely would have had some sort of major freak out being in a tiny, cramped, boiling hot nightmare...I'm a wuss).

I can't really remember exactly what else we did this week....but I know we had a look at the Fine Arts Museum, which was lovely even though we were hungover. We did a lot of sitting by the river and sitting in cafes. We elevatored to the top of a large new financial building to gaze at Saigon from the Sky Deck.

We were ripped off at the tourist market, had a picnic in the park and met some young Vietnamese students who were eager to practice English. We were told by a policeman that we shouldn't sit underneath a tree in the park in case a branch fell down and hit us. After which we had to cross the road by wading straight into two busy lanes of traffic speeding in both directions. Ahhh, Asia.

We ate a lot of delicious soup. We drank a lot of cheap beer. We did some shopping and a lot of walking. We visited the zoo and we went to the movies- go see Tower Heist, it's hilarious. Like this photo...this is what happens when you are constantly being harrassed by people selling things you reall don't want to buy.

Yesterday we decided to have a break from the pace of the city so we caught a bus out to the closest beach (2 hours away). It was nice though, to have a swim and escape the heat and the noise of Saigon- Will and I were walking down a road the other day talking, and we were halfway through a conversation before we realised we were both yelling in order to be heard above the noise of constant traffic. We caught a boat back to Saigon after a long walk along the ocean in and being quickly transported to Rio de Janiero via the giant Jesus atop the small coastal mountain in Vung Tau.

And that about brings us to now....our last minute shopping is finished, we have visited all we want to visit and we are having a bit of a relax before going back to work next week. Ugh.

This is the end of our Turkish/Asia story of 2011, but I think to cap things off nicely I will write one more post explaining our favourite trip in jokes, so when we come home and crack up over bizarro things, you won't think we are idiots.

good morning Vietnam.

It is raining in Hue, a town on the central coast of Vietnam in which we have found ourselves. Two days ago there was a flashflood. It isn't the ideal weather to be doing much at all, apart from sitting in cafes or watching movies in bed. But, I hear you ask, how did we get from Siem Reap to Hue and what adventures have we had on the way?

Well....

We were able to catch the bus to Bangkok, though the schemer who sold us the tickets and promised the bus would take us to the airport spoke not a word of the truth and we sat fuming on the bus as it drove straight past the airport and into central Bangkok, from where we had to go back exactly the same way as we had just come to go to the airport.

We slept at the airport and caught our early morning flight to Hanoi. Hanoi is a fairly insane city. The noise is constant, there are literally millions of motorbikes and the smog is thick. There is a lot to explore though...crowded little alleyways, cafes, restaurants and shops.

We did a bit of shopping, a bit of eating and a bit of sightseeing.

We got accosted by a lady who forced us to take pictures of ourselves with her wares, the afterwards it was 'you take photo now you buy! you buy!'...but we didn't. We ran away.

Our first night there we saw a show of water puppetry, an old art form originating in northern Vietnam. It was great. There was a band of musicians accompanying the puppets, which were made of wood and stuck on the end of long poles at the end of which the puppeteers were in control as they hid behind a large wooden facade. The puppets re-enacted various scenes from Vietnamese life, but it was all done in a shallow pool of green water. My favourite part was when two water buffalo stopped working in the field to have a fight then a little man had to separate them...imagine that scene (you have to imagine it because tickets were more expensive if one wanted to take photos, so obviously we took no photos) in water, with funny looking wooden puppets and sound effects in Vietnamese. Oddly funny.

We also saw some sights...Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum (though we didn't get to see the man himself, as his body is currently in Russia for restoration), the Temple of Literature (Vietnam's first university) and we caught a bus out to the suburbs and found our way to the Museum of Ethnology, which housed a very interesting account of Vietnamese life, both past and present.

Will got his faced shaved with a razor finally (he wanted to since Phnom Penh).

The Temple of Literature.

We escaped the smog and the traffic and the people on a train up to the mountain town (former French hill station) of Sapa. Where it was actually quite cold, but the air was amazingly fresh. And he fog was incredible...it engulfed all of the surrounding mountains until we were basically in a town in the clouds.

We hired a motorbike -I didn't drive!- and explored the mountainous roads and a waterfall in a national park. We met a lady from a nearby village (or, actually, she met us) and she took us over the mountain to have lunch at her house in a small village of 100 people.

The 'Love Waterfall' and me trying to make a loveheart (it's a subtle reference to the name...it's ok if you didn't get it)

A pause in our mountain trek and our lovely guide Chou.

After we had our fill of the slow pace and fresh air of Sapa we caught the train back to Hanoi, in order to continue on to Halong Bay. And I think that might be a good place to leave this entry, or it's going to end up being too long and you will all get bored...so see 'good morning Vietnam continued' for Halong Bay and Hue.