Hong Kong = Lots of people per square inch

And even though Yao Ming is from rival economic hub Shanghai, they all love the Rockets.

When the sign right above the driver of the tram up to The Peak says "Please do not talk to the driver," it's like, now you've given me a reason to talk to the driver. Had no desire to whatsoever until I read that.

"Sooo..... how many times a day do you have to make the trip up the hill?"

(He stares at me through the mirror, wondering whether to point to the sign, respond quickly, or just plain ignore me. He chooses quick response).

"Every ten minutes."

"Wow, that must get really tedious, huh?"

(Same decision process is clearly taking place. Driver looks very irritated. This time, he simply waves me off with a rude hand signal).

Every single Vietnam War movie follows a similar pattern. Long hair, a token Jimi Hendrix and/or Doors song set to the background of an afternoon patrol, rampant drug use, napalm, amputees in bloody bandages and the by-the-book officer who just can't relate to the younger generation.

But two things are a constant, no matter who is producing the film:

1. The Vietnamese prostitute.
2. The bicycle/rickshaw taxi drivers.
   

My time in Saigon taught me that these staples from the silver screen really were, and very much still are, staples on the real screen known as everyday life.

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Here is the first thing every person in that country asks you: "Do you have a girlfriend?" Cabbies ask it; vendors on the street ask it; even girls your age ask it. Like this one I met, who barely knew any English at all, except for one thing:


"Do you have a girlfriend?"

They might as well just come out with it and say what's really on their minds: "Would you like to marry me and take me home to America?"

Or, for the ones who are a little less romantic, "One hour, $40."

Those ones just ask you if you want "boom boom."

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"Boom boom" is hands down the greatest euphemism for "sexy time" that I have ever heard. You cannot walk down the streets of Saigon (how great is it that Vietnamese still call Ho Chi Minh City by it's pre-war name?) at night for five minutes without some sleazy dude offering it to you. Once, I even had a guy offer me "boom boom" at 8:30 ... in the morning. ("Dude, it's a little early for that," I told him).

When people don't speak good English, and it's obvious that they have simply memorized one line for any white person they see walking down the street, it is always fun to try and engage them in a conversation.

"Yo, yo," one guy said as I was about to cross the street and go back to my hotel. "Boom boom. Beautiful girls, one hour, $40."

"Really?" I said. "Boom boom, only forty bucks?"

"Boom boom." Every word that I said in response meant I was that much more interested; his eyes were getting wide.

"Hmmmm...."

"Beautiful, beautiful."

"Okay," I said. "Here's my question."

"Boom boom." Like a dog watching my hand for the treat.

"Let's say that I take a little longer, and I go, oh, say, an hour and two minutes." He grabbed my arm -- this was a sure thing, he must have thought. "If that happens, do you charge me for two hours? Or is it like, 'Okay, the guy was so close, we'll just charge an hour.'"

"Forty dollars, boom boom, beautiful girls."

"I mean, or is it like Cingular Wireless?" I continued. "Kind of like a rollover plan."

"This way." He pointed to a hotel in the distance.

"Nah, I was just messing with you man, I don't want any boom boom," and I kept on walking. It was downright cruel, like smearing a bunch of peanut butter just above a dog's nose, so that he can smell it, but just can't reach it with his tongue.

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Sometimes "boom boom" solicitors don't even code the question -- like our last night there, when, as Uncle Dan and I walked down the street looking for a good place to eat, a pair of girlfriends on a moped pulled up beside us and asked, "You want to have some sex?"

"No thanks, I'm not interested, but my uncle here...."

We just kept walking.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hell, even some of Uncle Dan's business contacts thought it would be polite to see if I was interested in sampling the local cuisine.

"You must see the first floor," the man said, his insinuations flying right over my head like a U.S. fighter jet. These guys were wearing Dad-is-home-from-work white collared shirts, after all. I associate clothes like that with my wholesome childhood. How was I supposed to expect that they'd be gauging my interest in a "massage?"

Uncle Dan, 21 years my senior, is a little less naive than me, and knew what was going on the entire time, I suspect. But it didn't take long for me to get up to speed.

The first floor was, well .... there were black lights, a neon blue glow illuminating everyone's face, really friendly girls, lots of snickering in Vietnamese, and a general vibe of shadiness.

"What are we doing here?" I said to Uncle Dan, as the business friend stood next to me, reading my reactions with a big ass grin on his face, trying to see if I was starting to drool or not.

"He's just trying to show you a good time." Danny was enjoying my discomfort.

I think my face gave away the answer that I was not. My first rule of protocol on things like this is that if I ever do go to "the first floor," I'm sure as hell not buying anything when my dad's little brother is standing right next to me. It was pretty awkward.

"Beautiful girls, yes?" the man asked, still grinning.

"Uhhh, yeah." Awkward. "Are you ready to leave?"

The guy was just trying to be nice, and wasn't sleazy by any means -- it's just that this was Vietnam. The same Vietnam I saw in movie theaters my entire life.

When we left the first floor, one of the really good-looking, really friendly girls even tried the equivalent of the "Come here often?" pick-up line on me. "You have been here before!" she yelled in her thick Vietnamese accent, before giggling uncontrollably. I blushed, and kept walking.

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"Yo, yo." One of my favorite things about Vietnam is that the word "yo" really is part of their language. They say it for "cheers" at the bar, they say it on the street, they say it just all the time. "Yo, yo!"

Well, they also say it when they're trying to get your attention -- including when they want to offer you rickshaw rides and "boom boom."

Take Sinh, for example.


Sinh (pronounced "sing") is the man.

My first impression of him was that he was just another rickshaw/taxi service dude who pimps in his spare time. "Yo, yo!" he yelled at me as I walked along the sidewalk, his legs pedaling furiously to try and keep up with the speed of the mopeds swarming around him like bees on the street. "No thanks, man," I answered, not slowing down to give him the time of day.

"You are very handsome!" he yelled, still pedaling. I had to laugh at that -- a first for me in Vietnam to hear such a compliment from a 60-year old man on a rickshaw.

"How many girlfriends?" he asked, panting.

"None, man," I said, still laughing.

"You no have girlfriend?" He feigned astonishment. "Why no many girlfriend?"

I wasn't trying to get into a discussion about my history with long distance relationships at that particular point in time, so I ignored him and walked into a Buddhist temple on the corner.

But he followed me in -- this guy was really persistent.

I had no intention of hiring a bicycle taxi, but once Sinh starting talking to me about how he loves America, how he fought in the Saigon army, how he struggles to make a living, I began to consider it.

And once he showed me the book he has, full of raving reviews from previous customers, I figured, "What the hell? When am I gonna be able to experience Saigon on the front seat of a rickshaw ever again?" and hopped on.

And I am so glad I did, because it was awesome.


I was giggling like the prostitute from the night before who had pulled the "Come here often?" line. When I say that the mopeds are like a swarm of bees, I really mean that they are like a swarm of Africanized killer bees. ZOOOOOM! ZOOM ZOOM! ZOOOOOOM! Please keep your hands inside the windows of the bus. "Lanes" to these people are like the sidelines in girls lacrosse -- they're just suggestions. It is downright Hobbesian on the streets of Saigon.

Sinh seemed harmless -- more wholesome than any other person I had met thus far in Vietnam. But it didn't take long for me to realize that he had ... other businesses as well.

"Look there," he said, an apparently good-looking girl (I couldn't see because of her smog face mask) parked next to us at the red light. "Beautiful girls, Saigon, beautiful girls."


"Yeah, I guess, I can't really tell."

Then, we saw a bride on the street.


"Beautiful girls," he said again, and pedaled up so that I could get a picture.

"You want blowjob?" he asked right afterwards. "Massage?" You would think that he would first offer a massage, and then get more direct. You would figure.

"Nah man, I'm good." I can only assume he meant from a girl, but still, not my style to pay for that sort of stuff.

But this was Vietnam. I wasn't sleazed out. Sinh was just being polite.


And Sinh is still the man.

This is how you know Ryan Zimmerman is bigtime now -- first item when you enter the Nationals' shop.

HUMPHREYS FIRST LEFT!

It's 4 a.m. in Hong Kong, and I'm awake ... why?

To say good morning to Vietnam, of course.

The mouth of the river!!

Soviet-style propaganda posters? In 2007? Really?

Okay, so I've sorted it out. No need to thank me.

In America, it's a known fact that Asian babies are considered the cutest of all babies. Way cuter than white babies, at least. Maybe it's the hair that passes as jet black strands of silk; maybe it's the natural tan; maybe it's the fact that their eyes are slanted -- which is different than ours!!

Awwwwwwwww!

Yeah, well, here is the question we all want to know the answer to, yet lack the means of finding out: What about in Asia? Do they realize they've got the world's cutest babies, or not?

I asked my Chinese friend Mabel, and her response blew me away.

"We think white babies are the cutest. Their blonde, curly hair, blue eyes."

"So you don't find Asian babies to be cuter than white ones?" I asked, blown away at this revelation.

"No."

Talk about exposure to new cultures and new ideas. Priceless -- yet pointless -- information like that is why I travel.

The problem with moving so fast through Asia is that I want to write about everything, but have no time. This is my third night in Hong Kong, but I'm still not finished telling you all about Saigon.

And I never did write about my epic "Dick in a Box" birthday party.

All in due time. I'm too tired to write at the moment. Just look and enjoy the pretty pictures.

I guess I'll just call them Vietnamese cowboy hats, because I don't think anyone from the Western world has got any idea of what their proper name is.

But I also doubt that there is anyone from the Western world who doesn't think that Vietnamese cowboy hats are the shizzle.

While we're talking about everyone in the Western world, I'll take it a step further: No one in that club would be exempted from the kind of overtime duty I put forth on the toilet the night after eating THIS on the streets of Saigon:

"You'll find that as you get older, your tolerance for living below the standard you've become accustomed to becomes less and less," Uncle Dan said our second night in Vietnam, after he shot down the dinner proposal I put forth as we strolled past the kind of joint where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came. It was hot outside, and hot at that restaurant, too, since there was no inside to speak of. But we were in Vietnam, and I was trying to rub elbows with the people, ya know?

If Danny thought that place was bad, though ... he didn't need to see where I had gone for lunch.

"That, that."

The old woman with the Vietnamese cowboy hat pointed to the pot. There were lots of "that's" in that pot.

"Yes," I said, pointlessly speaking slower in a language that she couldn't understand, at all. What had I said "yes" to? We will never know for sure, I suppose. But judging by the looks of what she fished out of there -- and by the texture of what I subsequently felt in my mouth, as I tried and failed to chew with small bites from my perch atop a foot-high plastic step stool known as a "seat" in Saigon -- I'd say it was a long, fleshy piece of intestine.

Mystery animal intestine, on a bun, in Ho Chi Minh City, for about the cost of two pay phone calls in the States. That is why I love to travel.

My own intestines feel otherwise. And they sent a Vietnamese, biological version of this dude to correct my attitude towards my choice of food.

I call him Kung Poo.

"So you think you can drop some street food, some MYSTERY FOOD, inside of me and expect me to do all the work digesting it for you?" Kung Poo demanded to know, looking fiercer than the bad guy from "Karate Kid 2." "Well let me tell you something: IT'S HARD TO DIGEST THAT STUFF! So this is what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna make you pay for you carelessness, and next time, I want you to act more like your Uncle Danny. Or else you're gonna get an ass whipping, got it?"

I'm not scared of him, though. I made a Chinese friend tonight in Hong Kong named Mabel. The first thing she told me was that she'll be in Houston at the end of April for a business trip, and asked about any good Chinese food places to go.

It took me about .0005 seconds to come up not with just an answer, but the answer:

"Lai Lai Dumpling House."

The same Lai Lai that was -- allegedly -- on Marvin Zindler a few years back. Allegedly. Well, even though I saw a mouse just climbing up the window curtain inside there one day -- at an extremely leisurely pace, as if he did it all the time without being bothered -- I haven't ever gotten sick from my go-to place when back home in Houston, just as Kung Poo couldn't touch me that bad.

I am going to ride the street food until it bucks me.

more Saigon.

It's the year of the Pig. You know what that means? We need a PARTY WITH THE PIG.

Ho Chi Minh -- alive or dead? You decide.

the best of
SAIGON.

You can't have a hot dog without a dog.
You can't have a milkshake without milk.
And you can't have Ho Chi Minh City without the scooters.

I laugh when I think back to my early days in Istanbul, when Joe and I routinely escaped death by taxi ramming. "These people are crazy," one of us would say every five minutes. It seemed like having an insurance policy to cross the street wouldn't be such a crazy idea.

That was before I got to Saigon.

Bob Marley would start singing about a rat race. Dave Matthews? Probably about some ants marching. I, personally, have no words to describe this spectacle.

But just know that these dudes below are a dying breed.

"The motorbikes began about ten years ago," Hien, a business friend of Danny's, told us in the backseat of a taxi our first night in Ho Chi Minh. "Before that, it was all bikes."

How much nicer the city must have been on the ears back then, I thought inwardly. Instead of the chorus of a concrete jungle aggravating stress levels across the board, I yearned for the sounds of a million bicycles -- with their bells, and rusty chains, and charm -- and inhaled a big breath of pollution.

"Of course," Hien continued. "The concern is that in another five years, it will be all cars."

"Another Bangkok," Uncle Dan said, before telling his Bangkok story: Two hours, one taxi ride from the airport to the hotel, zero air conditioning. And lots of frustration.

But crossing the street. Istanbul, you're a cakewalk. You're not even like taking candy from a baby. You're like taking candy from a baby in a vegetative state, compared to crossing the streets in Saigon.

"My strategy," Dan said, having just given me a free demonstration, "is to walk steadily, at one speed, and confidently. If you do that, he will move."

"Yeah," I said, "but the only problem is that I never assume the driver isn't drunk, or that he is going to stop his car for little old me. I've been in Serbia for the last two months, after all. What do you expect?"

Welcome to Vietnam:

The Land of "A Guy Mouthing the Banjo Music from 'Deliverance' Language," Never-ending Gobstopper Communism and the Ubiquitous "Boom Boom" Offer.

I dressed up just for you.

Well, actually more for Dan, The Bob's youngest brother.


Within five days of embarking upon this two-week business trip across Asia, Danny had already been able to fulfill not one, but two of his lifelong dreams:

1. He sold his company -- a former dot com darling called SalvageSale that, like fellow Houstonian Beyonce, is a survivor -- for much dinero. The money came in while we were in Singapore, and just like that, he was big time. Like that matters -- get a load of No. 2.
2. He woke up in Vietnam and screamed, "Good morniiiiing, VIETnam!!!"

Speaking of movies.....

Whoa whoa whoa.
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"If you could pick one word to describe Saigon (yes, its inhabitants still call it Saigon, even though it has officially gone by "Ho Chi Minh City" since 1975), what would you choose?"

Mr. Cuclis thought about it, and he .... hesitated?

"Umm..."

Maybe it was too obvious, I thought, like the T/F gimme that you just know has to be a trick question.

"The motorbikes," I said, unable to wait any longer to tell my story. I get impatient when I'm revving the engine, but the car is in neutral.

"Yeah," Mr Cuclis responded. "There are a lot of them, aren't there?"

I'd go with a HELL yes on that one.

And so would this Vietnamese beauty.

I don't think she's worried about SARS -- about 60 percent of the women on the streets of Saigon are wearing these deals, thanks to the pollution caused by eight bagillion motor bikes in one city.

"They're for girls," my personal taxi driver, Sinh, told me as he pedaled his heart out in a sea of petrol fumes. The smell in the air made me feel like I was waiting for the boat to pull me up, floating in the warm water of Lake McQueeney, a slalom ski attached to my feet.

"What? The masks?"

"Yes," I heard him say from behind. Sinh's bike felt like a relic of the past; I was almost scared to hold my arms out to the side, for fear of getting them chopped off by a madman speeding past on his scooter. "Only girls wear them."

A shame, indeed -- it hides their exotic Asian mugs. Before this trip, I was not a big fan. Asian women just weren't my cup of herbal tea, that's all.

"See," Lesli, the mother of the house where I crashed in Singapore told me, "you can see how all these old white men come to Asia for business and end up leaving their wives. Asian women get more and more attractive with time, trust me, you're not the first one."

That's why I'm just so glad to have Uncle Dan around -- he learned some things from his father, my grandfather, Foss.

"Bayless," Danny told me as we checked out of our Saigon hotel. "Phuong here is 23 as well." She smiled like a girl who was being put on the spot, which she was. "And she has agreed that, when you come back to Ho Chi Minh, she will go out to dinner with you."

"Thanks, Dan."

"No problem."

Phuong had checked us into the hotel two days before, and Uncle Dan waits until she's checking us out to play matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match. It was like a situation out of an Alanis Morissette song, don't ya think? A little toooooo ironic.


And yeah I really do think...

that Asian girls are hot now.