Hoarse opera

I'm sick as a dog with the flu right now. I felt it coming on last Monday and by Tuesday I was mewling like a pup with each inbreath and blowing my nose into a tissue with every outbreath. About every 30 minutes, the nasal gushing would stop just long enough for me to enjoy a prolonged coughing jag that made my aching brain ring like a gong again and again and again until the resumption of histamine shenanigans seemed almost a relief. This has gone on day and night for five days and five nights with scarcely a let up. I've gone outside only to seek Nga's advice and stock up on tissues, water, and cold medicines.

As in the US, there's no shortage of commiseration and helpful advice around me. Several people are convinced I brought this on myself by running around in my shirtsleeves in 65-degree weather (19 Celsius). Others say it's just the inevitable result of a change of seasons. Thu advises eating a stew made of lean pork, rice and shallots. Nga concurs. They both agree that pho, which is essentially chicken noodle soup, is the wrong medicine. Several people have suggested I see a doctor. Someone always suggests that whenever you have a cold. Why? I can predict what a doctor will say and so can you. Why pay to hear it, even if it only costs $5? (Office visits are very inexpensive here. In fact, medicine is pretty inexpensive. After I paid $3 for a pocketful of antihistimines, expectorants, and antitussives, I went across the street to Le Malraux Café and paid $3.50 for a bowl of French onion soup and a pot of herb tea.)

On my way home from Le Malraux I had one of those experiences that makes living in Hanoi seem like such a wonderful dream. Walking up Hang Hom Street I passed the entrance to a little alley I'd never noticed before. The alley led deep into the interior of the block and contained several shop fronts with hanging signs visible from Hang Hom. I decided on a whim to follow the alley to see where it came out. The further I walked the more the alley narrowed and the more residential it became. About 100 feet along I discovered what appeared to be a school on the left and just beyond the school the alley took a sharp left and disappeared into a little maze of rooms where people were obviously living. Several men were crouched in the six-foot wide space where the alley ended. I nodded politely at the men and turned to go back the way I had come, but a man lounging on a motorbike (there are motorbikes in every alley, courtyard, and kitchen here) stopped me and waved for me to go on ahead.

I inched my way carefully past the crouchers, exchanging hellos, and started zigzagging through the maze, practically walking through people's kitchens and bedrooms, hearing toilets flushing on the other side of half-open windows at shoulder height, past a young man brushing his teeth at a sink, arriving at a dark tunnel clogged with people. In the dim light shining down the tunnel from the far end I could make out the forms of young people, boys wearing white shirts and red ties and girls wearing red silk costumes of some sort. They were standing in single file and giggling. There was barely enough room to get by them, but I sidled along excusing myself as I went and catching friendly looks and smiles from most of them. One girl handed me a piece of candy. When I reached the far end of the tunnel, it turned out to be a doorway onto Hang Quat Street just about opposite the Green Mango.

In the street was a smaller group of young people posing for a photographer who was standing on the sidewalk. Cars and motorbikes were honking and swerving around the obstruction. As I rounded them to make my way home, I saw they were swapping places with people in the dark alleyway and the photographer was snapping a shot of each ensemble. What it was all about I have no idea, but maybe somebody reading this blog can leave an informative comment.

I've explained why I'm hoarse, but I haven't yet explained the 'opera' reference. The Hanoi Opera House is one of the places I've been recently. I went there to see a young Russian piano prodigy, accompanied by the Vietnam National Symphony Orchestra, play Rachmaninoff's 2nd Piano Concerto. Some photos of the Opera House have been displayed on this blog for some time, along with photos of the 2nd Hanoi International Music Festival at the American Club. After the Rachmaninoff concert, Sarah and I went across the street to the ritzy Metropole Hotel to have a nightcap in the same bar (remodeled since, I'm sure) that Graham Greene and Charlie Chaplin drank in. We nursed two pricey drinks through the set of South African jazz singer Hlulani Hlangwane who was quite fine. On December 6, I went to a Sinterklaas party in Jouke's kitchen (as you might guess, Sinterklaas is a Dutch version of Santa Claus), attended by most of the usual suspects, i.e., my CELTA group, which continues to convene once a week for lunch, each week in a different restaurant. I'm not going to include details of these events. I merely wanted to hint that my life is richer than just pedaling back and forth to class and vegetating in my apartment.

I will tell you something about one spectacle I attended. A friend of a friend's girlfriend--Lisa Carter--visited Hanoi last month and persuaded me to go the August Cinema with her to see an American action flick (Mark Wahlberg in Max Payne) 'dubbed' in Vietnamese. Often, dubbed movies can be amusing because the dubbed actors' voices don't match the on-screen actors' mouths. In the August Cinema, there are no dubbed actors' voices—just one female translator translating all the dialog in voiceover and making no effort to act. The effect is pretty annoying—like watching a movie sitting next to somebody who's talking so loud on a cell phone you can't hear the movie. Maybe I'll feel differently about the August Cinema if I ever get to the point with Vietnamese where I can understand all the hilarious mistakes I feel pretty sure are being made in the translation.