"I don't smoke" "YOU LIE!!!"

I didn't know whether I would love or hate Saigon--and talking to other travellers along the way didn't help. Vietnam's massive metropolis provoked polarized opinions sharing a common utterance: "crazy." People either thought it was crazy (and loved it) or thought it was crazy (and hated it). There was little in the way of a middle/neutral ground. And the divided opinion transcended traveller type--gap year kids, twentysomethings, 30 year-olds, hardcore partiers, "culture vultures"--for every traveller that loved Saigon, another hated the place with a passion.

I just prepared myself for experiencing "crazy."

"Crazy" perfectly described my first encounter with the former ARVN capital--the previously mentioned taxi "line-up"--and has been a common adjective for foreigners to describe their experience in Saigon ever since the days of American involvement in the Vietnam War. The sudden increase in American soldiers, money, and consumer goods served as a steiroid that turbo-charged the Saigon economy, and created an "anything goes" atmosphere. Stories of Saigon's wartime decadence are practically essential inclusions for every history book discussing the subject of the American involvement in Vietnam.

Driving in from Tan Son Nhat, there were two things that immediately struck me about Saigon: the wide european style streets and boulevards, and the blindingly widespread use of neon lights at night. I definitely wasn't in Hoi An anymore, and I certainly wasn't in Hanoi.

We arrive in Pham Ngu Lao (the cheap hotel area), and look for a place to crash for the night, since it is about 8pm at this point. This is when it helps to be travelling with a buddy or a good friend--one of you can stay with the bags while the other does guesthouse recon. The place we end up going to certainly wasn't the worst I've stayed in, and I would have likely stayed there the entire time I was in Saigon except for one key deal breaker: I had to climb 8 fairly steep flights of stairs to get to my room--as per norm, I hand over my passport to the check-in desk--a move that would end up costing me 11 bucks.

I unload my stuff and have dinner with my rowmates at a nearby place, and, surprise surprise, I see the guy that AJ and I travelled with from Vang Vieng to Luang Prabang and his belgian buddy--again, small world, but not so random when you realize that the twentysomething travellers in this part of the world mainly stick to the same guidebook--the ubiquitous yellow Lonely Planet guide (cheaper and lighter than the cost/weight of 8 individual country guidebooks). I'm polite and friendly, but the guy isn't exactly thrilled to see me for whatever reason, which only supported my belief that there was something "off" about the guy (maybe he thought that my presence ruined his chances with AJ?).

The rowmates go back to their room as they have an early flight to catch for Hong Kong, and since it isn't overly late (about 9) I decide to do some recon and explore the well-lit and heavily trafficked neighborhood for a bit/look for another place to stay.

I finally stumble on a "boutique" hotel less than a 100 yards away on a parallel street to the main road running through the backpackers ghetto--I walk in--ask about the price, but see the price list before I finish my question ($28 for a single). I begin to walk out, apologizing and saying that the price was too high, but before I can, the nice vietnamese lady at the front desk tells me that the rates are basically halved in low season (right now), which means a single would only be $16--five bucks more than where my stuff is currently stashed.

After taking me up the elevator and seeing the room, I start laughing. Elevator? Check. Marble floor? Check. Room that could please a finicky business traveler? Check. For 11 bucks, I could stay in a flea-bag hotel worse than a motel 6. For 16 bucks, I could stay in a place that would easily pass my parents' standards, let alone my own less refined tastes. Of course I will take the room I tell the all too pleased receptionist--and can't wait to get out of the flea-bag place.

About halfway to my old place (along a well lit road lined by open shops and restaurants), a middle aged vietnamese woman dressed in a black halter top, tight blue jeans, and black high heels grabs my hand and asks if I want a massage. I shake loose and tell her no and quicken my pace. How dumb (or desperate) did she think I was? It's not like I was wearing a giant sign proclaiming "I came to Saigon to get chloroformed by a vietnamese street-walker." Lady, save your seduction/date rape attempts for the balding middle-aged europeans that specifically come to SE Asia looking for that kind of thrill. Learn from your Thai peers working Soi Cowboy.

I make it back to my old place, grab my stuff, haul down the stairs (my quads feel like cinderblocks at this point), and ask for my passport back because I am changing hotels. My bags were in that room for barely 90 minutes, so there was no way that I was going to pay full price--especially since it hasn't hit 11pm yet, and there are bound to be some late-night arrivals looking for a place to crash.

They ask why not stay the night here and go to that place tmw morning? Because I found a different hotel, one that I liked more, (I really wanted to say: why stay in a dump when I can stay in a palace? Besides, I was not going to drag my stuff back up 8 flights of stairs). I tell them that I was willing to pay them half the room-rate, since I did use their place for storage, essentially. The guy insists that I pay full-rate because it is after 7pm--I try an appeal to logic explaining why I shouldn't have to pay the full-rate since I was only there for 90 minutes.

The discussion isn't going anywhere, and the hotel had leverage (in the form of my passport), which they were well-aware of, so I fork over the 11 bucks and make my way back to my new digs. Had I just kept my passport, I would have put 6 bucks on the table and walked out.

After being microwaved in the Danang terminal while surrounded by at least 20 vietnamese running amok and exercising their vocal chords to the full extent of their abilities, the harrowing descent into Tan Son Nhat, the non-existent taxi line, an agressive solicitation by a vietnamese street lady, and participating in an impromptu game of passport tug of war with a hotel guest, I was fortunately through with patience-testing events.

Unfortunately, the most disturbing event of the day was yet to come.

Needing a drink, I walked about a block and a half to an area populated by bars oriented towards serving the tourists in the guesthouse heavy area. Along the way, I passed the same aggressive street walker (I guess the neighborhood was her "territory"--I saw her out every night--but business didn't seem to be going so well). I get a drink, join some western expat teachers sitting in the bar provided outdoor lawn chairs, and wave off the usual group of cigarette and tchotchke peddlers. Most take it in stride and move on to the next tourist.

One kid, no more than 8 years old, takes exception. When he offers me a pack of cigarettes, I politely tell him "No, I don't smoke," to which he responds by screaming "YOU LIE!" before moving on.

It's no surprise that there are poor people in Vietnam, and that Saigon would have its fair share of beggars and peddlers, but there was something about this particular boy that stood out. Not since Siem Reap had I experienced this level of anger, frustration, and malice from someone on the street (the incident where two kids held a french tourist hostage by refusing to let go of her bike). It's just something you don't necessarily expect, which is why it both caught me off guard and left me visibly shaken, even though I didn't have anything to be ashamed about.

Honestly, I really don't smoke.