A puddle of humidity, pho ga broth and bia - Vietnamese beer - spreads slowly on the cement floor beneath my plastic lawn chair, as I wash down a plate of grilled beef wrapped in betel nut leaves with a large mug of the house specialty. I'm at a traditional bia hoi in Hanoi -- I've decided to spend a few days here and research a story on the Vietnamese art scene for Ukranian GQ -- reading my copy of last week's New Yorker. A "Talk of the Town" piece ruminates on the recent Dick Cheney hunting mishap:
"The quail hunter's underwear can vary....," its author, Bob Gooch, writes. "Some hunters prefer fishnet-type underwear which permits the body heat to circulate more freely."
Lily should send some Male Power underwear to the White House as a publicity stunt, I think and before I get to the end of the article, a Vietnamese child has thrust a copy of The Quiet American -- Graham Greene's notorious left-wing novel of political intrique in Vietnam -- in front of my face.
"Please sir, buy this book! I live in countryside and my family is very poor!" Even though I've already read it, I decide to buy the book since I happen to be staying in the Graham Green suite -- at the nearby Metropole Hotel, where Greene penned the novel -- and hand the boy a few thousand dong (Vietnamese currency.) As I flip through the "Penguin edition" I notice that it's actually a Xeroxed and/or re-typed replica, with the font style changing every 15 pages or so. I shove the book into my back pocket and send a pitch on this bia hoi for the New Yorker's "Tables for Two" column, via my international, not-yet-on-the-market Blackberry.
Back at the hotel, a large box from ThinkBigPR -- Lily's PR company -- is waiting for me in my room. How the hell did she know I was here?? I didn't even tell my editor that I was making a pitstop in Hanoi. I rip open the box, which has arrived by overnight DHL, and find a note written in Lily's trademark baroque scrawl: "Hi Jack, I hope you're enjoying Hanoi. Do visit the Apocalypse Now disco and say hi to Anh Khanh for me, you can't miss him (we had a brief fling during Tet last year). Anyway, here are some women's underwear samples that I want you to deliver to Alan Duong -- she's staging a fashion show at her private club next week." I look into the box and pull out piles of neatly wrapped packages: Bali, Le Mystere, DKNY. How did I suddenly become this woman's panty distributor?? I don't have time for this. I walk to the large French windows that look out onto Ngo Quyen Street, throw them open and walk out onto the balcony. Below I spot a group of kids hawking books, postcards, and wooden dolls. I whistle to get their attention and begin flinging the packs of underwear down to them, watching as they bump into each other trying to catch them. They'll make about a billion dong selling these, I smile to myself.
"So, the Americans dropped Agent Orange on Vietnam 35 years ago, and now they're dropping Agent Provocateur panties...We've come a long way, baby." The voice is coming from the balcony adjacent to mine and when I look over I see a petite blonde in a white pantsuit and spiked heels. She looks vaguely familiar.
"Actually, it's DKNY....don't I know you?" I ask.
"Didn't we meet at the Lulu Guinness launch..."
"Was it the Philipe Starck luncheon at Craft..."
"Philipe de Montebello at the Met..."
"I think that was it. We sat next to Hamish and he spilled soup on your Tuleh skirt."
"Oh god, yes! I threw that skirt away. It was just another Anna Wintour hand-me-down, anyhow. She puts out a big box in front of her office once a week and me and the other girls dive in. I'd be naked without that woman. Last week she actually put out a carton of Cosabella thongs - you would have loved it. Enough to feed four Third World nations."
"Very funny. You're Dana Dickey from..."
"Conde Nast Traveler." She's already holding out her business card. "And you're Joe...you write for Republic of Congo Cosmo, no?"
"No and no. I'm Jack Beat. I used to write for Albanian Marie Claire, but now I write for Swag. So what brings you to Hanoi?"
"I'm writing a feature on the Vietnamese art scene," she replies, glancing at her Cartier watch.
"That's interesting, because I pitched that story to you about two months ago."
"Really? I don't remember that. Hey Joe, I gotta go - I hear my Blackberry vibrating in the bathroom where I carelessly left it. Let's try to do drinks at Apocalypse later this week, K?" Before I can reply, she disappears into her room. I fling her card over the balcony and one of the Vietnamese kids runs over and picks up before throwing it back down on the ground.
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