What is Hanoi part three. That one hellish summer.



What is Hanoi Part Three.

That one hellish summer.


A year in Vietnam sounds fun, right? Well, hold your horses, slow your roll.

Think on it for a minute. Cause it’s a hell of a commitment.

Because when you’re not used to heat – unbelievable, unbearable

Unfathomable, disgusting, humid, insane, lung destroying

Stinking, stormy, hot tropical madness.

You’re not ready. Nobody is.

Not. A. Single human that has never spent a summer in Hanoi

Could possibly know – even guess

How insanely uncomfortable a Hanoi summer is.

Imagine – if you will, an obese human’s sweat evaporated

And was collected and stored within the filter of a gas mask.

And then every sweaty day you have to wear said mask

And inhale that stinking, sweat-essence.

It gets in your lungs and lives there, mix that up

With arguably the most polluted city in the world

Sip it down, swallow it whole and integrate it into your drowning soul.

Drowning in your own sweat.

Now you’re a little closer, closer to the truth

Of the purgatory you will experience because

You don’t wanna go outside, because if you’re lucky enough

To have air conditioning you should stay inside.

You should really just stay inside.

Because, hiding out where the city isn’t trying to actively murder you

Is safer.

I like to sleep in a cold room – it brings me peaceful sleep

And I’ve slept sans-aircon in Uganda, Valencia in high summer

In a little caravan, the Nevada desert, London when it’s brutal

And NOTHING compares to the relentless un-comfort you feel

When trying to sleep in Hanoi in August.

Blast the air condition, balls out – no covers and good luck

I had a balcony, it was wonderful – the sun rose over the rusty rooftops

sun dancing over Cardinals arguing on lightning rods

But, during those three summer months

When the sun is hell-bent on burning your retinas

You can sit up all night drinking Bia Ha Nois as the aircon soothes you

But, the very millisecond the morning sun rises over the giant red flag

With yellow star,

You can’t breathe, your skin turns to jerky

Your beer turns to warm piss

And you have to shut the doors – draw the curtains

And Cry into your bed-soup while you pray for December.

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