Will Travel for Beer

There is something deliciously intoxicating about finding yourself in a foreign land, as you sit with the anxiety and anticipation of the unknown yet to reveal itself. From the moment the plane lands and you follow your weary seatmates toward an unfamiliar airport gate with its own variety of chaos, you know you are about to have an “experience.” Whether it will be sublime, horrendous, or somewhere in between is yet to be known. As you consider your fate, it becomes clear that you have no other choice but to surrender to the whims of the travel Gods.

After claiming your bags and waiting endlessly in customs, you struggle to find Wi-Fi to call an Uber, until you remember they don’t have Uber where you are, and even worse, you uninstalled WhatsApp on your phone because you were getting too many text messages from strange people wanting to talk about Bitcoin. You try to avoid the throngs of quietly insistent men holding signs depicting names of hotels you suspect have low Trip Advisor ratings. Your hotel is decidedly not listed on any of the signs and you regret not printing the emailed instructions you received from your hotel’s manager. But you didn’t, thinking at the time that only a dinosaur would bring a hard copy of their trip itinerary.

You take a deep breath, settle your body, and observe. You allow the sights and sounds, amplified by the heavy air, to drown your thoughts. Through the cacophony, you attempt to feel, not think. You summon your trust in the universe, hoping the kindness you try to imbue will protect you from harm. And so begins the adventure.

***

You’re in Vietnam. Hanoi, the Old Quarter, to be exact. You’ve been reading about this place for months, relying on your Western imagination to conjure even the vaguest idea of what to expect. And now that you’re here, you understand it would have been impossible to conceive of anything resembling this hectic, beautiful, complicated reality. The sense of awe leaves you speechless despite your exhaustion and trepidation about having no viable means of communication beyond google translate on your phone with its dying battery.

In your anticipation, there is also shame, embarrassment that everything you’ve thought about Hanoi prior to your arrival seems steeped in stereotype and ignorance. You remember your promise to defy your country’s own disgraceful stereotypes. You will tread lightly, attempt to keep your presence small while you watch, learn. You vow that once you return home from what will surely be your biggest adventure yet, you will end your practice of binge-watching crappy TV while your life slowly passes you by. You will stop taking for granted the undeserved conveniences of your world, to lead a more enlightened life, one full of service. You will denounce your participation in the relentless cycle of consumerism. Things will be different when you get home! For real this time, you tell yourself.

You really did put in a respectable effort to gain some semblance of a cultural education before you got here. You spent hours watching You Tube videos, reading reddit threads, and yup, even buying the obligatory Lonely Planet paperback you will only surreptitiously refer to for fear of outing yourself as a novice world traveler. You tried to understand the history of this storied place, to learn important customs so as not to cause offense. You were determined to learn which sights and activities might give you a sense of the “real” Hanoi, or something that isn’t entirely the watered-down tourist version.

All your research, though, could not have come close to preparing you for the terror you now feel as you face the dreaded Hanoi traffic circle. You become convinced that you will meet your death as you and your travel companion cross rivers of speeding motorbikes while you, against all instinct and respect for your own life, follow the locals’ custom of walking slowly and steadily, at a constant pace, directly through the sea of speeding humanity. You will wish you had some form of sedation when you feel your heart pound and you break into a sweat, cursing your weak moment of entering this mayhem.

And then, you find yourself laughing as you become one with the herd and resist the urge to dart away from the motorbikes that will surely kill you. It’s as if you’ve been magically teleported when you find yourself safely across, smug in your hard-won survival. Flush with pride, you contemplate the adjustments you’ll make to improve your technique when you try this again tomorrow.

You eventually find your hidden hotel amongst the windy, narrow streets and are greeted by a friendly yet efficient concierge who provides you with tea and refreshingly cold lemon-scented towels. You are surprised by this proud gesture provided by even a budget hotel; you accept it gratefully and hope the concierge doesn’t notice it has been a few days since you last showered. You can’t believe your fortune until you are told your room is atop a steep, narrow staircase leading to a windowless room. You adjust your expectations and carry your bags upstairs, shocked when you don’t fall backwards on your way up.

Now that you have survived your trial by motorbike before climbing Mt. Everest to get to your tiny room, you declare that you have earned a proper welcome drink! Not just any drink, you are in search of the famous bia hơi, or “fresh beer.” You remain dubious this will be a life-changing beer experience, especially because you hail from the land of all things IPA. You’ve read that this Vietnamese masterpiece is a lighter, non-hoppy 3% alcohol beer, which you arrogantly assume will be like a glorified lager. Underneath your skepticism, you realize it isn’t about beer: it’s the story that makes it special.

It's hard to find a consistent history of bia hơi, as is often the case when customs evolve and stories are passed down from one generation to the next. You’ve pieced together that the French first opened a brewery in Hanoi to provide European style beer for soldiers and the privileged, those who weren’t interested in drinking traditional working-class rice wine. Even the locals, who preferred rice wine, were forced to switch to beer due to wartime rice rations. When the French eventually withdrew from the area, the Vietnamese took over many of the breweries and began mass producing their own take on beer, a lower alcohol, milder version. They adapted to the bottle shortage problem, another consequence of the war, by storing and distributing their beer in kegs. They shipped the kegs throughout Vietnam and people seemed to like the “fresh beer” that was drunk the same day it was delivered. How do you get rid of an entire keg in one afternoon? You throw a street party!

It is the street party, not just the beer, that you’re looking for. Not because you’re wanting to party like it’s still 1999, but because you’ve read the bia hơi daily ritual is a true communal event. The arrival of the kegs signals the moment the street will transform into a pop-up neighborhood pub without walls. This won’t be some chic outdoor patio with expensive wrought iron tables beneath brightly colored umbrellas you might see at a chic seaside resort. Nope, this is a plastic chair pulled up to a plastic side table kind of situation, where you drink beer from, you guessed it, plastic cups. You might get lucky and find a stand that serves beer in a glass cup, but that kind of goes against the lore of the glass shortage, doesn’t it?

It's approaching 5 pm when you find the bia hơi street your hotel concierge told you about, a mere two-minute walk from your hotel. The road is still relatively quiet and you notice a woman who could be your Vietnamese grandmother carrying a stack of white plastic chairs. Your heart leaps with joy as you know in your bones that she is the harbinger of impending beer commerce. She arranges the chairs in front of her open garage door, the view inside obstructed by the two kegs awaiting their release. She continues her preparations, seeming to not notice your presence.

You see a more established-looking stall further down the block, its furniture a slightly more upscale version. You notice the entire street is coming alive with the simultaneous unveiling of plastic furniture against a soundtrack of meat hissing on rusty grills lining the sidewalk. It’s as if a silent bell has rung, marking the start of this cherished salute to the end of the day. There is quiet camaraderie among the patrons, their appearance in sharp contrast to your outsider status.

You look up and your adopted Vietnamese grandmother has just given you a nearly imperceptible head nod before she beckons you with her outstretched hand, a stack of red Solo cups in her grasp. You try to hide your excitement as you place your backpack atop the table before you quickly transfer it to the ground, deciding the table is a sacred space, even if it is plastic. She nods her acceptance of your table choice, fills your cups and places them before you. She gives you a toothy grin before offering, “Can ly!” Empty the glass! You hesitantly place a few bills on the table, hoping you haven’t somehow insulted her. She swipes your money away and swiftly slaps down your change. You have no idea what just happened but are astonished that you seem to have paid the equivalent of half of a US dollar for this priceless initiation.

You’re doubtful that a beer this cheap will taste like anything but foamy soap; you hesitantly allow the cool, bubbly liquid to fill your mouth. Its effervescence lifts your soul and you feel enlightened. Yes, we’re still talking about beer. Isn’t it possible, though, that beer might be a metaphor for something else? Perhaps less a metaphor but instead a feeling, a connection to place.

You hold up your glass in salute, hoping someone, anyone, will return the gesture. You catch the gaze of a tired looking man across the road. You’re not sure if he’s looking at you until you see his mouth bend into a slight smile as he raises his glass in your direction. This silent communion is reassurance that you might just deserve to be in this very place at this exact moment.

You order another beer, not wanting this night to end. You know you should return to your hotel to get a decent night’s sleep, or at the very least, take a shower. But more importantly, you are aware that once you walk away, your memory of this experience will have already begun to fade. You could come back tomorrow, but you know there will never be another first sip of bia hơi. Like so many things in life, novelty exalts the experience into something nearly impossible to replicate.

It is those firsts that you are seeking when you venture to, as the great Anthony Bourdain used to say, parts unknown. You know you won’t be able to do justice to this experience when you return home and try to describe it to anyone who cares to listen. They won’t understand the importance of this 25-cent beer, served in the same red plastic cups you drank from at a college fraternity party. It doesn’t matter—no one else needs to understand. You were there.

You reluctantly push in your chair and hand your empty cup to the woman who shared her Vietnam as she poured your first taste of bia hơi. It probably didn’t mean much to her, she was just doing her job. You have no idea that even years from now, you will remember this night with enduring fondness. Your mind will still vividly conjure every detail, while never being able to comprehend what exactly was so memorable about that simple beer. Life is funny that way.