Do You See What I See?

February 19, 2010
Ho Chi Minh City

A couple of days ago, I didn't even see what I saw. That is, while looking through the purplish lenses of my stylin' new fake Salvatore Ferragamo prescription shades. Before leaving home, I had come across a thread on a Lonely Planet message board about bargains to be had in Saigon. One of them was prescription eyeglasses. Considering the main reason I started wearing contact lenses was to have the ability to don several different styles of sunglasses, this was news I was happy to discover. So, on my second day in Saigon, after a leisurely morning of sitting in the market and eating breakfast (a giant shrimp, pork and sprout omelette that you tear apart and then wrap in lettuce and herbs & dip in hot and sour sauce, taco style – delicious), I jotted down the name and addresses of a couple of eyeglass vendors and set out to find them.

I had thought about bringing my Marc Jabobs frames with me to have filled, but the limited space in my pack prevented that. No worries though, this city had pantomime models to please anyone's taste. Gucci, Fendi, Armani, Ray Ban, whatever your pleasure. I settled on a pair of pretty decent Ferragamo knock offs, not because of the name (I actually am not a fan of counterfeit goods, especially shades) but because the color, size and shape were perfect. The fine folks at Sol Moscot in NY reluctantly gave me a print out of my prescription, so I handed that over to the man behind the counter. His English was limited, but he seemed to understand the numbers just fine. Then he informed me of the price. The frames were 300,000 dong. The cheaper lenses were an additional 250k, scratchproof and UV protected, 300k. I weighed the difference (less than $5 USD) and opted for the deluxe model. Total price 600,000 dong or about $31USD. Total wait time, 2 hours (thus confirming my theory that the eyeglass market in the States is the biggest racket around).

I'd seen a bit of the city the previous day, so with 2 hours to kill, I decided to hop a taxi (still not brave enough to get on the back of a moto, but my time would come soon) to the post office, said to be both beautiful and functional. The beauty part (a remnant of French colonialism) was either closed or the guard did not like the way I looked. He directed me around the corner to the newer, functional part, which was as drab as you would imagine. It also seemed empty (I feared it may still be closed on account of Tet) save for three women and their hundreds of boxes that I almost plowed into upon entry. At first it didn't make sense. ALL of these giant boxes couldn't belong to these women, what could they possibly be sending...and then I took a second glance. The giant boxes were stamped with the Marlboro logo. The hundreds of smaller boxes they were filling (which Uncle Ho was happily selling to them at about 50 cents a box) were perfectly proportioned to fit exactly 4 cartons of cigarettes. Ever heard that saying “Smoke 'em if you got 'em”? Well, I don't got 'em. I haven't had a cigarette since November. But Huy Thuy Nguyen in San Jose, California is about to get a very large shipment.

The War Remnants Museum is walking distance from the post office, and while I was initially not interested, I decided to check it out. It is strategically located across the street from the Reunification Palace, and you can spot the blades of a giant chinook US chopper from a block away. There were also several different size U.S. tanks and fighter planes on display in the front yard of the museum. I noted a few bullet holes here and there, but for the most part these downed planes and captured tanks were in good shape. One could almost mistake it for the Intrepid. Then you go inside.

Propaganda is, for the most part, always extreme, one-sided and at times outright untrue. This museum was a fine example of the extreme and one-sided. The tale of the “American War” is told in photos, and they are the most extreme photos I've ever seen. The untrue part, however, seems missing. Rooms and rooms of gruesome photos of death and destruction don't lie. They were right there in front of me with dates, photo credits, and some deliberately un-candy coated hyperbole on the fate of their subjects. Either there are some photos that were just too unpleasant to publish in America in 1968, or Johnson's press secretary buried them before I was born. Regardless, couple that with the exhibit on the prison atrocities committed by the South/States on the North and previously the French (a real life guillotine complete with red stained head collection bin, the infamous barbed wire tiger cages), add the agent orange “oddities” wing, and I'd had enough.

Upon leaving, I wondered where all the beggars were. When I visited the SR21 torture prison in Phnom Penh, the block was surrounded by beggars with all sorts of crippling malformations, burns, amputations, etc. I'd expected much of the same here, especially agent orange victims. There were only a few touts selling old zippos and coconuts, and the omnipresent moto taxi guys. I made use of the latter (thankfully, they all carry a spare helmet) and set off, breath held and eyes closed, into Saigon's rush hour to claim my shades.

They were ready, polished, gleaming even. I was a little late getting there, and I could tell the optician and his mother were waiting on me to close. I removed my contacts and he fitted me with the specs. One look in the mirror, and I loved them. Everything inside the shop was hyper crystal clear. I strolled out towards the central market and my hotel, feeling like the most fashionable backpacker in town, when I realized something was off. I almost fell face down to the concrete over my own feet (which looked to be Yeti sized) twice. The depth perception in one eye was not right. I felt like I was walking on the moon. I turned around, but the vendor had already closed. I figured I could will it to work, new glasses are always weird and if I covered each eye, separately things were perfect. I wore them for the 20 minute stroll back to my guest house, narrowly avoiding being mowed down by a family on a sooter. An hour later, I was curled up in bed in a fetal position with a serious migraine. I had just gotten rid of the previous day's headache, and this one was far worse. I suppose the moral of the story is you get what you pay for, but I have a sneaking suspicion Sol Moscot is to blame. They massively screwed up my prescription a year ago, also inducing migraines until it was corrected. I wonder if they gave me the wrong numbers. Maybe I'll look into an actual eye exam in Hanoi. In the meantime, I can only sit and admire my bargain glasses from afar.