Built by the French at the end of the 19th century to suppress local dissent, then used by Vietnam for downed American pilots, only the front gate and a few of the structures remain. For some reason, I imagined the Hanoi Hilton would be comprised of sloppily erected huts somewhere in the middle of a jungle. It’s instead within a canopy of tall buildings at the center of town. There’s a KFC down the street.
Once outside, while I wait for her to come, a tour bus pulls up and out streams what looks and sounds to be an American college football team. I look at the young men who, at another time, might well have been soldiers exiting their transport at gunpoint.
While watching them I wonder what they’ll think of what’s inside. Will they soon exit, possessed like myself, with a mixture of disdain with our own heritage and with that of our former adversary that’s glossed over in propaganda photos on the prison walls? Were captive pilots really playing volleyball everyday after being downed while bombing nearby?
Winding down the last of the map, there’s more French architectural remnants, efficacious, standing strong, as the old now blends with the older and then the older with the new. There are several historic temples that the French hammers spared, towering trees and their roots fighting battles with the concrete, rows of metal shops and cafes and boutiques.
We eat, we talk, and once again we laugh, sitting on dirty plastic chairs eating delicious street food. And the horns once again sound melodic.
[Click for more photos from the French Quarter]