The email detailed Hanukkah parties boasting of a never-ending latkes supply, well at least that is how I understood it. So of course I was going to the Israeli Ambassadors Hanukkah party and not another boring art gallery opening, no question. You just have to mention latkes and I’m there, salivating.

Dressed in my best borrowed clothes I arrive at the venue, a resort style village that could be in any city in the world. The event is totally unsigned, plain clothes security milling. I’m stopped by a Vietnamese man and asked why I’m here. Caught off guard I stumble and slip over my words, looking more out of place by the second. I try to catch a glimpse of the guestlist, which in hindsight probably made me look like I was trying to sneak in to bomb the place, and it was quickly snapped shut. A brusque Israeli steps in and inspects my passport. My passport! Luckily it was mentioned in passing that I would need to bring some ID, because I never carry any here and I would never get to even see the delicious latke mountain without it. I’m not on the guest list so I’ll have to wait for my companions to arrive. Fair enough, I was early anyway.

I may be  banished from the party but I can still hear small children thundering around up there, yelling at each other in Hebrew. Family groups arrive, chattering in Hebrew greeting one another with ‘Chag Sameach’ while the Christmas carols play. They take photos of babies in front of the Christmas trees, while I observe, surrounded by twinkling lights with Santa ‘ho ho ho-ing’ in my ear.

This surreal cross cultural ideal is shattered when my companion arrives and we are finally allowed in. Walking up the stairs the carols and muttered Vietnamese fades out and is replaced with the sounds of a Jewish festival. Kids run this way and that and everyone is speaking Hebrew. There are chocolate gold coins on the tables alongside dreidels and discarded yarmulkes.

The  doughnuts and potato pancakes party is about to start though my hopes have fallen slightly. There are only two plates of grey looking latkes and where is the wine? At this point I am kicking myself for not going to the art show street party which was catered by La Verticale. Why does everything have to be on the same night?

We select a table, introductions are made and then cut short by the formalities. The Ambassador’s welcome was in Hebrew and then in English (thank you!), followed by an eternity of Hebrew, songs and even a touch of karaoke, all in hebrew. The highlight was our host’s accordion skills, now that is an awesome instrument.

We ate and mingled with some really lovely people, I learnt a whole lot more about Hanukkah (though I am still not sure how to spell it) and played with a dreidel to my hearts content. After one too many baby doughnuts we bid farewell to the ambassador as he took a break between sets and left in search of dimmer lights, conversation that was understood, and alcohol.

I’ve been a little under the weather, so it was a very quiet week. I think the air quality here got the better of my tonsils and they flared up, red and aching. But this time the lemon/ginger/garlic + sleep cure worked. I must have been sick to be able to sleep through the racket of local construction. Now I am feeling much better, but I couldn’t sleep through the gaggle of young American girls screaming outside.

Saturday saw us throwing off the shackles of responsibility and going on an art-crawl through Hanoi’s French Quarter. Ducking into a few galleries brought up just more of the same, paintings of pretty Vietnamese girls or rice paddies or both, but one image stuck out (pictured above). Unfortunately I didn’t get the name of the artist or any details, when I asked the attendant implored me to take a photo, well, ok, what ever you say lady.

We hit paydirt on our second stop. I almost didn’t want to go in to L’espace because it was full of Vietnamese kids applying to go and study in France, but luckily I did as once you pushed through the crowds there was a treat. Amazing nature photography in the most unusual surrounds, national geographic style.

Although it was approaching lunch time Mum was compelled to visit one last gallery. Tip toeing over footpath repair, past an entrance table shrouded in cigarette smoke, up the stairs to this, an exhibition of portraits. Simply mounted squares taped to the wall, these portraits seemed boring at first, with their 1980’s sensibility and their too-shiny finish. But after a few minutes the personality of the subjects began to shine through.

The artist who took these photos was here. He brought some programs over and let us know that all the subjects were artists. Now, this was getting more interesting. I had found the tight framing around the face and the lighting interesting but now I looked more closely at the faces, wondering what medium they worked with, whether they were successful and where in Vietnam they lived and worked. There were some who seems happy, others inviting, some standoffish and a few looked just plain mean. I found it very interesting how such a simple concept and exhibition could become so compelling.

Mum bought a photo, a wizened old man with artists hands, $10.

Nguyen Bang Lam, artist

Sunday saw us go to an art talk (in Vietnamese) about Tempography. Tempography is a video art project which invites amateurs to submit short, unedited videos that capture a moment that will never be repeated. Or to capture a moment that could be repeated focussing on something that would normally be ignored. We were told that the point of one of these was as a commentary on a particular issue, they were intended to say something, but could not be set up. How exactly you capture a few seconds of footage of something that will never be repeated and have it support your thesis, I don’t know.

We were shown a selection of Tempographs, and most of them didn’t abide the basic rules of tempography. They were either contrived and therefore repeatable, and conveyed a message (a stream of oil reflecting the American flag), were once off situations, random and beautiful but didn’t say anything (break lights illuminating a figures shadow, dark red and mysterious) or were repeatable, obvious and said nothing (fans spinning endlessly, bubbles in a fishtank).

Maybe there was something lost in translation, but it seemed the point was for amateurs to create the work and for artists to curate and watch it. They would watch, but as mum said “not for long”.

Ho Tay, home, is about 15 minutes drive from the Old Quarter, depending on traffic. Thats a 50,000d (~$3) taxi each way. Not a bad price by Australian standards, where the taxi flagfall is about that much. Really its a taxi ride for the price of a bus fare. But there is a public bus here to, and it costs 3,000d (17cents) so I figured I’d better check it out.

I waited at the bus stop, no shelter here just like Sydney. Finally it arrived and with the rest of the crowd I jumped on the already moving bus and with a little help from the conductor pushed my way in. It was crowded and there are only a few ‘please stop’ buttons scattered throughout which makes for lots of changing places while the bus is in its hanoi traffic stop-start motion.

The locals here are rugged up like it is approaching the deep dark depths of winter. Those jammed next to me were in full jacket and scarf ensembles while I’m holding onto the rail and sweating into my t-shirt.

There is a great bus Hanoi public bus map detailing everything except for actual bus stops. So I play chicken with the outside street, ‘no, not this stop, the next one’, ‘ oh just one more’, hoping that there will be a stop not long after where I want to be. All for nothing though, the heat and the on-board crush get the better of me and I hop out randomly and start walking.

Outside the streets are bustling, but I keep passing these empty scenes, tables just waiting for someone to sit and slurp some noodles. Maybe I took these photos because I was photographed against my will earlier in the day. Sitting, all knees and elbows, hunched over my tray of bun cha in the street I saw a girl exit the eateries, half empty beer in hand. Smooth. A moment later her friend comes out, along with his beer is a big camera. He lifts it, aims it at me and shoots. Then he walks away. No smile, no nod, no ‘hey can I take your photo?’. I can imagine that I looked hilarious - fat whitey origami-ed onto a tiny plastic stool - and potentially photo worthy, but I felt grubby and exploited. Of course this has made me reconsider taking photographs of people, something that I was already uncomfortable with.

A sardine bus ride, an unsolicited photograph and a series of empty images.

The early morning sun glints and the humidity has yet to settle on the city like a damp blanket, suffocating. But I still sweat as a lug all of my earthly possessions across the cracked concrete and broken tiles of Kuala Lumpur towards the train station. Of course I’m sweating, it may only be 7am but I am wearing all my heaviest clothes - knee high boots, warm jeans - and that 20kg bag on my bag doesn’t help either. I’d look turtle-like were it not for the balancing weight of a second bulbous bag worn back-to-front. It is only a few hundred metres and I enter the cool early morning calm of KL Sentral.

Train ticket purchased, bag checked in and I’m on my way to the soundtrack of business news. I am sad to be leaving Malaysia but an extended stay is required to fulfill my curiosity and I am off on a different kind of adventure.

I chat to an American businessman on the plane and wonder about the differences between where I’ve been and where I’m going. I won’t miss the unwanted male attention, being called ‘girl’ and being told I’m beautiful in the street. I will miss the food, the lovely unexpected friendly conversations and the sweet smiles returned.

Uncertainty abounds, who knows what will happen next, I’m just ready to see my mum, eat some pho and satisfy my calcium craving with some vinamilk yoghurt (because ‘consuming Vinamilk Yoghurt every day also brings you a smooth and flesh complexion’ didn’t you know).