Forest of Literature, Ocean of Kung Fu

            I awoke at 5:30am after a long night of practicing Kung Fu and talking with Linh and Sifu Duc, and headed over to Ho Giam park to warm up and prepare for that morning’s practice. The weather was cold by Vietnamese standards, perhaps below 60 degrees, and faintly rainy. The air had a clammy, heavy humidity to it, which, in the way that anything short of a hot day does when you wake up too early, had me shivering by the time I was out on the street. That early hour was just about the only time when the streets were relatively quiet and peaceful; a handful of people were awake in the gloomy pre-dawn, sweeping their storefronts or lighting small coal burners to begin preparing breakfast. Sporting my Nam Hong Son Kung Fu uniform and a new pair of flat-soled sneakers I had purchased especially for practice, I must have looked like an especially odd tourist to the early risers I marched past. I received no shortage of curious stares, though without fail I always received a warm smile when I said “Xin Chao”

                I reached Ho Giam and spent a good deal of time trying to bring circulation back to my bruised and stiff forearms, which had been getting the brunt of my conditioning so far. I spent a good fifteen minutes warming up, stretching, and practicing the forms I had been learning (the first, Khai Tam Quyen, I had learned to completion the night before, and the second, Long Ho Quyen, I was about half way through from my previous morning sessions). This practice continued such that when Sifu Duc and Quang arrived, I was already sweating, and in my state of excitement greeted them perhaps too loudly for 6 in the morning.

                They didn’t seem to notice, though, and both remarked (as best I could tell in Vietnamese) on my uniform and new shoes, while ushering me over to a tree to continue butchering my forearms for a time. This time, Sifu taught me a few matching conditioning exercises; putting the fingertips together against the tree’s bark, then kicking the feet out and leaning on the fingers with the head to strengthen the tendons, slamming the palm against the trunk and pulling away with the fingertips clawed to practice grabbing and harden the striking surfaces of the hand, and finally knuckle pushups, of which I had painful memories from my training with the Tang Soo Do Mi Guk Kwan.

                With raw and trembling hands I then commenced practicing Long Ho Quyen (which I later learned translates to “Dragon-Tiger form”) as I had learned it thus far. In typical traditional style, Sifu had me repeat the form a few dozen times, then showed me a new movement, had me practice that a dozen more times, and then began the cycle again. Out of shape as I was after almost a month of nothing but academic meetings and honorary dinners at Vietnam National University, I was really enjoying the workout. We ended practice with the “Dragon Horn” kick I had mentioned the night before, and covering a few options to counter that technique by closing the distance, kicking the support leg, throwing, etc. As always, Sifu’s movements were simple and easy; they looked casual in their level of relaxation, yet there was a formidable power and grace to them; I never held back when I attacked him, and was ever relieved glad he held back in response. At least twice he sent me flying onto the muddy ground so hard my ukemi was put to the test, and I resolved to wash my uniform as soon as possible.

                “Okay, okay.” Sifu signaled the end of class, waving his hand in the direction of the street corner where we always had our dozen cups of tea. “Tra kay si.” I nodded, and using a phrase I had been practicing since the night before, loudly announced what probably came across as “I PAY FOR TEA NOW PLEASE”. Quang and Sifu had a good laugh and nodded. “Okay, okay,” Sifu conceded.

                We went to our usual street corner, and after our first four cups, were joined by Linh. This allowed our conversations to proceed much more smoothly (once again, we had exhausted our verbal conversation skills with the same interview as before; whether I liked Vietnamese martial arts, and whether Vietnamese girls were pretty. I answered positively to both, as before, prompting the same mirth from my companions).

               “Sifu would like you to come to breakfast with us.” Said Linh, downing the rest of his tea as the others did the same. There was a tacit understanding that suddenly we were leaving. I nodded my assent and paid the owner of the tea stand, then stood to join the others. We walked down a nearby street to the type of roadside family-owned restaurant I had come to love in Hanoi, and seated ourselves at a steel picnic table inside.

                Before long we were slurping down massive bowls of scalding hot Pho and chatting excitedly about martial arts through Linh. We discussed the differences between straight punches with a vertical versus horizontal fist, how to get the whole body behind a punch, vital points to strike with the fingertips, and later more philosophical ideas; notably that martial artists of all styles tend eventually to attain a similar level of mastery. It reminded me strongly of Bruce Lee's quote to the same regard; that as long as people have 2 arms and 2 legs, there is only one real way of fighting.

               I was also asked to give details on my time in Vietnam and what I did in the U.S.  We shared a few glasses of a vodka-like rice wine (not my top choice for breakfast) and were laughing heartily by the time our bowls were empty. I had a moment of déjà vu when all three men rose together once more, and Linh looked toward me as he put on his jacket. “Sifu would like you to come have coffee with us.”

                I did my best to pay for breakfast, but was intercepted by Linh, who said this one was on him. He and I hopped on his motorbike, and followed Sifu and Quang to a nearby coffee shop. The world was spinning in a euphoric mix of caffeine high, rice-wine buzz, and the tingling remnants of hot pepper sauce around my mouth; I hardly winced as we wove our way through speeding traffic and narrowly evaded pedestrians; the near-death experience of a motorbike ride in Hanoi was gradually becoming something commonplace, but this type of food-based substance abuse certainly helped.

                Before I knew it, I was seated in a comfortable chair by an elegant coffee table beside Sifu Duc, and across from Linh and Quang. The Spanish-speaking older fellow from the tea stand arrived too, and joined us for a cup of the black, thick, and deliciously pungent brew. Between this, the tea, the rice-wine, and all the soup I had gulped, I made about a dozen trips to the restroom in the space of the hour we were there.

                Sifu’s questions about my training and my experiences in Vietnam became more and more pointed until I realized something was afoot; he had last asked me when I would return to Vietnam, and I had answered that in all honesty I did not know, and that I wanted very badly to have the opportunity to return. By now, he was speaking at length with Linh, who ignored me, and I was oblivious to the conversation. Sifu gestured toward me with one hand and grunted something that apparently bade Linh to tell me something. He turned to me after ordering another coffee, and regarded me seriously.

                “Sifu would like to test you this week, before you leave, so you can practice Nam Hong Son when you get back to the US.” I stared dumbly through my caffeine-alcohol haze, and gave Sifu an astonished look. I managed to bow my head about three times in a second, and gestured that I couldn’t possibly accept such an offer. Mercifully, Linh cut me off.

                “You will finish learning Long Ho Quyen and Khai Tam Quyen, and the face-to-face kata, and you will give a demonstration on class on Thursday night before you leave. Then, Sifu will give you a belt and certificate, and you will have something to remember us by.” I bowed profusely to both of them, and repeated “Cảm ơn” (Thank you) about as many times as I could. Sifu smiled boyishly and nodded, and was out the door before I knew what was going on. According to Linh, he was walking back to his apartment to get the certificate, so they might fill it out with my information.

               By the time I had finished my second cup of coffee, and had resigned myself to a heartrate of 120 beats per minute,  Sifu strolled back into the coffee shop and handed Linh a folder. He curtly interviewed me on my date of birth, address, etc., and wrote these down, but didn’t mention the certificate further or show me a thing about it. Clearly, I was actually intended to earn the thing. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

                We talked for another half hour or so, and in that time I realized I’d never be able to make the Thursday night class and catch my flight to Tokyo later that evening. My heart sank at first when I told Linh, and he subsequently told Sifu, but the two solved the problem in a most unexpected way:
                “It’s all right. Sifu says you will come to the children’s class in the afternoon on Thursday and test there. That way, you can test and still have time to make your flight. You will practice every morning this week, and then test with Sifu.”

                My head spinning with excitement for the upcoming test—and the horrid concoction of Pho, tea, alcohol, and ink-black coffee roiling in my stomach—I was unaffected by a breakneck motorbike ride back to the hotel, and cheerfully thanked Linh before taking my leave. It was only about 10:15 in the morning. It was going to be a long last week in Vietnam.

                The week itself passed in the sort of frantic blur as weeks are wont to do when they are your last in a country; I trained hard with Sifu in the mornings, and in the cramped space of our hotel in the evenings, when the professor with whom I shared a room was out somewhere else and not in kicking range. I practiced knuckle-pushups and smacked my forearms into any hard surface I found on the streets. As days rolled by, I grew more and more anxious.

                Linh came and picked me up at about 4 in the afternoon of our last day in Vietnam. Speeding through the Hanoi streets at early rush-hour, I tried to keep mental track of our turns so I would know how to get back to the hotel in case things ran late, or I couldn’t get a ride back; I couldn’t afford to miss that flight. For the first few blocks along the main roads, this worked fairly well, and I was feeling awfully proud of myself, until Linh slowed, dragging one foot to ease the motorbike into a sharp turn, and surged into what I would have called a cramped alleyway.

                But in Hanoi, it was still a street. And a busy one. The motorbike snarled down the bumpy, uneven pavement about six-feet wide between two rows of buildings, buzzing past people’s feet or swerving around oncoming bike traffic. Once, we had to pull up onto a sort of front patio of a restaurant to let a small car by. This road soon sunk into an urban labyrinth of similar roads; all thickly lined with buildings which loomed far and close overhead, giving one the impression that they were entirely indoors. I lost my bearings completely, and instead was focused on clinging to a bag of gifts I had brought for Sifu (including several bottles of rice vodka and his favorite brand of cigarettes), which smacked into any number of people as we sped by at unreasonable speeds.

                All at once, we erupted out into the open, and I found myself nearly gasping for breath. We roared in through a wide gate, above which was printed a long Vietnamese name which included the word I knew meant “school”. We soon arrived at a clean, tile-floored courtyard filled with children and young adults ages 7-14 or so, all in matching Nam Hong Son Kung Fu uniforms.

                I was greeted by Sifu and Linh’s brother, who was also an instructor. I presented Sifu with my gifts, which included a long, translated thank-you letter  which I had written with the help of a friend. I tried my best to get across how deeply I respected Sifu Duc and his skill in Kung Fu, how much I had to learn, and how he had provided a great inspiration for me to continue my training despite the demands of the rest of my life. “Okay,” Sifu smiled as he finished, nodding his head, and giving my hand a firm shake. He explained something earnestly to me, gesturing vigorously with his hands, then smiled and nodded to Linh.

                “Sifu says you have a great attitude as a foreigner and martial artist. You are very happy to learn from others and you leave your… how you call it, your mind, your ego behind you. He says you can always consider Nam Hong Son your home away from home of the martial arts. Also, he says he is still just a student, that there is always more to learn in Kung Fu. He quotes a famous kung fu saying, you know, ‘Forest of literature, ocean of kung fu’. If all the literature in the world is a vast forest, Kung Fu is even bigger, it is like the sea.”

                I remarked how much I liked the quote, but hadn’t much time to contemplate it; I was rushed to the front of the class after putting my bags down. Sifu, Linh, and his brother introduced me to the class, and I bowed back to a courtyard full of fidgeting youngsters. I sat off to the side with the other red belts, and watched the students of various ranks perform their various forms. The students chanted the verses which went along with each technique in unison. We saw a pair of higher level students (I later discovered one was Sifu’s 13 year old son) perform a complex kata, once again complete with the sort of theatrical intensity I had mentioned in my last post. Then, it was my turn.

                Though performing in front of a group of children should have felt like less pressure than a class full of adults, I found it so unfamiliar and unsettling it may perhaps have been worse. At the very least, I was anxious not to do anything to embarrass Sifu after he had treated me so well the last few weeks. The first few movements of Khai Tam Quyen came shakily, and I caught myself forgetting things I had done a thousand times before throughout the week without the slightest problem. State of mind is everything.

                I gradually calmed as the forms continued, and I made it through them in a blur. Next thing I knew, I was performing the face-to-face kata with the student I had trained with at Ho Giam park the week before, and bowing to the cheerful applause of the children’s class. It was difficult not to smile as I bowed in return, or hide my excitement when Linh and his brother presented me with my certificate.

                I received it, and also an embroidered white sash, which Sifu tied about my waist in yet another show of respect to which I would have objected if I could have communicated effectively. I bowed to the instructors and students once more to additional applause, and was soon surrounded by the class as we posed for a seemingly endless number of photographs. Just like at Heyman's Martial Arts Academy,  I had earned the lowest testing rank of an art, but felt great pride in the training; just to have an association with such great martial artists, and to have earned their respect through hard training, was more than enough, and I had added yet another set of tools to my growing toolbox of techniques and experiences in the martial arts.

                After photographs had been taken, I was treated to a full Kung Fu class of mostly private tutoring with Sifu Duc and Linh. Linh’s brother demonstrated a sword form in two parts, as well as a “Tiger” form. I practiced my forms and face-to-face at least a dozen more times, and a kicking drill with another student, and also got plenty of time to further aggravate the severe contusions on my forearms with conditioning drills.

                The class died down after another hour, and most students had by that time been picked up by their parents. I realized it was about time for me to go, so I thanked Sifu one last time, and exchanged parting wishes with he and the rest of the instructors. Clutching my certificate, I climbed aboard Linh’s motorbike and headed back to the Hotel just in time to catch our shuttle to the airport. Fortunately, I was able to change out of my Kung Fu uniform.

                Sitting in an aisle seat on our JAL flight, I could only laugh when I rolled up my sleeves to eat, and prompted a gasp of surprise from a nearby stewardess. The bruising and impact wounds have since faded, but the Nam Hong Son school has left a permanent mark on my martial art, on my Kung Fu. Even after nearly 35 hours without sleep, on my way to my next destination in Hong Kong, I couldn’t help but feel that some long-lost part of my martial art had been regained; I felt immersed in it once again, in the thick of the training, and was eagerly looking forward to how much more I had to learn. I realized, then, that Hanoi had been something like a port, and I had once more set sail on the ocean of Kung Fu.

A Late Night in Hanoi

Sifu Duc and I, with my new uniform. The man takes on a whole different aspect when wearing his own.

                The weekend after I met Sifu Duc and the other students, I was invited to a formal class in a larger park near the center of the city. After bowing out early from dinner with a friend and doing my best to ignore her advice that I could get mugged, stabbed with a needle full of AIDS, or otherwise assaulted in that park at night, I struck out into the busy streets of Hanoi to navigate my way to Lenin park with nothing but a puny hotel map to guide me. I called Linh, Sifu’s one English-speaking student that I knew of, and confirmed I would be attending. He told me where to meet him at the park, and thinking I had some idea of where that was, I assured him I’d be there.

                Upon reaching the park proper (having performed several death-defying road crossings, no small feet in that city, especially alone and especially at night) I realized that it was absolutely gigantic, and I would not simply be able to look around and pick out some rather conspicuous martial artists, as I could at the park near my hotel. Instead, the place stretched on and on down a main road of the city, and was bustling with people taking evening strolls, attending public dance or aerobics classes, listening to concerts, etc. Linh and I exchanged a dozen or so frustrated phone calls in attempts to find one another. I was 45 minutes late by the time I found him at yet another gate from the one I had been pacing around; he insisted on driving me via motorbike the last 100 yards or so.

                And it was bumping along on the back of a snarling motorbike that I pulled up to a class full of kung fu students; all neatly dressed in black robes with sashes of various colors; I could pick out yellow, blue, white, and red. The men wearing red sashes, in their general bearing, were obviously the highest ranked, and when I saw sifu approaching I knew this to be the case.

                Sifu Duc was an entirely different man in a traditional Chinese kung fu uniform; a phenomenon I’ve noticed with many of my teachers in the past. My Aikido teacher, Bill Gleason, seems to grow feet in height after changing into his Gi and Hakama. The contrast between an old cotton long-sleeved shirt and beautifully sewn silk robe was striking, and I couldn’t help but blurt out “sifu!” and give a traditional bow as he calmly approached with a contented smile. “Cha, cha!” he barked my name, waving a few other senior students to be introduced. He gave their names, and I babbled out my best “My name is Charles” and “Nice to meet you” in Vietnamese while bowing profusely. “Okay,” Sifu said insistently, thrusting a black bundle toward me.
                “He give you a uniform for tonight, and black belt.” Linh explained, putting a hand on my shoulders and pointing to a cluster of bamboo trees nearby. “Go and change into them.” Hearing “black belt” said that way, I failed to realize that black was the typical “no-rank” at this school (which was obvious from the other black-belt students, who had been sent off to a corner away from the class to practice nothing but arm-conditioning exercises), and objected as politely as I could, trying to explain that I was definitely not a black belt. Knowing what I know now, I hope in some ironic way my humility was not perceived as arrogance.

                Urged on, I jogged back to the bamboo patch, stripped down in front of an elderly couple walking a dog, and changed as quickly into my Kung Fu uniform. I enjoyed the feel of it immensely; it was very soft, light, and flexible. I could move easily in it without feeling restricted.
                I jogged back out to the class, where people were generally paired and working individually with one another. Most of the senior students were sitting crosslegged with Sifu by a bench. It looked to be a sort of intermission in the training. “Charles,  come sit down. You should drink some herbal mixture.” Linh said, while Sifu Duc let out a couple “okay” ‘s and urged me to sit across from him. Another senior student in a red belt, a much older gentleman probably around 60, poured me a glass of what looked like black kool-aid from a large pitcher and handed it to me. “It’s good herbs for Kung Fu.” Linh explained as I accepted and took a sip. The taste was like herbal tea and diluted Gatorade; I quite liked it.

At least one of the other senior students spoke English, and Linh translated readily for Sifu Duc, and so I managed to have a bit of conversation while sitting there, feeling official in my uniform and sipping herbal Gatorade. Sifu Duc, as he had at the tea shop, explained with a touch of pride my past experience with Aikido and Karate, and then, presumably, what he had been teaching me so far. He laughingly seized my sleeve and yanked it back to reveal the severe bruising on my forearms, which prompted a lot of good-humored laughter on the part of the surrounding red belts. I mimed the motions I was doing and shook my hands out melodramatically to simulate what I had been doing the last few mornings.

Linh explained that what we were practicing was Nam Hong Son Kung Fu, which a friend of mine later translated as “Great Western Mountain” or something to that effect. Given that Kung Fu is a Chinese style, I tried to extract from my companions whether this was some sort of Vietnamese Kung Fu or a Chinese style practiced by Vientamese, but never quite got the message across, and my companions continually responded that yes, indeed, they were from Vietnam, and we were practicing Vietnamese martial arts because of it. If anyone else has other information on Nam Hong Son, I’d love to hear more about it. It’s a beautiful style of martial arts with many spirited and talented practitioners.

Which brings me to my next point. While I conversed jovially with another English speaker, Linh rose and grab my shoulder “okay, enough talking, time for training.” I apologized quickly in Vietnamese to the fellow I was speaking to, and, feeling a tad sheepish, rushed off after Linh to where the other “blackbelts” were training.

We started immediately with arm-conditioning exercises, which drove my pulped forearms yet further down the road to path to complete annihilation. I continued despite the pain, and could clearly see the exercise in willpower which comes with such training; it took all my concentration to keep on striking; enough that Linh had to call me several times to get my attention. My partner, a middle-aged gentleman, was probably too polite to stop me.

We then began learning Khai Tam Quyen (a rough approximation of the spelling), which was translated to me as “first form”.  The movements were strong and slow, involving a lot of deep front stances and horse stances, and featured primarily one block and one strike executed while moving forward or standing still. The rudimentary basics were absolutely hammered upon, as they should have been, and I was caught dozens of time with awkward footing or a shallow front-stance, having to readjust after a loud reprimand from Linh. We repeated the form with the sort of endless rote repetition that is important for developing body memory. My legs were trembling by the time we were given a break, but I kept right on practicing; it had been years since I had been taught a form, and I had no intentions of losing this one, not while it was momentarily fresh in my head. After all, when would I likely find myself in Vietnam again?

I drilled the form relentlessly until told rather sternly that we were taking a break, and I should too. I nodded reluctantly and instead did some stretching exercises, trying to take control of my breathing, enjoying the glowing heat from my body. There is an curious, very natural and powerful feeling which comes from the correct practice of traditional forms, which I still have not found elsewhere. It is an awakeness, an aliveness, a complete “whole body-feel” which I still have yet to find in practicing non-traditional martial arts or other sports. It is not the same exhaustion and soreness, but an invigorated state; the circulation feels strong and movements well-coordinated. Tom Bisio explains the difference between traditional movements and some more westernized or sport-related movements, and how these would result in such a difference in feeling; interested readers should check out his book, A Tooth From the Tiger’s Mouth, which I reviewed in part in an earlier post.
        After our short break, we began learning a choreographed partner exercise of alternating attack and defense. My partner was the older red-belt who had poured my herbal Gatorade earlier that evening. He was a genuinely friendly and cheerful fellow, excited to be training with me, and to speak to me in the few words of English he knew. He taught me one “side” of the exchange of blows and blocks, and repeated it with me for nearly an hour.  The movements were smooth and performed at first with a sort of Taichichuan-like slowness, though as we gained trust in one another’s blocks we began to execute our kicks and thrusts with more realistic snap and force.

A fellow student and I performing the first kata later that week

I was interested in the way these “kata” were performed by the higher level students, in stark contrast to the way that Japanese martial artists practice. The Japanese (in my experience, in Karate and Aikido, especially in sword practice) way of training kata is a stoic practice of concentration and precise form. The most emotion a practitioner will show is a piercing kiai; all the attention is on the details, the angles, etc. It is clean, sterile, and precise. As we continued, our Kung Fu kata showed a vitality and emotion that would not have been tolerated in a dojo. The movements were loose and relaxed, not imprecise, but adaptive; in that if I took a larger step back than usual in one step, my older partner would throw his kick just a tad deeper to reach me, giving a different cry as he did so. There was an almost musical rhythm to the movement, and it was alive with almost theatrical emotion. As I landed a kick on my partner’s chest at the end of the movement, restraining it so as not to injure him, he made an melodramatic and astonished face, cried out “Owwwaahhh!!” and, stumbling back as though I had absolutely nailed him, fell to the ground and performed a neat back-roll to his feet. Others around us were doing the same with each strike, acting things out as though they were in an action movie.

As a martial artist with a primarily traditional Japanese training background, I was baffled by this type of attitude; it seemed so exaggerated, so fake, so superfluous to me, yet as I took the time to think about it, I realized that these men were actually adding a degree of realism to the training; a degree of emotional substance which might otherwise be missing. Students learn what effect they might expect from a solid hit, and how to relax and adapt if receiving one of great force. At the same time, it adds a vitality and enjoyment to the practice that keeps minds engaged and bodies moving with a precise martial rhythm. I think this may be some of what Bruce Lee was explaining in his lecture on “emotional content” , and what military psychologists have called “tactical performance imagery”. By adding a little imagination, you can get a lot more from a training exercise without losing the reality.

Sifu Duc came over next and critiqued our kata and Khai Tam Quyen, then had us practice some of the real-life applications of movements from the form, demonstrating these at full speed on one of the higher-level students. I was thoroughly impressed by the power and timing of the movements, how seemingly meaningless adjustments in the angle of an elbow or knee turned an opponent’s balance on its head. Sifu Duc took me aside and showed me a few counters to a knife thrust, and also how to jam an opponent’s kicking leg to imbalance them and cut off their changes of landing a blow. After going back and forth with these movements a few times, he waved a hand toward the rest of the class behind us. “Okay, okay.” He explained, and I bowed and rejoined the class, who were by this point all standing in neat rows facing the front of the little courtyard in which we practiced.
        I positioned myself as far back in the ranks as I could, with the most junior students, and followed along as we performed a few rounds of calisthenics, which, though not particularly difficult on their own, were agonizing after a couple hours of hard training. They kept my muscles, especially in the legs, from getting tight and cramped, though, and I was grateful for it the next morning.  Sifu Duc led the class with the type of authority I recognized from watching Kung Fu movies in my younger years, and the faded-black tone of his well-worn uniform added yet more authority to his demeanor; I knew now that the talented yet otherwise unimposing martial artist who had been tutoring me in the park on early mornings was not some local martial artist, but a well-known master in the Hanoi martial arts community. Linh explained this to me thoroughly the next morning when I asked.

Though I didn't understand much at all of Sifu Duc’s lecture, I watched as he paced back and forth before the class and spoke with an earnestness so palpable I felt I understood him outright. From his facial expressions, gestures, and so on, it was clear he was discussing the mission of the martial artist, the drive to develop one’s self, and the moral and ethical codes associated with studying the martial arts. Shortly thereafter the group recited a chant in Vietnamese which I later learned was the oath of the Nam Hong Son school. We then bowed as a group and ended the class with satisfied applause. My fellow students, the youngest around my age, began to slowly disperse, and I was quickly rounded up by Linh and Sifu.

“Sifu says you should hold on to the uniform. You can have it temporarily while you’re here, its alright.” Linh said, gesturing again to the bamboo patch. “Go and change, we should have tea.”

It was at least 11pm by this point, so I figured another hour or so of conversation and fun couldn’t hurt. I rushed back to the bamboo, changed with little concern of who was watching, and before I knew it was on the back of a motorbike speeding down the nearby main road—along the side, and… against oncoming traffic. With professional ease, Linh hopped the motorbike up onto the sidewalk, and, following Sifu Duc’s silver vespa, we made short work of a kilometer or so to a nearby roadside tea stand. There we sat for at least an hour, drinking tea and discussing martial arts. Sifu and I, through Linh, talked at length about Bruce Lee and his philosophies, his fame, and which of his “moves” we liked best. I demonstrated a sort of short-distance side-kick he used that I was particularly fond of. Linh explained to me that the name of the technique in Vietnamese was “Dragon horn”; it was appropriate that I liked it, he said, because I was born in the year of the dragon.

I forked up all of $2.00 to pay for our party’s tea (there were 6 or 7 of us, perhaps), and stood as the rest prepared to leave. I was mentally preparing myself for a rather long walk home, and checking my hotel map, when Linh bid my farewell and sped off on his motorbike, but Sifu gave a vigorous wave of his hand as he climbed aboard his well-groomed vespa “Cha, cha,” he called with a laugh “Okay, okay!”. I bowed gratefully and climbed aboard, and soon we were speeding down the main road (fortunately with traffic) at at least 50 miles per hour. I lost my bearings perhaps a minute into the trip, and spent the rest of my time staring dumbly at the cars, buses, motorbikes, and most of all pedestrians whizzing past us as Sifu wove deftly through the streets of Hanoi, still somewhat crowded at this hour. “Italy!” he explained while pointing to the motorbike. I nodded vigorously, and made my best Vietnamese attempt at saying it seemed like a good vehicle. I think I said something along the lines of “It’s delicious” or “It’s healthy”. Oh well.
        All at once, we reached my hotel, and Sifu Duc graciously dropped me off by the front steps. I thanked him profusely, and watched him speed off. I headed up the stairs, head spinning from an overwhelming evening, and was asleep before I hit the pillow. In 5 hours or so, I’d be back at Ho Giam park for morning training.