They were Swedish, dressed to kill, and quite beside themselves that the Mausoleum was closed on a Friday afternoon. They waved their glossy German guidebook under my nose and demanded an explanation for the discrepancy.

Perhaps, I pointed out, the government hadn't read their book and didn't know any better. They were not amused.

Besides, I added, Ho Chi Minh wasn't even in Vietnam this time of year. He was undergoing scheduled maintenance in Moscow. Had they perhaps seen any of the twisted, lumpy mongooses and bears stuffed by the local taxidermists? No? Well, they should be quite pleased that the Vietnamese had not tried to embalm the good Chairman themselves.

The Swedish couple were not yet ready to give up their bile and I apparently made a far more receptive vessel than the unappreciative guards at the Mausoleum gate.

They were staying at the Metropole, a carpeted and chandeliered hotel that cost slightly more per night than the average Vietnamese earned in a year. They had arrived the prior afternoon and from their vast experience declared that nothing, nothing worked in this God-forsaken country. Even parking was impossible on the narrow streets; their driver had no choice but to circle endlessly, waiting for them to finish their business.

Have you noticed, I said, that the Vietnamese rode motorbikes - and never seem to have a problem finding sidewalk space? Perhaps a pair of sturdy bicycles might be just the ticket...

And where were the shrines? they insisted, undeterred. They had been promised shrines of all descriptions and had found nothing but persistent postcard boys and withered hags with begging bowls.

There was a the huge banyan tree on tourist street, I said. They agreed. That tree was more than a convenient place to set up a cigarette stand. It was a shrine and every morning a dozen sticks of incense could be found burning among its twisted roots.

They hadn't noticed.

What they had seen was graffiti everywhere. The crumbling walls, the sidewalks, even wrapped around the trees.

That wasn't graffiti, I explained. Hanoi was far too poor to waste paint on such a useless form of entertainment. Those were advertisements for tire repair, or photocopies, or even streetside manicures.

And the food! they forged on. How could one expect to get a decent meal with neither milk nor cheese nor cream?

Tofu. The world's most innovative food. It could even be made into ice cream, more or less, that didn't melt in the summer heat.

The man puffed out his chest and fired one last volley. He had sent his driver for a razor and the fellow had returned with blades that didn't match. What kind of system, he demanded, imported razors with mismatching blades?

I apologized for his dilemma but thought the mistake an honest one. "The Vietnamese," I pointed out, "hardly ever need to shave."

To my relief they spotted their driver and after several frantic attempts to lure him onto the forbidden road they stalked off, no doubt to fill his ears with an unending stream of bile.