Also in Ho Chi Minh City is Ben Thanh Market, all long tubes of flourescent lighting and peering down narrow aisles to see what lies beyond, where beyond is heaps of marinated fish and picked bits, and geometries of fruit, and tins of tea and weasel shit coffee. Around one corner are Communist-star T-shirts and bags of nangka chips and embroidered lace tablecloths; around another are Zippo lighters from the American war and jars of preserved plums and a small woman chatting with a friend. As I squeezed past her she turned and cackled harshly in my ear: HA-HA-HA.

After, avoiding dirty puddles and ducking raindrops from awning to awning, we stepped into Pho 2000 for a bowl of bun cha gio, crispy and hot in rounded mouths.