The Last Night in Vietnam

For my final evening in Vietnam, Marek and I decide to join a party at one of the hostels. It’s extremely popular, packed with travelers eager to squeeze every last drop out of their time in Hanoi. Around 11 p.m., the party moves to a nearby club.

At midnight, a metal shutter is pulled down over the club’s entrance — at least officially closing it. Inside, however, the party continues in full force. The music pounds on, drinks flow, and no one seems concerned about formal closing hours. But after about half an hour, the music is suddenly cut off. Apparently, it had become too loud — or perhaps someone complained. Just like that, it’s over.

One of the hostel staff members quickly gathers the remaining crowd and tells us to follow him.

We leave the Old Town, cross a large highway, and walk into a dim, somewhat questionable-looking neighborhood. Eventually, we arrive at an abandoned-looking building. Inside, there’s a small hall with a bar counter and a pool table.

“Here you go — this is your party spot for tonight!”

A couple of guys from New Zealand and a few others are clearly unimpressed. They decide to head back. I go with them.

While most of the group calls it a night, I find myself once again turning toward a dark street where Tom’s Bar is located. Even though a police officer is standing guard outside, the cover is lifted and I’m allowed inside. The arrangement seems obvious enough — which probably explains why the drink prices are closer to Estonian levels than Vietnamese ones.

Inside, I strike up a conversation with a laid-back Canadian guy and later join a group of British girls. They tell me they had to enter through a back door and across a dark attic — presumably to add a sense of adventure. They weren’t particularly amused.

At some point, two U.S. Marines march in and join our circle. One looks like Stifler from American Pie, the other like Sylvester Stallone — a real-life Rambo. They’re stationed at a naval base in Hawaii and are currently enjoying a bit of freedom abroad. I watch with quiet amusement as the British and Americans engage in playful teasing, the conversation drifting into the kind of topics typical of late-night hours.

Eventually, in the early morning, Tom’s Bar closes and we are ushered out into the street. As I walk back to the hostel — tired but satisfied — the first businesses of the day are already opening.

Vietnam’s final night ends somewhere between neon lights, shuttered doors, improvised parties, and early morning silence.