I awoke around 7:45 after a long and much-needed nap. I could hear what sounded like a concert drifting into my window from the lobby below. Only whoever was singing was horrible. I leaned out the window and could hear other terrible attempts at singing drifting from the establishments in the streets nearby. It then dawned on me that it was Friday night in Southeast Asia, it was Karaoke time. Few people, save for maybe the South Koreans and Japanese, have an affinity for Karaoke as the Vietnamese. It just fascinates me how they feel such a total lack of shame and humility when it comes to Karaoke. A few drinks and a microphone, and everyone here thinks they’re Miley Cyrus! It’s hilarious.
I had a few messages, and it appeared we were getting ready to go to dinner. I freshened up and threw on some clothes that were a bit warmer for the cool, late monsoon night. We walked down to a local vendor to get Grandmother Ngày something to eat as she was too tired, and it was too late for her to venture out.
The vendor had blue plastic tables and chairs around her stall, as did most in this tightly packed city. We gathered our order, delivered it to the hotel, and hopped in a cab for a cozy little street vendor of some Phố bo. It’s a classic Da Nang version with beef and beef things. We sat at the table extending out from the stall, and our order was placed. Almost immediately, two big bowls of steaming Phố bo were placed in front of us with all the fixings. I loaded mine up with the usual fresh basil, greens, onions, Chile, and fish sauce and began to slurp up the best bowl of Phố bo I had ever had.
As I ate, I observed the Da Nang night. People were coming and going on their motorbikes. Some with small helmeted kids sitting in front. To go Phố here, some fresh deliveries of produce and meat are brought in there. Old men sitting in their tiny plastic chairs consuming warm bottles of local beer, gossiping at the vibrant Friday night. Women astutely conduct their evening business, keeping their men in line. It flowed, it functioned, and it worked. There is an old Vietnamese saying: If a couple is out eating dinner, you can tell their status by the check. If the man pays, they’re dating, and if the woman pays, they’re married. Given that the woman ran the show everywhere I looked, and the men seemed to be the labor aspect, it appeared to be true. 
Don’t mess with the lady running the show. You know who she is: glasses, sitting at a table nearby with a ledger. Watching, counting, and keeping an eye on everything nearby. Decked out in heavy makeup and a focused glare that says, do what you are supposed to, and there will be no trouble. Everyone did, and the streets, however chaotic, were kept orderly. We paid for our dinner, climbed in another taxi, and headed to check out the Da Nang nightlife.
