Where there's always a motorbike to take you somewhere -“Motorbike? Motorbike?” – and there's always a way to make a five minute walk seem far. Until, of course, you actually need a motorbike.

Where the coast in Nha Trang stretches long and white, and has a distinctly Mexican Resort meets Russia feel. Where all signs and menus in the beach town are written in Cyrillic and all shops stock matching head-to-toe Hawaiian outfits and swathes of white linen for its visiting comrades.

Where, in the South, mint, basil, and spicy greens flavour local dishes. And in the North, where fresh herbs and greens are frowned upon as “culinary corruption,” black pepper saves some dishes (though not all) from total blandness.

Where, in flavourless-food Hanoi, Middle Eastern-style kebabs and McCain cheese sticks are the only thing to keep you from starvation.

Where early-morning and late-evening announcements blast from town speakers and boombox motorbikes, rousing the country's good communist citizens to a productive day of work before sending them early to bed.

Where dumpling vendors ride around on motorbikes with an ominous pre-recorded voice describing the item being sold, over and over again. Yet even though you've heard it day in and out for a month, the tone of these messages always sounds more like forced public admissions – “I robbed a hospital” or “I kicked a puppy” or “I killed my wife” – than food announcements.

Where people sit in hoards on sidewalks drinking green “Vietnam tea”, eating peanuts and sunflower seeds, and spitting the shells on ground. Where you accuse them all of being drunks until you realize the pale golden liquid is not actually beer.

Where tourists are old and German, in pairs of buddies, or lone travelers from the Seattle region.

Where Cam On means thank you, and that just cracks you up – and makes you miss Arrested Development – every single time.

Where, in the North, menus are not translated, and in Hanoi, they'll shoo you out of a restaurant or make you sit deep inside the place to avoid (the sight of) your foreign business.

Where ancestor worship is the norm, and altars bearing junk food snacks and odd numbers of incense sticks can be found just about anywhere, from hotel lobbies and mechanic shops, to staircases and all-night pubs.

Where the country sells “old propaganda posters” even though modern highway signs call to communist action and the many faces (and admirable aspects) of “uncle” Ho Chi Minh still peer out at you like Chesire cats.

Where the humble Bac “Uncle” Ho lies preserved, displayed, and visited, despite his wishes to be cremated. (Though visitors can't really know if they're seeing the real Ho as once a year his body is sent to Russia for maintenance (hello, Lenin) and a wax alternate stands in.)

Where ruins are old and strange: they've only just discovered an ancient great wall of Vietnam (how do you miss a wall that cuts the country in half?) and the UNESCO Citadel and Dynasty Palaces in Hue have opted to allow a functioning tennis court within the gated walls (“The king loved American-style recreation, so we think this keeps with the feel and mission of this Heritage Site.”)

Where both men and women pee freely, frequently and anywhere – on the edge of the road, in the middle of a bridge, beside a food stall, in the shallow water at the bustling ferry harbour. Yet both, and especially women, are quite shy to wear bathing suits.

Where, for only eight dollars a night, guestrooms have AC, private bathrooms, satellite TV, and balconies with world-class views.

Where toilets are Western but showerstalls and curtains are inexistant, and bathing means flooding the entire bathroom for the next few hours.

Where a man's dish will always get served first.

Where it's abormal to not spit or smoke. Where wads of phlegm are akin to gum on the sidewalk.

Where 1.5 L water bottles have handy handles and knock-off names like Aquagrina.

Where men frequently carry around weapons from American murder films, but thankfully the rusty daggers, hooks, and cleavers are only used on stray grasses and trees.

Where lady restaurant owners are commonly seen checking a friend for headlice, or picking through each others hair, while your appetite decreases as you wait to see the menu.

Where the youth love to rollerblade, but they do it so poorly that you're sure a shipment of rollerblades must have hit Vietnam for the first time ever, just days ago.

Where, even with the near-equatorial heat and humidity, no one ever smells or looks to be sweating.

Where public green spaces are abundant and clean, with sidewalks, benches, fountains, and an almost Parisian level of grooming.

Where some roosters roam the streets, chest puffed out, feathers behind their backs, head turning conspicuously this way and that. Some are restrained to street-side reed cages that, despite being airy and see through, still look like the dish covers that waiters pulled unveiled in old movies. And all cockadoodledoo about eighteen times an hour.

Where people, and especially women, ride around on their motorbikes with mouths covered by fancy surgical masks … which are actually less against pollution, and more to prevent from getting a tan.

Where people are just as bad at math as they were in Thailand. And every time you get short-changed you wonder, “Was he trying to scam me, or was he just bad at math?”

Where Photoshop is a boon to tourism, with postcards, posters, and brochures using the technique to plant boats in a harbour where there aren't any, to add beautiful seaside views (taken from a Birdseye perspective) out the window of your first floor room, and to bring market scenes to life with vendors worthy (and probably from) National Geographic. But, with the pixel quality of the added details so much higher than that of the original background, it's amusingly easy to tell.

Where a parked motorbike is an instant grooming station, and men commonly shut out the world to pluck stray whiskers in reflections on the tiny circular side-mirrors.

Where, as per Chinese customs, whiskers from moles are extremely lucky and should never be cut. And aren't…even when they're a foot long…and coming from a mole in the very centre of the chin…on a woman.

Where, from North to South, playing cards in all suits are found astray on the curbs and sidewalks.

Where the most popular sport is a game of hacky-sack-badminton, in which players kick around a ball with a shuttlecock feather, and more experiences players do so on a singles court.

Where, in a country with wonderful beans but a habit to overbrew, the measure of a great Vietnamese coffee is, “How much does it look and feel like sludge?”

Where motorbikes have small, silent motors, and despite all Western stereotypes, the Vietnamese are actually good drivers. Where the chaos on the road is consistently managed by slow, controlled maneuvers, performed by a nation who grew up on motorbikes.

Where, to cool off (or so they say,) men roll up shirts to expose their bellies. Even though every time it happens they also fidget with their pants, and you swear they're also about to expose something else.

Where citizens burn paper money in the streets – often fake million dollar American bills and special “heaven money” – to give the ancestors some dolla dolla bills to spend in the afterlife. (Should the deceased have no children to send them money, they'll be poor in the afterlife, their spirits forced to roam the world begging for change.)

Where, a remnant of the earlier French occupation, baguettes and Laughing Cow cheeses are the norm. And the perfect base to delicious Vietnamese subs.

Where, at sunrise, parks are full of people practicing Thai Chi, grooving to instructor-led aerobics, sneaking in morning ballroom dance lessons, playing six-on-six volleyball, and working out on the park's stationary gym equipment. Plus, there's plenty of sweaty, American-style jogging.

Where almost every motorbiker wears a helmet, and these are sold nearly everywhere. But safety is hardly as paramount as fashion and whiteness-of-skin: helmets are actually hard baseball caps with lovely prints and a wonderful ability to keep the face from getting tanned.

Where you see the restaurant owner eating a delicious, steaming bowl of Pho, so you order one too, only to get a half-assed bowl of ramen noodles with a couple of sprigs of spring onion thrown in as vegetables.

Where in the center and south of the country the food is a mix of fresh herbs and deep fried delicious, and you can't even count the number of times you've order Banh Xeo – a fried crepe stuffed with sautéed sprouts, eggs, and chicken or shrimp, and topped with fresh lettuce, mint, and basil. And in the north, you can't count the number of times you wished the Vietnamese food just tasted more like the Vietnamese food in Canada.