How to Buy a Microwave in Ten Easy Steps

Since arriving in Vietnam six weeks ago, I’ve been asked a handful of times by friends and family whether I’m planning on blogging about my experiences here (as I did in Letters From Nairobi, the blog I maintained while living in Kenya). I’ve been reticent to start a new blog about living in Hanoi in large part because I feel guilty spending time writing for my own self-indulgent purposes when I should be working on The Other Thing I’m Writing. But I’m wondering whether I’ll regret this decision at some point in the future – and, to be fair, I would probably spend the next 45 minutes of my day engaged in such intellectually venerable pursuits as reading Facebook statuses and taking “Which Type of Pizza Would You Be?” quizzes on Buzzfeed as opposed to Serious Writing.

All this is to say: hey! I’ve started (yet another) blog!

(The caveats to this are, as always, that my stories shouldn’t be taken as any sort of indictment or praise for any culture as a whole; that I am obviously a Stranger in a Strange Land and don’t yet speak the language; that this blog is just about my experiences and doesn’t purport to represent Foreign People in Asia; etc. etc.)

There are an endless number of topics I could write about for this first blog entry, but I’ll start with a question that I know is writhing in the hearts and minds of my loved ones – a curiosity that keeps them up at night, tossing and turning and plaguing their every waking moment with uncertainty and doubt:

How does one go about buying a microwave in Vietnam?

I had the opportunity to experience this quandary first-hand yesterday. While explaining its complexities to my friend Grace this morning, it occurred to me that the convoluted Vietnamese shopping process has already become second nature to me after living in Hanoi for only six weeks but that it could seem very foreign and strange from afar. So, without further ado, I offer to you, for purely educational purposes:

How to Buy a Microwave in Ten Easy Steps, By Yours Truly.

1. The first step in purchasing a microwave is to locate where said microwaves are available for purchase. There are only a handful of big-box stores here in Hanoi and they are very far from the city center and/or can only be frequented by customers who are members (think Costco). Membership approval is controlled by the Vietnamese government, so foreigners living in Vietnam aren’t permitted to shop there unless they work for a company that is sanctioned by the government. (Required paperwork for membership includes “introduction letter of company representative,” something called “wet market management confirmation,” and “wish list of membership cardholder,” among others.) What this means is that a one-stop shop for household goods is difficult to come by and one must usually locate a particular store that sells a particular item – in this case, microwaves.

To understand the complexity of this task, it’s necessary to know a little about the city itself. Hanoi, the current capital of Vietnam, has been inhabited since at least 3000 B.C. In the 11^th century, Lý Thái Tổ, the first ruler of the Lý Dynasty, decided to move his royal palace from Hoa Lư to what is modern-day Hanoi. Soon after, workshop villages sprouted up in the streets surrounding the palace in an area now known as the Old Quarter. Over a period of one thousand years, these villages turned into craft cooperatives where merchants and artisans were grouped by guild. The names of the streets reflect this, i.e. there is a bamboo street (Hàng Tre), a charcoal street (Hàng Than), a roasted fish street (Hàng Cá), and even a coffin street (Hàng Hòm). Over the years, some of these specialties have changed – there isn’t a specific street named after “cheap plastic iPhone knockoffs imported from China” or “bars that cater to backpackers by selling buffalo wings and Jägerbombs” but those streets do exist. The problem is that there isn’t a definitive guide to navigating the labyrinthine maze so while it’s probable that “shoe street” still sells shoes, it’s not a sure thing – and there definitely isn’t a street named after the ancient peddling of ye olde microwaves.

Which leads us to yesterday’s conundrum: where to buy a microwave. Google searches for “buy microwave in Hanoi” resulted for the most part in advertisements for hotel rooms or apartments that come equipped with them – not helpful. So I took to the two community-run English websites for Hanoi I know of to see if any ignorant foreigner such as myself had searched for this information before. After some fruitless searching, I posted the question on a Facebook group I’m a member of that caters to expats living in the city. Within twenty minutes, a handful of people replied with several recommendations. Thanks, crowdsourcing!

2. This leads us to our next step: going to the store. (Thrilling, right?) I donned my semi-waterproof boots (purchased from the one and only Shoe Street!), trudged out in the rain to the main road in my neighborhood, and hailed a taxi. (I’m planning on getting set up with a motorbike at some point but am currently without my own transportation.) Luckily, I had written down the addresses of the store – my mangled pronunciation of any Vietnamese word other than “yes” elicits confused looks and apologetic head shakes – and handed the paper to the driver. “Ah, Tran Anh,” he replied, nodding at the name of the store, and added “Vâng! Shop-ping!” Yes, shopping. I was on a roll.

3. I knew we were close to our destination by the deafening techno music that could be heard from more than a block away. In a taxi with the windows rolled up. And the radio on. Around the corner, lo and behold – the mythical microwave haven appeared. I’m not sure what the corporate reasoning is behind it, but most large electronic retail stores in Hanoi seem to be aiming for a very specific vibe: a terrifying carnival-rave-nightmare-scape, complete with seizure-inducing strobe lights, blaring electronic music, and mountains of appliances stacked into pyramid towers that spill out onto the street and obstruct pedestrian traffic. Inevitably, there is one bored-looking, shaggy-haired teenager “guarding” the merchandise – but most of the time, he’s text messaging on his cell phone and smoking cigarettes with a vacant look in his eye. I can’t say I blame him, though. If there is any place in the world where The Brave Little Toaster is going to come to life and embark on a murderous, toast-scorching spree, it’s here.

4. Anyway: into the store I went. I wandered around until I found the correct floor with the help of an English-speaking employee and miracle of miracles! A wall of microwaves!

5. The next step was narrowing down my choices. Most of the microwaves were much more expensive than I anticipated – I can only assume this is because most Vietnamese don’t use them and they are imported for the benefit of foreigners – so I ruled out anything over 2 million VND (about $100), which was most of the nicer models. I also ruled out anything with a manual dial or anything only written in Chinese. (A microwave is a microwave but god forbid I try to defrost frozen lasagna by using the “popcorn” function.) Finally, I found a good option: brand name, not too expensive, digital controls, in English (…with Chinese characters below). A sales boy who had been hovering nearby came over and I indicated which model I liked by pointing and gesticulating wildly. And they say love is the universal language.

6. The sales boy went to the computer, ostensibly to confirm that the model was in stock, while I wandered around the store pressing buttons on Hello Kitty decal-adorned washing machines and perusing models of an appliance translated as “machine detoxifying vegetables.” He confirmed the microwave was in stock and found me in the “Ministry of Cooking Pots” aisle looking at rice cookers. He gave me a thumbs-up and presented me with several papers written in Vietnamese.

7. At this point it became clear that I had no grasp of what I was supposed to do with the papers – couldn’t I just buy the microwave and go? – so the sales boy indicated that I should wait a few minutes and he went off to find a coworker to translate. I waited and found myself subconsciously humming along to the instrumental techno rendition of “Happy Birthday” that was being piped through the store’s speakers at ear-splitting volume. I also realized that I had begun to sweat profusely – the humidity was stifling without any fresh air in the windowless room. Everything was loud and hot and overwhelming and I began to question the necessity of buying a microwave in the first place. Doesn’t the radiation cause cancer, anyway? Who needs it? I should embark on a microwave-free life! Live like my ancestors, cooking over open fires and scavenging for berries in the forest!

8. The sales boy came back with his coworker who, unfortunately for me, spoke only slightly more English than he did. Eventually I understood that I was to give my name, address, and phone number so the microwave could be delivered to my house. I tried to explain that I could just take it with me, but something about this deviation from normal procedure caused the idea to be lost in translation. After several minutes of pathetic attempts to convey my intent – I vaguely remember flexing my biceps at one point to indicate I was strong and could carry the weight – I gave up. They could deliver the microwave. It was free, after all, as I learned from the coworker’s repeated assurances of “no money!!”

9. I filled out the paperwork, thanked the sales boy and his coworker, and was guided over to a cashier counter to pay. There was a problem with the credit card machine so I had to wait a few minutes but eventually the payment went through. I signed two copies of the receipt, was handed three different forms to take with me, and left the store empty-handed, hoping that I didn’t just spend two hours and $75 on an invisible kitchen appliance.

10. I hailed a taxi and returned home, sweaty and humming “Happy Birthday” but feeling very accomplished. About an hour later, my doorbell rang and who was there but a deliveryman with a microwave strapped to the back of his motorbike! He came inside and unpacked the box, trying in vain to ignore my dog frantically humping a blanket in the living room – what more appropriate greeting for a strange man in the kitchen, pressing microwave buttons at random and smiling, than crazed blanket-humping? – and left me with a “complimentary gift” of two plastic containers for making omelettes in the microwave. (Is that a thing? Do people actually make eggs in the microwave?) On his way out, the delivery man said “I know your landlord!” and drove away. I’m not sure what to do with this information.

And now, sitting on my kitchen counter is my brand-new, shining, hand-delivered microwave! I’m ready to start nuking and defrosting like a madwoman. Bring it on, leftovers.

Now, to find a food processor…