The Vietnamese, according to a January 2007 Gallup International poll, are the most optimistic people in the world. And why not? A rapidly developing infrastructure, a surge of foreign investment, political stability, a populace rapidly gaining English fluency, cultural attractions, a favorable exchange rate, unspoiled beaches and knockout cuisine deliver a winning vacation destination. As a result, poverty is down and income is up.

Forget the war of last generation; Americans are welcomed with open arms by savvy young Vietnamese and are starting to flock to the Southeast Asian country.

Originally under China’s Han Dynasty and then French rule, Vietnam bears the legacy of many. I started my exploration in Saigon, or as it is now less lyrically known, Ho Chi Minh City (HCM) at the posh Park Hyatt. Located in District 1 near the Opera House, the French colonial style hotel is a genteel city enclave with a decidedly residential feel. The lobby boasts original art work; the 259 rooms are outfitted with teak floors, four-poster beds, dark plantation shutters and marble baths. During my December visit, uniformed school children sang Christmas carols in the lobby, poised on the curved wrought iron staircase; they did a rousing version of Jingle Bells. I enjoyed repairing every night to the living room-like Park Lounge to listen to live jazz and sip a “Saigon Crush,” a sour cocktail of passionfruit and vodka. At the Xuan Spa, the massage therapist climbed up on the table to better knead my back muscles. When I asked her if she was religious, she tapped her chest and said, “In here is where church is.” That night, Christmas Eve, throngs filled the street to visit nearby Notre Dame.

At Square One, the hotel’s visually and gastronomically stunning East/West restaurant, almost immediately after ordering, my table fills with sumptuous dishes: succulent ribeye and luscious Waygu beef, grilled oysters, pomelo and shrimp salad, spring rolls wrapped in mustard leaeves, cherry crème brulee — a holiday feast. Christmas Day begins with a steaming bowl of pho, the national bracing soup at the copious breakfast buffet.

Ho Chi Minh City (formerly known as Saigon)

Then I walk over to Ben Thanh Market, where Brangelina made a stir in November 2006, arriving on a motorbike and buying souvenirs from the vendors. Another sign of a go-go economy: Communist-era housing blocks are being razed and skyscrapers are going up in their place. I walk to the Reunification Palace, whose 1966 interiors are retro in the extreme; the war command room with its huge maps and communications equipment is the most interesting.

For a street level view of the city, you can’t beat a cyclo, as the driver peddles furiously through a sea of motorbikes, with whole families sharing a single seat, baby often wedged between mom and dad. Men and women alike are wearing scarves over their faces, to protect them from the pollution and the intense sun. Many of the women are also wearing opera-length gloves that rise nearly to their shoulders. As it happens, friends from Atlanta are staying in the Park Hyatt as well. Perhaps improbably, we have dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant just down the street where the Vietnamese waiter wishes us Merry Christmas and sets down baklava.

The following morning, I join a tour of the Cu Chi Tunnels, the sophisticated underground network dug about an hour and a half from HCM used in the 1960s by the Vietcong fighting the Americans. We start with a lecture and then head out into the jungle to see the tunnels. Many visitors crawl through a portion of the tunnel; others pretend to be soldiers at the firing range. I check out the souvenir bullet lighters and pens and rubber sandals and watch a demonstration of rice paper making. I’d rather make a meal than war. I’d wondered if there would be sadness in the soil here, but instead it’s the scent of capitalism I detect.

The next day, I am off to the Mekong, another 90-minute drive. If you want to really explore this region, you need a couple of days, otherwise your touring is limited to an ambling down a dirt lane and perusing card tables laden with snake wine and crocodile wallets and belts, watching locals make coconut candy and listening to roosters crow. The highlights were the short boat ride through the canals and a snack of fresh cut jackfruit, papaya and pineapple dipped in chili and salt. I wish I had booked a visit to the Cao Dai Temple with its Candyland colors, but I make do with the dramatic crispy fried elephant fish and massive fried sticky rice ball at the Mekong Rest Stop.

Resorts

Nha Trang, Vietnam’s number one beach resort area, is next up on my itinerary. I split my time between Ana Mandara and its sister resort, the exclusive Evason Hideaway. Ana Mandara is packed with many British, Spanish, German and American travelers. When it was built, the hotel was an oasis. But the city is a victim of its own success and the constant bleet of motorbikes grates on my nerves. The weather is windy and overcast, so instead of lying on the beach I take a cooking class where I learn to make hand rolls and spring rolls.

Our group of 10 has a blast laughing and noshing our way through the lesson. So much so that we decide to take a half-day tour of the city’s sights together the next day. Later, at the gorgeous outdoor spa, Hoa, whose tiny size belies her strength, traces my spine with knowing fingers. Then she practices cupping, a technique that uses a heated glass to suction out toxins. The sun sets, the waves thunder and I feel blissed out.

At home, I never eat much for breakfast, but the hotel’s buffet is sumptuous. In addition to made-to-order pho (the world’s best soup, I decide) and omelets, there is a beautiful table of fresh fruit. The black spotted dragon fruit with vanilla, watermelon with ginger and papaya with basil are heavenly.

Our first stop is Po Ngar Towers, built high on a hill by the Cham people in the 8th-13th centuries. In quick succession, we visit the White Buddha, the market and a gallery exhibiting the poetic photography of Long Thanh. For dinner, we venture out to Lac Canh and are the only non Asians in the bare-bones joint. But we get to grill fish, calamari and chicken on cast-iron braziers set in front of us and drink $3 bottles of wine. It is great fun.

The Evason Hideaway exemplifies barefoot luxe. Located on a rocky peninsula accessible only by 25-minute boat ride and surrounded by dense vegetation, it has just 54 secluded villas, each with its own private pool. Think Gilligan’s Island with all the amenities. “Island time” is a hour behind the mainland and thankfully, there are no horns or sounds of any kind. Every guest is assigned a butler, who shows you to your room and takes care of tasks such as booking spa treatment and excursions. I would describe my two-floor villa as “treehouse chic” -- rope pulleys serve as door handles, there’s an outdoor shower and a wooden bathtub. At dinner, I meet a couple from Arkansas who are spending 45 days in Vietnam. “I wish we were spending 45 days here,” the wife says wistfully.

Chef David Thai has arranged to have dinner prepared in my villa. He is slight of stature but enormous of spirit, calling himself a “fusion,” having trained and lived in Paris for many years, only recently returning to Vietnam. He is excited to be here as the world discovers his native land. As we sit upstairs and sip wine, his staff cooks on the patio below and brings us a delicious, multi-course meal. Every plate is a balance of flavors: beef with green papaya, prawns with green mango, banana flowers with clams, grilled shrimp, lime marinated fish, beef filet.

Mountainous Dalat is a change in every way from Nha Trang. The city of 200,000 is the country’s most popular honeymoon destination. It was a popular resort for French commanders who were weary of the tropics; its hilly pine forests remind me of the Appalachians or Alpine resort. It’s sunny and cool, cool enough that the locals are wearing hats, coats and gloves, and cool enough to build a fire in my room at Evason Ana Mandara. The resort, a former 1920s colonial estate with just 20 villas atop a hill, has been open just a week when I arrive. The smell of roasting coffee from a nearby plantation wafts across the property (Vietnam is the second largest producer of coffee in the world). There’s a pine cone on the key ring; the pen is whittled from a branch. The room is simple, spare, elegant and extravagantly quiet. I practically have the place to myself. I am rapturous.

Thanh serves as my guide on a day-long tour of the city. We take a cable car to Truc Lam Monastery with views of strawberry, carrot, cabbage and broccoli farms passing below us. The monks practice a unique form of Zen here and the setting —- the mountains, cobalt blue Tuyen Lak Lake and the gonging bells — - enhance the peaceful feeling.

A more amorous feeling pervades at the Valley of Love and Lake of Sighs, where kitschy local cowboys pose with newlyweds. The Dalat Railway Station, built in 1932, it once had wood-burning steamer; now the train makes trips to Linh Phuoc Pagoda, a fantasyland glass and ceramic mosaic temple with a huge Golden Buddha. We meet a young couple from Nashville traveling with their three young children. They currently live in Saigon, but spend every free weekend exploring Dalat. “It reminds us of home,” he says.

The so-called Crazy House is a fantastic structure that seems to owe its inspiration to Gaudi, though the architect’s father was a former President of Vietnam. The base of the guesthouse and gallery is a tree trunk; motifs include a huge cobweb and a giraffe. It must been seen to be believed. That night I eat at the modest Nbat Ly, where the only other non-Asian turns out to be the resort’s new general manager, an outgoing Aussie. I join him for a meal of shrimp with tamarind, mixed vegetables and green tea. “It’s my favorite place in town,” he says.

When I returned to check my email, I find it non-functional. A young Vietnamese staffer explains that the “Internet was broken.” Thinking she has a limited grasp of English, I wait until the following morning to try again. No luck. It was only days later, in Hanoi, that I learned that a cable in Taiwan had ruptured due to a typhoon, knocking out Internet access across Asia. Indeed, the ‘Net was broken.

The ancient town of Hoi An was, in a bygone era, a vital seaport bustling with Chinese, Japanese and European traders, sailors and merchants; now it is a UNESCO-listed city with more than 844 historical structures. The sky is angry and foreboding on the day I tour it. I hail a cyclo driver to rescue me from the damp cobblestones. He produces a tarp, I pop my umbrella and we are off splashing through the narrow streets. The Tran Family Home & Chapel is stylishly decorated with Chinese antiques and features an ancestral altar. The Quan Kong Temple was built in the early 1600s to honor a Chin Dynasty general; hand lettered New Year’s wishes hang from slowly burning red incense coils. The grand Fukian Assembly Hall has an animal theme: fish represent scholarly achievement, unicorns represent wisdom, dragons are power, turtles are longevity and the phoenix symbolizes nobility. The Japanese Covered Bridge is the most popular spot for picture posing.

Avoiding pesky hawkers isn’t easy; nor are you likely to escape town without having an inexpensive shirt or suit quickly stitched up. My favorite memories are of being dragged into a wedding (the bride wore yellow), signing the guestbook while a clutch of children giggled and being shown around by a beaming grandpa, and of eating two local specialties, white rose and won ton dumplings at the unassuming Wan Lu restaurant.

My digs for the next few days—including New Year’s Eve—is the stunning Nam Hai. Open just one month when I visited, the 100-villa resort has sweeping views of China Beach on an as-yet undeveloped stretch (I suspect in five years it will be a very changed vista). The room was so enveloping I didn’t want to leave: expanses of dark wood, stone floors and a living and sleeping platform featuring a tub and TV. At turndown, gauzy white drapes were pulled together to enclose the bed and candles were lit.

Three huge, tiered pools lead down to the sea and form the central focus of the property; the library, restaurant, bar and gift shop are located off the pools. The spa is a knockout, with private villas floating in a lotus pond. I begin my treatment by picking an oil from a selection (Imperial), followed by a quick steam, then a foot bath and finally the relaxing massage. I joined other guests and on New Year’s Eve as the Nam Hai staff released firecracker lanterns in the sky. Guests gathered to toast 2007 while looking heavenward at a trail of fading orange that seemed to reach to the moon.

I took a private car over Hai Van (Cloudy Mountain) Pass to Hue. The imperial city of Hue was the capital of Vietnam from 1802 to 1945; it is another UNESCO World Heritage site. There’s a certain derelict grandeur to this leafy, pedestrian-friendly city located on the banks of the Perfume River. Foot and bike traffic is constant on the bridge that spans the two sides of town and I have a view of it from my room at the pink colonial Saigon Morin Hotel. Endearingly, the carpet in the elevator changes from Good Morning to Good Afternoon to Good Evening; a printed “nighttime story” complete with charming lapses in grammar and spelling is left on my pillow at turndown. I join friends for a fine dinner at La Residence, a swanky new Art Deco hotel that was once the former governor’s residence.

I opt for a full day bus tour ($7) the next day. The morning is spent visiting imperial tombs: the Khai Dinh tomb, a gaudy mix of Gothic, Baroque and classic Chinese architecture with its intricate glass and ceramic mosaics; the serene Tu Duc mausoleum on a lake ringed by frangipani trees; a summer palace featuring Ming Manh’s tomb; and the lovely Thien Mu Pagoda, constructed in 1601 with 12 large wooden temple guards. In the afternoon, we visit the imposing Citadel, marked by its tall flag tower. During the Tet Offensive in 1968, heavy shelling destroyed a good deal of the structure, but it is still the most visited site in Hue. Much like Beijing’s Forbidden City, the walled structure reveals its temples and moats one at a time; you can even dress up like an emperor and ride an elephant. We finish the day with a long-tail boat ride on the Perfume River. For dinner, I join locals perched on plastic red stools and crouched over plastic blue tables, slurping my beef pho.

In Hanoi, the wasp-waisted girls seem to float down the tree-lined boulevards and past the historic architecture of the colonial capital in their traditional ao dai. The graceful Metropole Hotel with its white façade, green shutters, wrought iron flourishes and lush courtyard captures the Indochine feel of pre-War Hanoi. Since 1901, heads of state, celebrities, artists and authors and APEC Summit leaders have stayed in this landmark hotel (request a room in the old wing for period atmosphere). I stroll over to Hoan Kiem Lake, the city’s nerve center and cross a red wooden bridge to Ngoc Son Temple.

Streets are the soul of Vietnam, so I wind my way through the Old Quarter, which has a 2,000-year history; the 36 streets are named for craftspeople, such as silversmiths, locksmiths, silk weavers and marble carvers. Today it is a maddening maze of tourists, cycle drivers, cars and motorbikes all competing for a ptach of asphalt. Women both young and old thread through the masses, swaying and doing a hip-led duck walk balancing baskets laden with fruits and vegetables on a bamboo pole on their shoulders. Many sidewalks have been co-opted by entrepreneurs who watch parked motorbikes for a few dong. Vietnam may be one of just four remaining communist countries, but capitalist principles are clearly widely practiced.

Back at the hotel late in the afternoon, I am just in time for the chocolate buffet, a lavish spread of 39 types of desserts including chocolate spring rolls, three kinds of ganache with basil, olive oil and rosemary (delicious!) and a chocolate fountain. I sip the Graham Greene cocktail made with gin, vermouth and cassis with charming chef Didier Corlou, who has made his home in Hanoi for decades. It is easy to see the allure. Later I wander down a nearby street and into a bookstore and strike up a conversation with a U.S. professor who has been teaching in Hanoi for six years. “I love it,” he says, flipping through an English language history text. “Tradition and identify still exist here.” I find another street—let’s call it the “pirated book street”—where vendors sell blurry photocopies of bestsellers from authors Dan Brown, Bill Bryson, Paulo Coehlo and the ever-popular John Grisham. They are doing a swift business, at $4 a piece or three for $10.

I spend a half-day at The Metropole’s cooking class, which begins with a visit to a local market, where we are schooled on the produce, fish and spices of the region. Our group of 10 goes mad for the displays, snapping pictures and greeting vendors who try to press bananas and mangos on us. We make our way back to the hotel for the interactive class; the dishes are different in the North versus the South, but equally tasty. We are gifted with a metal basket for frying fish, a vegetable peeler and the traditional conical bamboo hat, then we repair to Spices Garden for a leisurely lunch: a sumptuous array of daily-changing “Hanoi street food.”

The concierge has arranged for me to spend the afternoon touring in the hotel’s spiffy navy 1953 Citroen, which draws curious stares as we travel the streets. We drive past Embassy Row (government buildings are yellow with green shutters) on the way to the National Fine Arts Museum. It is hushed and empty. Entire rooms of the gracious restored colonial building are devoted to lacquer, woodblocks and folk art, though the most intriguing piece may be the many-armed 11th-century Goddess of Mercy. At the Temple of Literature, Vietnam’s first university, 82 stone tablets mounted on turtle backs display the names of scholars. The imposing granite and concrete Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum (modeled on Lenin’s tomb) is closed during my visit, but I witness the changing of the white uniformed guards. Of course, no visit to Hanoi would be complete without seeing the infamous Hoa Lo Prison also known as the “Hanoi Hilton,” where Senator John McCain was famously held. Two-thirds of the prison has been demolished to make way for an apartment and office complex, but the guillotines and other torture devices still causes me to shudder.

My final excursion is to Halong Bay, a three-hour drive from Hanoi. Along the way, we pass farmers in rice paddies, water buffaloes pulling plows. Memorialized by poets for centuries, Halong means “Bay of the Descending Dragon,” and consists of more than 1,800 limestone outcroppings in the Gulf of Tonkin. I board a wood junk for a three-hour cruise through the spectacular scenery (also UNESCO-listed). The islands look like ziggaurats as they come into sight; the misty fog only adds to the lyrical atmosphere. As a delicious multi-course lunch of crabs, steamed shrimp, squid salad and butter fish is served, the captain cuts the motor and as we slowly ply the waters. Modern Vietnam is many things, but suspended in time on this winter afternoon, this is the Vietnam of countless reveries.

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