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They say if you don't want to be found, you go to Halong Bay. Catherine Deneuve's daughter and lover disappeared in Halong Bay in the movie "Indochine." Halong is only 120 miles from Hanoi, but the ride takes four hours. During the war, which the Vietnamese call the American War, we bombed this narrow supply route nearly into oblivion. I tried to remember this each time the bus careened around potholes, swerving to avoid oncoming trucks or occasionally, water buffaloes.

We'd booked an excursion to see the limestone islands and antique sailing vessels of Halong Bay. $70 seemed fair for 3 days/2 nights including food and lodging. But Vietnam is a country of many prices. Your hotel may charge $7, 8, 15, and $20, sometimes all for the same room.

My travel companion was barely speaking, to me or at all. She read paperbacks and crawled under the covers every night at 8. I was afraid to tell her I'd nearly been mugged our first night in Hanoi by two guys on a scooter-then she'd never leave the hotel. I figured we'd meet new people on the tour.

At lunch, we sat under a tree with European tourists, comparing badly photocopied Lonely Planets, which they sell on the streets of Hanoi for $5 each. "Where'd you stay in Hoi An?" "Don't miss Sapa."

The guide called my name. "What's wrong?" I asked.

He gestured to an empty air-conditioned room, smiling. "You paid more. You eat separately."

"Is it different food?"

"More food." he replied. We sat in amazement as waiters brought out courses of shrimp, papaya salad, fried squid. Outside in the sun, our new friends chortled.

We rode across Halong Bay in splendid seas, passing limestone caves, pirates, fishing boats. Five hours later, we arrived at Cat Ba Island. Approached from the sea, Cat Ba looked like a miniature Hong Kong, a small strip of "high rises," narrow 6-story hotels flanked by a sheer mountain cliff. We got off the boat, but again the guide separated us from the group: we had a different hotel.

At each meal, we sat in silence, devouring spring rolls, fresh clams, and always shrimp. The hotel manager checked on my happiness constantly. Did we like the room, with its view of the harbor? The towels and blankets were still in plastic wrappers. I woke before dawn and stared out the window at the changing panorama, the boats that served as people's livelihoods and their homes.

We toured a huge cave used as a military hospital during the war. Our guide was an old Vietnamese soldier in fatigues and carrying a torch. Slipping on the damp cement in my flimsy shoes, I got stuck coming down a rusty ladder. When I finally reached the bottom, the soldier threw his arm around me, grinning.

Later we hiked up a muddy hillside after our guide, who wore rubber flipflops. I bailed quickly. A woman at the base of the hill charged me $1.50 for a Coke, but made up for cheating me by ladling cool water onto the back of my neck.

I went swimming that afternoon with a woman from Melbourne. "Why do you two eat apart?" she asked. "You didn't pay more than $40 each, did you?" She'd paid $28.

After dinner, the hotel manager again checked to make sure we were getting our money's worth. We'd heard there was a floating bar in the harbor. "There are many bars. But I will take you to the best one," he promised.

My friend went to bed as usual. So at 10:30, Mr. Lien and his friend, the Vietnamese MBA, and I chartered a rowboat for $2. We set out, oars moving swiftly and noiselessly through the water, pulling up to a completely darkened barge. I wondered whether to be nervous. Maybe it was good that my friend had stayed behind.

As we tied up, someone threw on a generator. Children slept on mats on the floor or in hammocks. A pacing German shepherd protected the satellite TV, which now showed a soccer match halfway around the world. The waitress took our order in her nightgown.

I drank a tall glass of Vietnamese rice "wine," a potion that ferments in large jars, sometimes flavored by a whole snake or crow. It tasted like battery acid. My tipsy host told me how much he liked Americans, how honest and smart we were. I wasn't so sure: here I was out on a barge in the middle of the night with strangers getting trashed. But I conceded that Americans who travel to Vietnam probably weren't typical.

It was balmy as we rowed back. The single strip of town was quiet. Mr. Lien offered to take me to the market to eat "cooked birds." Here was another opening, an invitation to stray. For once there was nothing separating me. I hesitated. I wasn't ready to stay up all night talking about joint-ventures. Besides, I needed to pack.

Our boat left the next morning at 7. Sun-creased women, eyes shielded by conical non la, sold baguettes for pennies by the docks. The seas were rough, so I took two Dramamine. I woke up eight hours later in Hanoi at rush hour. Dodging the cyclos and honking motorbikes, struggling to cross, I yearned just a little for the unexplored recesses of Halong Bay.