Stranger Dinner

The tea it started with.

It started with tea.

No, it started with rain.

It started with rain and ended with dinner.

No Grab driver would accept my ride request, I suspect because of what was about to happen. I began walking down from the beautiful grounds of the King Palace Din 1 Da Lat and felt a few wayward raindrops on my hand. Further down the winding hill, the rain intensified. It spattered the longs sleeved shirt I’d put on in anticipation of the early evening ride to dinner, which in Dalat, promises a chill.

Two hundred meters later and the sky opened up. I scanned the street for shelter and my gaze landed on a storefront hosting a few motorbikes and an older man standing in the open doorway. I smiled sheepishly as I approached and he nodded his head, no smile but no furrowed brow. Two men sitting at a table just inside smiled vaguely in my direction and went back to smoking their cigarettes and drinking whatever brown liquid was in the clear bottle on the table.

A few seconds passed and the man at the door gestured me inside and pulled out a chair. I sat, grateful for a resting spot while I watched, with dawning realization that the rain would not be stopping anytime soon.

A woman appeared with a small glass of warm tea which I drank thankfully. My glass was refilled and people began to ask me questions: where are you from? How long have you been here? Do you like Vietnam?

Coincidences arose...the family so graciously hosting me was headed to Californian tomorrow. More than that, they were having a party to celebrate their travels. Lam, the man who had been standing at the door, held up the translation “Please stay for dinner,” on his phone.

So I stayed.

Never mind there was little shared language between us, this was a party and I was now a guest. People began to arrive and I followed everyone into a room. There was food laid out for at least 20 people. Rows of stools corresponded with sets of chopsticks and bowls. In the middle of the table were heaps of herbs, peanut dipping sauce, pork, and all the fixings for a type of spring roll you roll yourself – dropping in herb and vegetables and noodles and pork and something crunchy that I don’t know what it is but adds so much satisfaction when you bit into your roll.

I ate. People encouraged me whenever I slowed down. The homemade rice wine came out. My glass was filled and filled and filled no matter my protestations. I was full. And thankful.

Only, that was just the beginning. The thing to start us off. A hot pot soup came out, complete with sterno burners beneath them to keep them bubbling hot. The soup pot was set down with a plate of vegetables and mushrooms and one of the older men at my table took expert control, using the unused ends of his chopsticks to monitor the soup and, when the time was right, drop in the vegetables. Once he was satisfied, he began scooping soup into small bowls.

I dropped in some noodles and began to much away. More than anything, I loved the small rice paddy crabs, slightly larger than doughnut holes, stuffed with pork.

More drink, a new bottle emerged, stronger than the first batch, and everyone laughed at my response.

Then came fruit. Ice-cream. Chocolate.

As the group began to thin, someone insisted that “uncle” give me a ride back to my hotel. And just like that I was on the back of his bike riding through the cool night air.

Homemade lunch.

It is a specific kind of generosity. One I am often gifted with when I travel. Like the woman working at my hotel who took time out of her day and money out of her pocket to cook lunch for me. She seemed genuinely excited to share this experience with me and I felt honored. Or the parents of a friend’s friend who spent three days showing me the wonders of Kuala Lumpur and even saw me off the morning of my departure. They continue to check in on me- on my travels. The kindness overflows.

In moments like these I am lost. The Southern in me (and apparently something innate in humans) makes me want to reciprocate. Back home I would have baked something or at least brought something to drink. But out of my cultural element, I don’t know the best way to show my appreciation. I don’t want to monetize a sincere interaction with someone. Neither do I want to take whatever kindness they've shared with me for granted.

For now that leaves me with nothing more than the sincerest appreciation for people who open their hearts and homes to me. Appreciation for the time I have been gifted. I hope to be able to return the gift, because it is precious and I am forever grateful.

In the Details

There is a sort of helplessness I fall into when people make plans for me. A sense that they will give me all of the information I could possibly need. I remember falling into that when I visited my friend Martin in Egypt. He had been living there a few years and had a real concern for my safety so as I would research things and tell him my plans he would tweak them, give me more context, or set me up from his end.

It made sense. He was there. He was accustomed to making plans for people. I was grateful.

Still, that gratitude ushered me into a sense of baby-like trust. Rather than my usual paranoia about times and places and things I should have, I just trusted that as I jumped on the back of the couch SOMEONE would grab me before I busted my head.

But that isn’t practical. And when people help you that doesn't give mean they are responsible for everything.

And yet...I found myself up at what felt like only a short time after the sun had gone down, barreling toward, I wasn’t sure where with a taxi that had been pre-arranged. I had my ticket and my luggage and my excitement. What I didn't have, I realized as I tried to enter the embankment spot for the Nile cruise I’d booked, was my passport.

You’d think I’d learn. You’d think I’d be vigilant about having all of the information necessary for me to get to where I’m trying to be when I travel. But I didn’t...learn that is.

On this trip so far I’ve managed to almost screw myself in this particular way twice. Trying to catch an overnight bus from Danang to Dalat (Vietnam) I waited for a a shuttle bus to take me to the bus station to pay for my reserved seat. It began to rain. There I stood with one of the women from my hotel, an umbrella barely covering us both, my overstuffed travel pack on my back (without the cover because I didn’t think I needed it until it was too late to bother) and an overstuffed travel pack on my front, shrinking and straining from the weight.

By the time I got to the station it was almost time for the bus to depart and I was fearful I’d miss my ride (requiring another night’s stay and this ordeal repeated in some ground hog’s day nightmare. I stood in line, smiled patneintly, and tried to give my name for the reservation. As the agent looked for my name, her patience seemngly as thin as mine, she looked up and asked for some number. About this time I realized I did not have hwat I needed.

I pulled out my passport to no avail and then pulled out my hotel inforatmino. Tht proved to be the best thing because one of the hotel staff sent me a message with the necessary information because she realizied she’d forgotten to give it to me.

SAVED!

So fresh in my mind, not even two weeks ago, why dd I ask my hotel to book my bus to Karatie, Cambodia, which they did with warmth and generosity. The man who booked it told me that in the morning the taxi would take me, free of charge, to the bus station.

Who knew there was more than one bus station? Who knew the driver had no idea where we were going?

The bus is scheduled to depart at 8am, by 7:45 we were still wandering aimlessly in the Siem Reap morning traffic. When I showed him the information I had I thought we had clarity. Instead, he stopped at a random travel agency (the touristy areas are flush with them) and we asked if they had a bus that could help me.

Four dollars cheaper than mine but three hours later on my departure (think of all the sleep I could have had) but booked and ready to head out into the world.

If I'm honest, the real reason I haven’t learned my lesson is because these episodes always seem to end well. In Cairo, the city’s whose heinous traffic was the reason for my ridiculously early departure, was just waking up as the taxi driver arrived at the port. I don’t remember why he stayed with me, how he knew I needed help (truthfully, it was probably at the thoughtful request of Martin or possibly just a person who recognized I was alone in a foreign place.

Seeing my face drop, my desperation, he offered to go back to Martin’s to pick up my passport that was locked safely, if unhelpfully, in the safe. Problem was, I didn’t have Martin’s phone number and he lived in a heavily fortified complex.

Still, that sweet cab drive drove through traffic, managed to somehow reach Martin, retrieve my passport, and send me on my way. I spent a week cruising the Nile, looking at the magnificence of Carnack and Luxor.

My idiocy has had no major consequence. And I am thankful.

Still, I hope this three hour detour is enough to finally teach me that attention to the details is necessary even if I'm not in charge.

Fried Kindness

I wonder about the kindness I find in other countries. Unasked for and unexpected. It makes me wonder if the absence of such generosities in America are the result of my attitude or the way I go

through the world. I wonder because, all over the world people have shown me kindnesses that inspire me, at least for a little while, to be better.

Tonight, walking from dinner and still peckish, I stopped at street vendor to inspect her wares. Mostly drinks I eyed one of the small tables behind her stall with an elderly man sitting in front of it and noticed a plate full of fried...something. I pointed and she smiled and nodded her head.

“What is it?”

she didn’t answer, language a barrier between us, but she fished through the brown discs on the plate and handed me one, knocking one to the ground as she searched. She smiled as I tasted.

I still don’t know what it was. Sweetened glutinous rice-flour deep fried?

I shook my head excitedly trying to indicate, “yes, I want that.” and then I sat down at the tiny table and share, resting my day pack on me knees which in turn butted into my chest in my crouched position.

To my surprise she didn’t go back to the small skillet that rested to the side of her stall, instead she grabbed a plate and squirted a red substance and a white substance and then headed back to the plate she’d plundered earlier. She inspected the pieces and picked up two, dropped them on the plate and then handed the plate to me.

Flush in my travel mindset, I accepted the plate without question, set it on my table, and began to eat. The discs were greasy and lukewarm...and they were delicious. I played with them, wondering at the extent of the stretch.

I ignored the condiments until the lat half of my serving, assuming ketchup and mayonnaise – confused how ketchup would complement the dish and vehemently opposed to mayonnaise). Something made me tentatively dip the slightest edge of my mystery cake into the red blob and when I put it in my mouth I was pleasantly surprised. It tasted a hint of fish sauce, a bit of tang to accent the sweet. Unsure of what any of it was it worked, so I dipped conservatively and enjoyed the last bites

Read to move on, I motioned to the woman that I wanted to pay. She simply smiled and shook her head. When I pushed, she managed the word “free” and smiled again.

So I left, decidedly less peckish and thrilled to have experienced yet another treat. More than that, appreciative of the niceties people of the world offer up just because...

Motorbike Lost

I don't speak a a lick of Vietnamese beyond "thank you" and  "cảm ơn" was all I could say as I narrowly missed hitting a wall and continued on toward a parked car. I wasn't even going that fast. just fast enough to forget everything I had just learned about how to work the brakes on the tiny motorbike I was riding - one of more than 45 million in Vietnam.

I was practicing on  a side street in front of my hotel. I gripped the handlebars knowing they were the key to my freedom. Freedom to roam the city at my leisure without worrying about how much it will cost or how long I'll be gone. Freedom to get lost and discover for myself the things that people living in Dalat take for granted...a random garden blooming, a street vendor selling wares I haven't yet encountered, a conversation with someone who doesn't interact with tourists on a daily basis.

A motorbike would afford me all of those things. And my inability to drive one, deprived me.

No matter my deep almost desperate desire to go wandering off beyond where my feet can take me (trust me, they have taken me many kilometers daily) I'm not reckless. So even without the rental guy murmuring under his breath what even my non-Vietnamese speaking self could hear was utter terror on behalf of, if not of me, his bike I wasn't going out into the streets of Dalat on my own.

Maybe in a quiet town. Maybe with fewer things to run into I might practice. But Dalat, while better than Ho Chi Minh, is still congested with motorbikes and people all vying for space and rushing to wherever they are going. Rather than yield their direction or pace, drivers simply honk lightly, if repeatedly, as if to make their way by sonar.

As a pedestrian I have made peace with the general protocol. You can't wait for a light, even at a crosswalk, so you just walk out at the first sign of space. Don't run. Some people put a hand up and many people don't even look up, they just step out into the street and walk slowly to the other side. You want to see faith in action, cross the street in Vietnam.

Adding myself to that organized chaos would be dangerous. So I handed back my helmet and left my freedom parked in front of my hotel.

The Sacred

Dalat, Vietnam 

Thien vien Truc Buddhist Temple

It is the quiet I find sacred. 

Not silence. 

Silence distracts me. My mind wanders to the absence of things and creates stories that prevent me from finding peace.

But the quiet -a mosque nestled against the ocean, a temple tucked into a hill- the quiet lulls me like a parent comforting a child.

Here, at this temple, I can hear the wind rustling trees. Leaves loosening from their branches and scratching softly on the ground.  Birds singing from different directions,  their sound carried on different breezes. Nature whispering reassurance that I am not alone. 

A bell sounds... deep throated and ancient sounding. 

I do not know what the bell means and yet it is comforting. 

I do not know the intricacies of this temple.  I do not not know how the monks - hair shorn to scalp, dressed in mustard colored robes - practice their devotion. 

But sitting in the quiet, eyes scanning the lake peeking out  from the hills coated in verdant green...I understand I am in the presence of the sacred.

Journey or Destination

Dalat, Vietnam

I haven’t seen the crazy house yet.

Yesterday I recovered from the street food I'd eaten the night before. And while I'd do it again, it was delicious, it threw of my plans for my time in Dalat. Not that I have a schedule, but the first day I settle into a place I figure out what it is I want to do so that I can calculate how long I'm staying.

Sometimes I overestimate – like in Mui Ne; sometimes I underestimate and have to add days.

The thing is, I always seem to coordinate the amount of time with stuff to do. And part of this journey I'm on is to rest. To write. To think. It is difficult to get into any kind of rhythm when every few days I'm in transit and even when I'm still, I create an agenda full of things to see.

I think my habit of cramming everything in comes from a vacation mentality. When I’m working I get three or four weeks of vacation. So little time for me to travel to a new country and experience it in any meaningful way.

At the forefront of my mind is the understanding that I probably won’t be back and so I need to experience whatever it is I can while I'm there. That leads to a sort of frenzy. Moving hundreds of miles within the borders of the place I’ve already traveled thousands of miles to get to, so that anything that strikes my interest can be experienced.

That strategy has allowed me to experience a great many thing. But that isn’t all there is. Travel isn’t simply about a checklist waiting to be completed.

I know this.

And yet, the world is so full of amazing things to see. Things that only exist in certain geographical locations, or with certain groups of people. I want to see it all; experience it all.

Time is another consideration. Not simply the idea that a lantern festival or slow food festival or religious holiday is specific to a date or time...but that this year I’ve taken to travel, is significant. When in life will I have another opportunity to sit with zero expectations on my time and energy. When else will I get to decide that one day is a day only for meditation and another for writing?

My initial plan, if you can call my noncommittal musings about my year of travel, was to rest for three weeks someplace near water. Rejuvenate my mind and body and perspective on the world. Instead I jumped into travel mode, as much a habit as going to work every day….it is simply what I’ve done the last seven years. Travel was the gift I gave myself so I had to take advantage of it.

How do you break a habit you didn’t realize you had?

Part of my desire for this experience I’m having was to stay put for a little bit. Learn a place beyond the tourist pursuits. To consider a place as more than its sparkly parts. To talk to strangers. To minimize the “destination” mentality and instead, focus on the journey.

Wet Naps Mean I'm Special

Mui Ne, Vietnam

“You are special,” said the woman sitting across from me.

I held up the wet wipe and responded with a smile, “I know.”

There was no sarcasm. In a country where some restaurants don’t supply napkins and others slip a small package of wet wipes at your place setting before you meal and then charge you for them once they’d been used, I knew my treatment was not the usual.

It started with my nosy gaze falling on the vendor’s small station, she cooked over a coal pot and as always I wanted to know what it was. Before I had an answer she motioned for me sit and have one and so I sat on the tiny plastic stools in front of her.

When she handed me the bahn trang it was wrapped in paper. More specifically, it was wrapped in used notebook paper. I smiled immediately upon recognition because the packaging was familiar. When I lived in rural South Africa it wasn’t uncommon for me to get a fat-cake (an appropriate name for deep fried dough) or curry-fish (which might have had a hint of curry but definitely had no fish) I similar wrapping.

Faster than I anticipated I attempted to hold the cylindrical dish and rummage for my money- about 35 cents- to no success. In that moment I was reminded that I would not be pressed for money until I motioned that I was ready to go. With that, I settled into my food.

Crunchy and chewy, savory and sweet, I picked up hints of cinnamon which seems bizarre from what I know of the flavor palate of Vietnam (of course that is limited but growing daily). Halfway through, I realized I was dripping oil down my leg (I never saw her add oil t the dish) and attempted to wipe it off with my hand. That is when the vthe woman across from me reached for another piece of used notebook paper from the vendor ad handed it to me. As I cleaned myself up the vendor smiled as she handed me the wet nap.

And I smiled in return. Because beyond a courtesy of vendor to patron, I know that wetnaps are a luxury