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.

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

Beer with Strangers

She waved me down with a small crab in her hand. I thought she was trying to sell me something so I smiled and waved know. She waved harder, insistent, this time she offered beer. I smiled and shook my head again. Finally she reached fort the watermelon sitting in over-sized pieces on a plate.

The watermelon I took, the sweetness bursting in my mouth.

The only photo I got (after I left)

She smiled and handed me the crab – the size of the palm of my hand, pink shell and white underbelly. I stared at it, unsure of what she expected me to do. She pantomimed cracking it in half. A little flustered, my phone in one hand and a small crab in the other, I looked around the table. There were six people assembled around the table with another two women sitting on separate seats but clearly a part of the group.

Everyone smiled as the crab woman gestured to her seat and then scooted over to make room for me.

I sat. my phone and backpack settled in my lap. And then I cracked the crab in two.

I looked for the meat, dug my fingers into crannies and pulled out bits of soft white flesh. She handed me a small bowl with a chili sauce and I dipped what meat I could find into the bowl.

Then came the beer.

Drunk people cannot be reasoned with, no matter the country- no matter their beverage of choice.

I watched her pour a beer from a bottle in to an ice-filled mug. She thrust it cheerfully in my hands and gestured for me to drink.

I demurred, as much as one can demure when I don’t speak Vietnamese and the group assembled doesn’t speak English.

Desperation to avoid drinking the beer encouraged me to use Google Translate- to no avail. Whatever I said was met with raucous laughter and inspired a side conversation in the group that I had now way to participate in.

so there was beer.

I drank a little and tried to put the mug down. She insisted I drink some more. I tried again. More drinking. The mug finally drained she smiled and gestured for another round...just for me.

The enthusiastic peer pressure reminded me of marula beer season in my village in South Africa. A small green fruit that ferments and notoriously gets elephants drunk, is also fermented on purpose in rural areas. The go-gos (grandmothers) would sit outside next to a frothy bucket of marula beer and insist I have some. “O nwa, Lerato, O nwa!”( Drink Lerato, Drink). Rather than face the wrath of a village go-go, I'd drink up and exaggerate how good it was.

Outside on the sidewalk next to the ocean in Vietnam, I reenacted my South Africa days.

As we continued to battle over the beer she began to hand me other things on the table. Squid (overcooked but still squid so I happily ate it). Everyone seemed surprised that I ate and presumably liked it. Next was a mystery...something pickled maybe. It tasted a little like cabbage but much thicker. Then more watermelon.

By now she was insistent that I have more beer and I was insistent that I not. The older woman sitting on my right, on a small stool next to me gestured for me to go. She pointed at the woman while she was supervising the beer and shook her head in the universal language of “my friend is drunk”, so I took her advice and departed.

War and All His Friends

Remnants of War Museum

I knew it would be too much but I went anyway. How dare I be an American in Vietnam and not acknowledge our acrimonious history?

Still. Stepping into the Remnants of War Museum felt foreboding.

The bottom floor, open-aired with only two full walls encompassing the place, is mostly news-clipping style photographs, the occasional poster. Australia’s presence in the war- the Australian people demanding they not be involved.

A soft opening. A whisper before shouting, before the throat stripped raw to silence.

On the upper floors the brutality of war is unleashed; never mind the perspective.

History is written by the winners...or, when there are no winners, by whoever tells the story. And this story is very much Vietnam’s. No matter, there is no gentle way to spin a story about a country divided and its allies/enemies, and the horror unleashed when soldiers are required to strip the humanity of the “enemy” in order to do their governments’ bidding.

I am the child of a Vietnam Veteran. In the shadow of the hell unleashed here, where I lay my head for the next few weeks, I weep for my father and the men and women like him. I weep for the men and women he and they fought against.

The pictures lay naked the truth American schools don’t tell. Not just the damage of the guns to flesh, or even the chemicals to a verdant landscape burned bare, but the legacy of those things. Pictures of children born decades later and still they suffer the calamities of their birthplace. The calamities America spearheaded.

Before and after agent Orange

The weapons of war litter the grounds of the museum. Tanks and planes and over-sized guns. I watched a young man pose for a picture next to a weapons larger than him- he mockingly put two fingers to his temple – the pantomime of a gun- and grinned as his friend captured the moment. I stared in horror. Someone operated that weapon. Someone died, a casualty of that weapon.

"Mother' a statue made of leftover mortar

A few decades behind us and somehow this weapons of destruction is seen only as a prop in an online profile.

As I ponder when humans will stop wreaking devastation wherever we go, I think of that young man. I think of our ability to be blind to the suffering of millions, the loss, the pain.

If we do not remember, if the bloody and mangled bodies immortalized in pictures do not prick our sense of empathy and dread, then I fear we are always headed for the next atrocity at our own hands. And it won’t matter which side tells the story, the death will be the same.

Where Tourists Congregate

Ho Chi Minh tumbles in every direction. Flying in low to land, the city looks like a jumble of legos in various states of constructions. Descending just shy of city level and an orderliness begins to unfold; the buildings, retail and homes are more easily defined. The cab shuttling me to my hotel inched its way between other four-wheeled vehicles and a swarm of two wheeled ones. The vehicles scoot and nudge in a civil if passive aggressive interaction that only intensifies the further from the airport we get.

The city’s architecture flaunts its fusion history and present. Hastily constructed cement buildings sharing foundation with advertisements for Hermes, French colonial structures refurbished as hotels.

Folks zooming on two wheels; look in the background

I am enamored if terrified as I watch women maintaining poise and posture as they side-saddle the back of motorcycles and small children are either perched precariously at the front of the seat of a scooter or wedged between people larger than the child.

a glimpse of Bui Vien

My hotel, a few measly miles from the airport, demands an almost 30 minute adventure through the streets of the city. I take it in, the sun still firmly in the sky. We passed what appears to be a lake that, if the lifesaver rings are any indication, is sometimes used for swimming. We passed an enormous banyan tree, its seemingly endless roots thickening the trunk, giving it the appearance of walking- bored somehow with its original position. Only tourists seemed to notice, stopping to take pictures while downtown Ho Chi Minh churned on in the foreground. Maybe everyone else has already taken in the grandeur and us tourists are simply late in our discovery. Or more likely, given that there are much larger ones strewn throughout Vietnam, maybe it is the equivalent of gawking at grass.

My hotel finally appeared, I almost missed it amidst the bustle of the city.

After an hour or so...hunger set in. Street food is delicious (and to my understanding, Vietnam’s street food is amazing) but I am in desperate desire of vegetables. I looked up a restaurant and walked out of the hotel only to discover I am in tourist central.

Bui Vien, feels like canal street in the heart of the French Quarter. So many people meander in the

street that only a near miss with a motorbike indicated the street is not a pedestrian walkway.

At each intersection I bide my time or follow locals to get across. Whatever rules I think I've established are run over the next time I attempt to cross the street – crosswalk or jaywalking- there is no discernible difference. I watched a little girl, no more than 7, manage the throng of motorized vehicles, pink lunchbox in hand, she didn’t look phased in the slightest. Meanwhile, I got cocky, thinking I'd finally mastered the madness before being grazed by an onslaught of bikes coming from what felt like every direction.

This place requires your wits about you.

I wandered for a while, people watching, food watching. My restaurant selection faded in my mind swallowed as it was by the onslaught of foreign palates. Although that isn’t accurate either. Bui Vien has was appears to be a bustling youth presence. Not just tourists, but local young folks clustered around certain restaurants (a note to myself for tomorrow when there isn’t an HOUR wait on the BBQ octopus that looks so tantalizing).

banh mi for abut $1

I settled on a banh mi. Ironically, the three-wheeled stall was across the street from my hotel. I knew the meat patties were fresh because I had watched him make them. He slathered on the heat, both sauce and fresh chilies, and while the sandwich was delicious, the heat barely registered a tingle on my bottom lip.

Still early, I walked the strip again. I watched a young boy spit flames from his mouth, spitting out the fuel and tamping is lips where hot ash clung.

My mind on a massage, I eyed the small storefronts along the street. Smiling and scantily clad women offered fliers for services. I can’t help but wonder if the massage is really what they are advertising. How practical is a tiny denim skirt for massaging or a blouse with a plunging neckline barely containing the breasts behind it?

I could be wrong. I hope I am. Of course women can revel in their bodies for no one’s pleasure save their own. Or they might simply be meant to grab attention- the Carl’s Junior approach to spa treatment ads. Still, their presence reminds me of the darker side of tourism. The power dynamics at play when tourists come from countries that don’t blink at at 25,000VND sandwich (barely one dollar- which I’m sure I’ll discover tomorrow when I wander out into the wider city, is deeply overpriced) or a 1,200,000 VN massage ($50).

This is only a glimpse...five blocks on a hungry stomach. Tomorrow I get to venture out and see/eat so much more than the tourist district.