Rice Pancakes

The day started as it always did— with the cock-a-doodle-doo of the rooster across the street, chanting music the next block over and below our bedroom window, the neighbor whistled as he watered his newly planted fruit trees. Dawn was typically when people were beginning their day, with exercising and buying their food for the day at the market or, for seafood, the wet market.

It was our last day in Vietnam and I suddenly felt the pressure to make every moment count. My husband and I planned to spend our last night in a luxury hotel and visiting with our friend, Anh, who we could always find working in the hotel’s rooftop bar. There were still many hours and countless tasks to accomplish before we could relax with Anh, so I decided to start my day with the rising sun and play tourist for a bit. I had packed the night before, but Grant hadn’t so he was walking around, gathering his things.

The music piqued my interest when it started the month before, always beginning at sunrise. I figured it had something to do with the upcoming Lunar New Year festivities and decided that was the day I would track it down and see where it was coming from. Street dogs followed behind me- close, but not too close. I paused in front of a large courtyard, fenced in with an iron gate and watched as the elderly men and women slowly danced with swords, moving in rhythm to the chanting. The grammar school was two blocks away and the neighborhood market was down the street, I figured the building behind them was possibly a temple or a community center of sorts.

I recognized one of the women and waved shyly; she returned my greeting. I often saw her when I went to the small market in a neighbor’s house and we would smile as I passed by, lugging a jug of drinking water. I liked living like the locals — we got our eggs from the same stand in the market and toilet paper at the same house where we got my coffee and drinking water. If I craved something cold, we would get on the motorbike and drive the few blocks down to our other neighbor’s mini mart. I was a part of the neighborhood to a certain degree and while they welcomed me, I never felt entirely at home. Now, I pantomimed taking a picture and the woman nodded. Unabashedly, I did what I wouldn’t have done if I was going to live there longer: I took some pictures. I might now know why they were doing what they were, but I suddenly was worried I would forget the daily music, the karaoke, the burning trash, the smell of tropical flowers and incense as I walked down the streets.

Back at our apartment, I showered, being mindful not to drown the little gecko that liked to hang out in the corner of the indoor/outdoor shower. The cockroaches, I would not miss.

Grant cooked us a simple breakfast of fried rice with eggs, the last of our pineapple, and random vegetables we had laying around. The last of our food.

“I’m going to miss this coffee,” Grant said.

“Mmmm. Me, too.” I’d grown to love all Vietnamese coffee— from the instant 3-in-1 mix we used daily to the electrifying drip coffee and, especially, the coconut coffee we got in coffeeshops. Oh, how I would miss the coconut coffee.

We had our final meet up that morning and sold off things we would no longer need: an instant water kettle, some clothing and other random items. We’d been living in furnished apartments, supplementing them with items along the way. Any clothing we couldn’t sell and decided not to take would be dropped off at a donating bin by An Bang beach. We’d arrived with a single carry-on suitcase each and we were determined to leave the same way. Besides, our warm weather clothing would do us little good when we returned to single digits and snow.

We paid our landlord for the last of our electric usage- tucking the money into the electric meter box as we’d always done, leaving a little extra. She was making a great profit on us as renters in comparison to local renters, but the loan she’d signed to buy the place ought to be deemed criminal for the steep interest rate and terms.

We loaded ourselves onto the motorbike, Grant in front, wearing his backpack in front and me behind him, mine on my back. Grant put his helmet on and tied it, the buckle having given out the week before. I prayed that we would make it to Da Nang safely, that we wouldn’t crash, we wouldn’t be arrested for driving a fast bike without a license, and that Grant’s helmet wouldn’t fly off his head.

We drove slow the whole way, the trip taking longer than usual, my back aching. I drank in the sights and sounds and smells, getting emotionally thinking that after today we would never have to pause our drive due to an ox in the road or find our motorbike had been moved because we’d parked under a shade tree that was home to a deadly snake. Suddenly, all the little things that had seemed like big things were starting to fade into memories, no longer relevant pieces of information for my daily life. I wouldn’t have to cover myself in mosquito spray, but I also wouldn’t be able to get a fresh coconut for mid-day hydration.

As we drove along the road between Hoi An and Da Nang, I started to imagine the evening. Living like locals meant that we did our own cooking and grocery shopping and cleaning. I longer for the rooftop pool and wet bar, not to mention the magnificent view of the city.

We’d stumbled into the hotel’s rooftop bar during our first week in Vietnam, having walked there from our apartment a few blocks away. The austere hotel stood by itself amongst the little neighborhoods, overlooking the Son Tra peninsula. Save for one other couple, the place was empty. We’d ordered the local beer and fresh juice and a shrimp dish, paying more than we would elsewhere, but pennies on the dollar for what we’d pay in the States. It was also where we met our first real friend in Vietnam, having invited Anh to sit down and have a drink with us. We were the only couple in the place and Anh was the manager on duty that evening.

It was Anh who had introduced us to the night market and Dragon Bridge, who had shown us the secret pop-us restaurant where young couples ate on the weekends, and most recently, we’d met his new girlfriend. I was looking forward to finally using that rooftop pool, seeing Anh, and having a relaxing evening. Our trip hope would consist of a day and a half of travel, followed by a night in our nephew’s bed and then a long drive to the place where we’d be house sitting.

We had finally checked into our hotel and I was putting on my swimsuit when Grant called out to me. “Anh isn’t here.”

“What do you mean?”

“He took the day off. We’re going to his home.”

Internally, I groaned. I was tired. Sore. Grimy.

I rallied, though. We took quick showers and I dressed in one of the three outfits I owned. There was no point in stressing over what to wear. Anh didn’t care what we looked like or the fact that we continuously butchered our attempts at Vietnamese. He accepted as we were.

We attempted to follow Anh’s directions to park to the right of the Dragon bridge, but got lost and found ourselves in a very touristy area, where the police were known to crack down on foreigners riding the higher horsepower motorbikes. Grant pulled over in a dark area by the river where we wouldn’t be easily visible and called Anh.

Soon, Anh pulled up, driving slower than the grandmas we’d seen. Slower that the twelve year olds. “This is not it.” He said, meaning we had taken the wrong bridge. He was smiling broadly. “We are very happy.” He’d come across town to come find us, and still he was beyond thrilled to see us.

We followed him out of the city center and toward a neighborhood, weaving through the small streets. He had us park our motorbike right in front of his house.

“Xin chao,” Grant and I chorused as we walked inside. Anh proudly introduced us to his parents, then his sister and her husband and their small daughter.

“Come see,” he said as he guided us through their two story home, showing us the kitchen, their massive living room with a flat screen television so they could watch football matches, and their bedrooms. We were a parade of Ahn, Grant, myself, and his mother. She didn’t speak, but we all just kept smiling. hated my lack of Vietnamese words.

“This is our…” Anh’s words faltered. He gestured to the huge, pristine Buddha statue. Incense smoke snaked through the air, mingling with the scent of the flowering plants that surrounded the space.

“Alter,” Grant said, supplying the word. “Prayer room.”

“Yes,” Anh smiled. Their Buddha statue was huge and majestic. “This is the biggest statue of everyone we know. You can see it from very far. Did you see it when you came?”

We nodded, even though we hadn’t noticed the statue when we’d driven up to his house. Anh explained that his family had worked hard and pooled their money to get the marble statue, wanting to thank Buddha for all their good fortune.

“We’re also thankful you’re here. We give thanks to Buddha for your visit,” Anh said.

“We're the one's that are thankful," I said.

“I am so happy to meet your family,” Grant said as he rested his hand on Anh’s shoulder. “We’re lucky we met you.”

Anh smiled and told his mother what we said. She nodded and patted my hand.

After the tour, we went back downstairs where his mom and sister started to cook.

“How can I help?” I asked Anh’s mother, point to myself and then to a knife that was on the counter top, followed by holding my hands out and palms up, hoping she understood I was asking if I could chop.

She waved her hand and rattled something off in Vietnamese. Anh’s sister laughed. “She said this time, you are a guest. Next time, you are family, and you can help.”

“Fair enough,” I said with a smile.

I joined the men on the floor, where we sat in a circle around plates. Through Anh’s brother-in-law, who had excellent English skills, we were able to carry on an easy conversation. Everyone was so curious as to why we would choose Vietnam, what we thought of it, and what we did while we were there. We told them that the country looked beautiful in the pictures we’d seen online, and that we’d heard how nice the people were.

“We wanted to see for ourselves what it was like,” Grant said.

We explained, as we had done with so many others, that we weren’t in Vietnam for business. We’d had business back home that had ended and we’d decided that since our 7 day, 12 hour work days were over, we’d wanted to spend time traveling.

One by one, dishes were brought out and placed in the middle of the circle. I wondered how much they’d spent on the food. It looked like they could feed four times as many people.

“You, go,” Anh said, gesturing to the food.

“Is this ban xeo?” I asked. We were familiar with the rice pancakes filled with vegetables and meat. It was one of Grant’s favorite meals.

Anh smiled. “Yes, my mom makes the best. I told her you said you liked it.”

Grant, ever the extrovert, grabbed a rice pancake and settled it in his left hand. Using chopsticks, he began to add in shrimp — heads off, but tails attached. We piled on what we’d learned to refer to as “salad,” which was basically anything green and leafy. Anh’s mother passed Grant and I a bowl of dipping sauce she’d made.

Grant alternated between bites of his rice pancake and bites of the tiny hot peppers they had out. Everyone was so amazed that he could stand the chilies, but I knew that he’d eaten much hotter as a child.

I, on the other hand, had tears streaming down my face at even the “mild” spice. Anh was right— it was the best we’d had yet. Grant and I both gushed over the food and telling them what a memorable experience it was, being able to spend our last night with them.

“I am getting married in full,” Anh said.

We know he means fall and we congratulate him.

“Congratulations, bro!” Grant said.

“When in fall?” I asked.

“I don’t know yet. Will you come to my wedding? We would be very happy.”

We’d met Anh’s sweet fiancée the previous month. She loved the idea of traveling and wanted to see the world.

“If we are in Vietnam, we will come,” we promised. “We would love nothing more than to see you get married.”

Outside, someone called out and Anh’s mother stood. Then a woman peeked hre head inside the doorway.

“Xin chao!” We called out, used to being stared at wherever we went. Even in Da Nang and Hoi An, where we’d lived, we’d often get stared at because we lived in the local neighborhoods, shopping at the markets and eating at the small roadside stands.

“She has never seen a foreigner,” Anh’s brother-in-law said. “She is surprised you are so nice.”

We laughed. We’d heard that often. So many people we met had never met a foreigner, or at least not anyone from America. They were used to more local visitors, some pushy business people who weren’t very nice. We’d spent time in a small coastal town and had been the first foreigners some of the locals had ever seen and Grant had never met a stranger, so we inevitably ended up with new friends wherever we went.

Too soon, the night grew late. Anh, his father, and brother-in-law all had to work extremely early. We also had to be up at dawn to catch an international flight. Suddenly, I was exhausted and awake all at once. When we’d gotten the invitation, I had wanted nothing more than to decline. Yet, had I said no, I would have missed this opportunity, this connection to Anh and his family. We didn’t all speak the same language or have the same views in life. We communicated with gestures, broken English and even more broken Vietnamese, and smiles, and yet we understood each other. We sat down together, family-style, passing dishes to each other and connecting over a meal as people had since the beginning of time. It was so simple, yet had one of the greatest impacts on my life.

That, I would most certainly miss.