lage. After attempting to rouse several elderly men from their hammocks by waving American dollars under their noses and jabbering something about catfish, Robin retreats to the shade to sulk and gnaw a stale power bar. I don’t bother to console him. I sit on my heels and slurp down the noodles. Then I wander the rice paddies, nursing the syrupy coke, letting it enliven my sweat-laced, aching limbs. White oxen seem to float like lilies in the rippling green tapestry of fields, and faces beneath conical hats lift from their work to smile as I pass. I decide this has been the best meal of my trip, maybe even my life. When I return to the restaurant hut, the soup woman gestures to a hammock stretched between two palms. I smile gratefully as I settle into the gentle rocking. I feel the ropes against the ridges of my spine, the heavy sun weighing my muscles into relaxed submission like a thick quilt. It reminds me of one of the guided meditations we used to do in Chiang Mai. I can hear the slow breathy voice of the yoga instructor telling me to imagine that each chakra is a door, to imagine each door opening and then step through it. In Chiang Mai I usually fell asleep, but now instead of visualizing chakras I’m seeing the men I’ve been with. The boys and men I have been opening like doors to new worlds, new identities for as long as I can remember. Men who have introduced me to Ethiopian food, pot, bluegrass, trout fishing. Men who have taken me to visit parents in South Dakota, Vermont, Mexico, Hawaii. Men I have left one after the other, doors slammed behind me when after a few months or a few years I realized they hadn’t led me to wherever I was trying to get to. I feel suddenly ashamed of myself for getting caught up in Robin’s quest for the “real” Vietnam. This country doesn’t owe us its treasures or its secrets. Whatever Robin and I are seeking, it isn’t going to be found at the bottom of any authentic local stew, or in the eyes of unknown people in a village untouched by tourism. If this place is willing to pause for a moment, like a skittish deer, and let us run our hands along the surface of its beauty, then who are we to ask for more.
Robin doesn’t say much on the ferry back to the mainland. I guess I don’t either. Back at the hostel in Hanoi we retreat to our separate rooms. It’s a humid night. There was no rain
SIXFOLD FICTION WINTER 2013
Erin Rodoni
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