Vietnam: The Big Date (cont.)

I throw my head back as we hurtle out of town into the flat inky night.  The hollow, guttural groan of the bikes nearly swallows up the buzz of the rice fields. The air is sweet like sticky rice with mango.  There are no lights out here, just the narrow beams of two motorbikes.

Twenty minutes later we come to a village and slow down. People stand curiously in dark doorways of boxy houses; dogs skitter around and sleep beneath plum trees.

“My home,” Trung turns his head to tell me.

We grumble to a stop and climb off the bikes. 

Trung and Binh's teenage sister greets us at the door, ushering us into a menthol-green walled room.

Apart from a few low plastic stools there is no furniture in the room. A glass counter in the rear is stacked with packaged crackers, Juicy Fruit chewing gum and dusty cans of Coca-Cola. This home, like many in Vietnam, doubles as a snack shop during the day.

"This is mother," the girl says slowly, She waves to an older woman crouched on a stool, who bites her lower lip and smiles shyly.

She pats two stools. Anneliese and I leave our shoes by the entrance and sit.

Mother gets up and returns with two ice-filled cups and a glass bottle of sparkling water. 

I accept, ignoring the dancing devil on my shoulder who tells me to never eat ice in this country.  I take a few sips.  Anneliese declines.

The house is tiny, around 200 square feet, divided into two rooms.  A faded blue and white curtain masks a window cut out in the wall.

"Father sleeping," Trung tells us, as he plops down on the floor.  Binh sits beside him.  A few moments later a dewy-eyed man with a few wisps of matted hair on his head pushes the curtain aside and peers into the room. His eyes widen when he spots Anneliese and me, and he immediately vanishes behind the curtain.  A few moments later he joins our circle, his ankles crossed, on the floor.  Trung and Binh's grandmother materializes a moment later. She pushes small red betel nuts into our palms and grins.

“Mother, father ask why here?” says Trung.

"We are English teachers," I say.  "We are from San Francisco, California." 

Trung translates.  His words thrill his family.

“Golden Gate?” asks his sister.

I nod.

Before I visited Vietnam I assumed Vietnamese might dislike Americans.  I was wrong, and everyday I see I was wrong all over again.

Grandma looks at me, ceases chewing, and mumbles something softly.

"Never sees—yellow hair," Trung says. I smile, thinking of the little girls in Japan who loved to touch my hair.  She reaches out a cautious hand then gently pulls her fingers through it. She laughs.

“Soft, more soft than Vietnam people hair,” Trung translates.

Binh’s mother nudges his father, her eyes darting toward mine. 

“Boflen?” The father says, his voice like taffy.  What?

“Boyfriend?” Trung translates. 

“Yes,” I nod.

Trung turns to Anneliese.

“Yes,” says Anneliese, lying.

The parents nod, disappointed.  Binh still smiles—evidently he had no dreams of running off to America.  One night with us is enough.

"We lived in Japan for a year," Anneliese offers after a moment of silence.  The family woos again.  Mother throws out a flurry of rapid Vietnamese.

"How much money teacher make Japan?" Trung asks. 

"It's a good salary," she says.  "Enough to pay for rent and food. Japan is a very expensive country."  Trung translates.  Everyone nods, satisfied with her reply. 

Anneliese reaches into her backpack and pulls out her digital camera.

“Can I take a picture?” 

The family is thrilled to oblige.  She snaps a photo of glazed-eye grandma with a mouthful of betel nuts; then flips the camera around to display the image.  They are stupefied—and before we know it they are snapping photos of us.

I take a quick inventory of the room; no photographs in sight.  No mirrors even.

I think: we should leave the camera with them.  The entire village can use it.  We can help them advance years of technological progress with a mere gesture.  But then I think: memory stick, computer download, printer. It’s not so simple (or necessary).

After an hour or so I look up and am struck by the odd orbs of white I see in the darkness outside the house: eyes.  Then mouths, noses, hands come slowly into focus.  Dozens of people of all ages are crowded outside the house, watching their neighbors huddled around two pale-skinned girls and a camera.  I rise up and cross the room to say hello to several girls hovering in the doorway. They echo my words giggling. Some people wave shy hellos; I wave back, bowing slightly, a habit I can’t shake from Japan.

The rushing air dries my tears during our moonlit ride back into town.  I tip my head back and watch as several shooting stars leave glittering trails as they race across the sky, which seems bigger than it did just a few hours before. 

Back at our hotel, we drag our packed bags to the curb and wait in silence for the minivan.

“Sorry I was so uptight,” Anneliese says after a few minutes.

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