F is for Foreign

            You walk through the wide boulevards, looking for street food.  It is dinner time and though you're not hungry, having eaten grilled bananas, rice paper noodles with broccoli and tofu, and a mashed avocado and condensed milk smoothie that afternoon, you have been advised to eat your way through Ho Chi Minh City.  You are only there for one week and the variety of dishes sold on the sidewalk requires a certain amount of culinary diligence.

            You are unimpressed with the city as a whole.  It is a standard urban, cosmopolitan environment.  The buildings are tall and made of white concrete.  At night they glow blue and purple.  Lanterns hang from trees, with dots of color reflecting in the Saigon River.  Cars whoosh past and children scream with laughter, fisting ice cream cups.  Karaoke establishments pulse with clashing bass beats.  Ho Chi Minh City could be Los Angeles or Buenos Aires or Tel Aviv. 
            What impresses you more than the small French cathedral and larger French opera house, the war museums filled with propaganda posters and recreated torture chambers, the brick mansion converted into a fine arts museum, and the parks of paved paths and palm trees, are the vendors selling plastic cups of tripe soup for a dime or a skewer of small mussels turned over a portable grill for twenty cents.  The ingredients seem limited, but the combinations surprise with you with unique flavors.

            And so you search for bites to confuse and shock your palate, unsure of what you seek.  You are out later than your previous night jaunts--it is 9 o'clock or 21:00.  The rice paper crepe vendors, who smooth quail egg, fresh herbs, and chili sauce over a hot plate, have left the park.  Greasy newspapers line the curb, so you know they have been there.  You continue down unfamiliar streets, hoping to avoid the bustle of downtown: ritzy bars, fashionable clothing stores, restaurants, expensive handmade cards, and the brightly lit night market, where every stall sells the same cheap souvenirs to tourists.

            Heading in the opposite direction of downtown (would that be uptown?), you stumble onto a concrete sculpture surrounded by a stagnant pool of water and covered with Vietnamese teenagers sitting on its beams and dangling their legs over the suspended planks.  You circle the plaza.  A pole stands in the center, bursting into fragmented petals of malleable tin at the top.  Perhaps this is a lotus blossom or a torch stand.  Thick concrete bands hover over the pool and intertwine.  Staircases lead to higher levels, where more bands hover above taller supports.  Teenagers toss plastic bags and wrappers into the pool.  White camera flashes capture the aimless lounging of youth.

            You walk around the plaza, surveying the vendors standing at the edge of the sidewalk.  Balloon animals on sticks, charcoal grilled pork, pineapple chunks, light up toys, shredded rice paper with carrots and beef, popcorn, fried egg sandwiches with Spam and cucumber, and back to the balloon animals on sticks.  A young man on a bicycle stops next to the balloons, resting his feet on the road and turning on the bulb dangling over his ingredients, which consist of rice paper crepes, sugar wafers, shredded coconut, and condensed milk cans.

            You ask him what he makes, proud of yourself for remembering to use the Southern Vietnamese dialect.  He explains the sweet snack and begins to cook you one.  It costs a dime.  He won't take the money until you've tried it.  The bite you take tastes like a sugar cube doused in syrup.  Nodding happily, you give him the money and take note of the dessert's name: Bô Bí.

            He asks you why you are here.  Everyone always asks you why you are here.  You explain that you are interning in Hanoi at the embassy.  He informs you that you can speak Southern Vietnamese.  You grin and ask him what he does besides selling snacks at night.  He is a student and so are you.  He asks about Hanoi, a city he hopes to visit.  You talk about rain and how relieved you feel to have escaped the monsoon season, albeit temporarily.  He sadly mentions that it should be raining in Ho Chi Minh City, too.  It has not rained in weeks and he worries for the Mekong Delta.  You nod, ashamed.  The condensed milk oozes from the cracks in the crepe, making your hand wet and sticky.

            Another bicycle stops next to the vendor.  Motorcycles zoom past on the road, encircling the plaza before continuing down one of four roads.  The customer orders a crepe.  You nibble yours and watch the business transaction.  The sugar burns your throat.  The vendor mentions the American student who just bought a crepe from him.  The customer, a teenage girl in a pastel pink polo shirt and dirty white flip flops, translates the vendor's summary of your life into English for the lanky boy sitting on the back of her bicycle.  Silent, you rub your dirty hands on your jeans.  The vendor encourages the teenagers to sit with you.

            "Hello, I am Lai.  This is Halim.  He lost his voice," the girl introduces herself to you in English.  The vendor smiles and ushers the three students to sit on the fountain.  You wish the vendor could join you, but he has to make more crepes.  You wish you knew what the vendor was studying.  You wish you knew his name.

            "What is the name--" you begin in English.

            "Of this place?  Turtle Lake," Lai responds.  She takes your hand and leads you up the staircase to an empty beam.  Halim follows.

            "I can't speak.  Sorry.  Where are you from?" Halim types in English on his Samsung phone.  You begin to answer in Vietnamese, but he is not Vietnamese.  You describe New York City as succinctly as possible, and he types a snapshot of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.  Lai joins in, speaking English.  She lives in Quang Ngai, in central Vietnam.  You are all foreigners to Ho Chi Minh City.