Excerpts of The Never finished Great American Novel in Vietnam, or Whatever

When Colin was in Hue, June 1995. Part 1

2008-09-09T23:12:00.001-07:00

I'd rather be on the ground. The reason has nothing to do with flying Vietnam Airlines. At this point I perfectly trust the domestic routes of the airline. Besides if I'm going to die in a plane crash, I'd rather it be in this aircraft over central Vietnam than, say, USAIR over central Pennsylvania. Much more colorful obituary. In actuality as I save time flying to Hue, it's the slower, more scenic route I'm missing.

The most rewarding way to approach to Hue is by Highway One from the south. In keeping with the dramatic scenery requisite to underdeveloped tropical nations, Vietnam provides a fantastic stretch of coastal geography between Danang and Hue. It's a two and a half hour ride through contrasting land of great beauty. Just outside of Danang, Highway One becomes indecisive, seemingly leading you astray through numerous uphill s-curves, turn after turn revealing lush jungle greenery set against the distant blue waters of the South China Sea. Upon reaching a high vantage point, the lowlands call attention to themselves by spreading out stunning quilts of multi-toned rice paddies. Then, after drifting through the Hai Van pass under clouds close enough to touch, you begin a twisting and turning descent just south of an incredible vista of the Lang Co peninsula which sends you into a fit of rubbernecking as you squirm to take in the sight from, at various times, the windshield, the passenger window, and the rear window. It convinces you of why foreigners aren't allowed to drive in this gorgeous country. We'd never be looking at the road anyway. Plenty of Kodak moments waiting to be realized here.

Eventually the road levels off to straightaways, at various times through tunnels of palm trees which designate the center of villages or along open paddy fields which stretch out for hundreds of meters in either direction. The outlying areas of Hue become evident when stucco structures begin to outnumber thatch and bamboo dwellings. It was around this point in the journey during my first visit that I began to think again of movies.

Hue has always been a religious, educational, and cultural center of Vietnam. It was a political center for 140 years and thus maintains the lavish tombs of several of Vietnam's past emporers. Of course, I knew none of this initially. What I brought to Hue on my first visit was a bunch of scenes in my head from " Full Metal Jacket", the knowledge that the city had been practically flattened during the war, and a camcorder. Several years ago I had seen this movie which among other things had dramatized the destruction of Hue from a US footsoldier's point of view. It was a depiction of a fairly contemporary city cast into the throes of complete and utter carnage...apocalyptic in director Stanley Kubrick's portrayal. I had known that this particular sequence was filmed on an outdoor studio within England, and of course I had known that it was, by its very cinematic nature, transformed from very matter-of-fact warfare into a melodramatic experience. The film, as I recall at the time of its release, had been hailed by critics and one veteran I knew personally as one of the few Vietnam portrayals to come closest to successfully depicting the experience ( Although this has been said of various films by many different critics.)

As savvy as I was to the filmmaking process and the vicious circle of influence that films seem to share with contemporary culture, I stil found myself easily subject to the awe associated with Vietnam's cinematic mythology. As we drove to Hue, I replayed these movie images in my head even though rationale told me they were jaded if not irrelevant. It was as if I didn't want to let go of these images, these notions which kept me subscribing to Vietnam the myth. Now, on my third trip to Vietnam, I find it ironic because as exotic as it initially seemed, it was a mythology instigated by American action, structured by the American media, and fueled by American voyeurism. Vietnam was again just a supporting player, providing the romantic locale.

Riding into town from the airport, I find myself paying close attention to who and what I pass. For a second I sight a middle-aged woman sitting by the roadside near her stand of cigarettes, soda, and gum. The head on her palm relays the daily tedium. In another second, a poney-tailed little girl in flowered pajamas passes by, determinedly riding the pedals of her bicycle because the seat is too high. A shirtless teenage boy with grease all over his arms placidly sqauts on his haunches and smokes a cigarette while a half assembled Honda lays nearby in the dirt. As each of these locals unwittingly passes through my life for a brief second, I find myself creating the rest of their day in my head. Where they will go at dusk. What dinner will be like. The Vietnamese soap opera they will watch on t.v. before going to sleep. Each of these episodes develop in a matter of seconds before something else catches my attention during the ride into Hue. I wouldn't have necessarily seen these peoples' lives on my previous trips, initially being somewhat blinded by the limiting perceptions I embraced. Maybe this time around I will find the new sounds, sights, smells,and tastes that I experienced before but didn't truly notice.

Binh, my mini-hotel receptionist, thinks Hue is " too idle". After spending all twenty-four years of her life here she will be leaving in a month for the big city of Saigon. She's hoping her university studies in English will pave the way for a good job there. Hang, her trainee replacement who studied chemical engineering, has no desire to wander too far from Hue. She says it would be too difficult to separate from her family.

After filling out my registration card and getting situated in my $10-a-night windowless room, I sit down in the front lobby and listen to the chatter of Binh and the other lounging employees. I'm not sure if I'm awaiting the inspiration of what to do next, or avoiding the perspiration of doing something in Hue's blazing 100-degree air, but the others don't seem to regard my inactivity as unusual. I'm far from the cut-throat pace of New York City where I normally experience guilt when exhibiting passive behavior. Binh offers me tea and I offer her my sketchbook. After looking through it, she asks me of my travels.

" Do you travel around many states in your country?"

" Well, I've been up and down the east coast, and I've been to California a couple of times, but not much in between. Not Texas, not Wisconsin, not Oklahoma. "

She ponders this for a second before asking," Do you know shorsha?"

" Shorsha?" Shorsha ?

" Yes, shorsha," she says, not deterred by the confusion in my face. She elaborates, " Uh...with tobacco."

" Oh, Georgia!, " I exclaim. " I've driven through it a couple of times." As I say this I instinctively grab a steering wheel in the air.

" Do you know a famous novel, uh ...Tobacco Road, by...Co..Comewell?" she asks.

" Tobacco Road. Yes, by Cromwell. Yes, I know of it."

" It's very famous", she points out.

" You've read it?"

" Yes."

Admittedly, this surprises me. " Do you read many Western authors here?"

" Uh, yes." She smiles." Many famous novels. I like, uh,..the winds? With the winds?"

My brow shows furrows of confusion.

" It was a famous movie,too, " she adds.

" Ahhh. An old film. About the Civil War in America?"

" Yes. It won six oscars." she says proudly.

" The Blue and the Gray? Plantations?" We're getting closer.

" Yes,yes!" She is excited now." Cotton! North America fighting South America! And, " she pauses.".. about Scarlett O'Hara."

" Yes, Gone With the Wind," I conclude. " It was made into a movie in 1939, but it is still very popular in America."

" It is my favorite novel." she says in a subdued, sentimental manner.

" Do you see many western movies here?" I ask, half-knowing the answer.

" Yes, on video. You know 'Ghost' ?"

" You mean about the married couple?"

" Yes, Demi Moore. I see it four times"

" Four times? I've only seen it maybe twice."

Never understimate the long powerful reach of Hollywood. First it seduced me to the other side of the world, and now it's providing a common ground with my hosts. Yikes. Like too many of the parties I've been to on the Upper West side of Manhattan, the conversation is once again being fueled by the pop culture of America, fast becoming the world's common denominator. At the risk of turning our insightful conversation into dialogue for a Budweiser Gen-X commercial, I shift uncomfortably in my seat and ask, "What other movies have you seen?"

She thinks for a moment . " Have you seen 'Silence of the Sheep?'"

" 'Silence of the Sheep?' Oh, you mean 'Silence of the Lambs.'"

She laughs embarrasingly. " Yes, very frightening. It has Jodi Foster. I read in newspaper that she is very smart. Intelligent."

" Yes,well, she went to Yale. Very unusual for a Hollywood actress.What else have you seen?"

" 'Pretty Woman.'... 'Age of Innocence.'.."

I begin to wonder if big Hollywood films is the only genre she knows, so I ask if she has seen any European films. I go down a list of some of my favorites, 'Jean de Florette', 'Cinema Paradiso', 'Wings of Desire, etc - none of which she recognizes. Finally I think to ask," Do you know the film 'Indochine'? "

" Yes, with Catherine Deneuve. She is very tall. When they made this film, the French came to Hue to find a tall Vietnamese girl to play the wife of the Mandarin in the movie. They chose my friend from University."

" Really? Is she tall?"

" Yes. One meter and seventy-two centimeters."

" What is she doing now? Has she been in other films?"

" No. She just graduated from University and is a chemical engineer."

At this point, when the tea is gone, the conversation dies down. I decide to wander out onto the streets of Hue and over to the former Imperial Enclosure, a physical manifestation of Hue's great and tragic history. As I stroll through the baking streets, my ears filled with the sounds of motorbike horns and bicycle chains, my nose taking in the sweet smell of fruitstands with the pungent odor of moped exhaust, it is easier to keep my focus on the here and now. Less and less I think of Vietnam in terms of the past, but now increasingly I find evidence to fret about the future. Already I've given birth to a horrible vision of returning to Vietnam years from now and having young Vietnamsese men able to provide an answer to the question," Ginger...or MaryAnn?"

There's another bullet on the grounds of the Forbidden Purple City. I pick it up and inspect it before tossing it back into the weeds. The last time I walked through the grounds of this national treasure I found a bullet. There's really not much to look at here except the ground and some desolate walls, because that's about what is left of the Forbidden Purple City. There was a moment in history when this area was an exclusive compound of some 60 buildings which housed Vietnam's Nguyen emporers during Hue's 140-year reign as the country's capitol, ending in 1945. Then the war with the French started before segwaying into the American war. The Forbidden City, situated within the Imperial Enclosure,within the Citadel of Hue, became a VietCong holdout for a month during the 1968 Tet Offensive. Consequently, much of the opulent and ancient architecture was flattened during the intense bombings by the South Vietnamese Air Force and US artillery.

It is this volatile history that is most evident when strolling through rear of the Imperial Enclosure. Some of the original architecture, such as the Ngo Mon Gate and the darkly ornate and impressive Thai Hoa Palace, still stand. But the Forbidden Purple City is no more. Several acres of vacant foundations and various stone stairways leading to the ghosts of former structures are what remain. Among the weeds, random traces of broken floor tile of splendid design give hint to one glorious past, whereas bullet holes in the facades of crumbling walls betray another past. Where the weeds are cleared, the land is littered with little pieces of bomb shrapnel, smoke cannisters, and other military fragments as well as porcelain shards painted with delicate designs. The effect is that I juggle visions in my mind of soldiers scampering around the grounds from wall to wall in combat and eunichs quietly padding around the grounds in response to a mandarin's whims.

Just after the war ended, I was a kid appropriating as my playgrounds the various construction sites of my ever-expanding neighborhood in the hills of Pennsylvania. With all the building material strewn about, the roofless structures, and the bulldozed earth, my friends and I had little trouble imagining these sites as battlefields on which to confront invisible armies. Adding to the "authenticity" were packets of nails that littered the ground like real ammo and the familiar "whump- whump" sound of Army helicopters training in the nearby mountains. Our wars ended by the sound of a clanging firebell on my back porch: my mother's method of calling me home. As a sheltered suburbanite, it never occured to me I would ever be conflicted by finding real bullets on an unimagined battlefield, either as a soldier or a voyuer.

The last time I came across a bullet in the Imperial Enclosure, I thought it might make a unique souvenir so I stuck it in my pocket. Several days later however, I purposely discarded it. The more I had contemplated the history of my bullet, the heavier it felt in my pocket. It had probably started as a piece of sheet metal in Pittsburgh, found its way overseas into the pack of some soldier, and then lay dormant in the dirt for twenty-five years. My discovery momentarily attempted to resignify it as no more novel a symbol than driftwood sculpture from Key West. Something seemed perverse about that. If the war in my mind had at all been trivialized, then designating the bullet as a souvenir was a physical manifestation of that attitude. Knowing thousands of people had lost their lives by similar "souvenirs" made it felt like a sacred artifact I should have left in the dust. I couldn't keep it.

So I don't keep the bullets anymore. Besides, I would have hard time thinking to what end it might serve.

After an hour of quietly walking around listening to the sound of weeds and broken architecture crunch under my feet, I decide to sit down next to the Thai Hoa Palace and sketch a window shaped in the form of an ancient Chinese figure. Even though it is a quick sketch, for several brief moments I lose awareness of my surroundings as I concentrate on the details of the window. Some Vietnamese tourists stand by and politely smile and nod as they watch the artist at work. I hear delightful murmurs as a mother points the artist out to her toddler son. From over my shoulder comes an accented "Very nice." I return a " Cam on." When others are watching me draw, I usually make a concious effort to stop once in a while and acknowledge them with a fleeting smile. I do this to welcome interaction because experience tells me that most people are generally intimidated by an artist who seems impenetrably engrossed in the work at hand.

Eventually my eye is distracted by another peculiar group of tourists who wander around the Palace with a dignified air. The two women and one infant in this group wear traditional garb of a montagnard or "mountain tribe". Their clothes are all black except for brightly colored red, yellow, and blue patterns which line the hems and belts. Their pants end at mid- calve and their headdresses are neatly folded around their heads before thrown back in a calculated manner that accentuates their wide tan faces with pharoah-like qualities of beauty and authority. They are incredibly striking outfits and I wish I had sketched them, but I was so engrossed in watching that I really forgot about drawing.

Lunchtime demanded that I wander along Hue's side streets attempting to find a small but popular restaurant I had been to on previous visits. Anybody who follows the Lonely Planet guide book through Vietnam knows this place. It was this one place that introduced me to the local cuisine called "banh khoai", a sort of sweet crepe with sprouts, shrimp and meat inside. I foud it so delicious that I would periodically hunger it for back in New York City. But the Vietnamese restaurants in the Big Apple that do serve this regional dish never come close to matching the addictive flavor I found in Hue. When I locate the place, I'm pleasantly surprised to find that for the moment I'm the only guest.
The other intriguing aspect of this place is that the family of proprietors who run the place are all mute. The previous couple of times I've been in this place were with other American travelers. The middle-aged woman who always cooks on a grill by the open front would always gesture to a table for us to sit at and then enthusiastically hand us a framed page of a NY Times article from 1993. The page featured a large photo of a beautiful woman with a dynamite smile cooking from the same grill in the restaurant.

The older woman would then quickly pointing to the photo, caress her long hair several times, gesture to the clock and hold up several fingers, quietly indicating that the siren in the photo would be coming to work in a few hours, as if to entice the male patrons back for another meal. I would usually chuckle at the unique sales pitch but never returned to see this apparent spokesmodel for banh khoai.

Today I was not shown the framed photo because the subject in question personally sat me at a table and handed me a laminated menu with that dynamite smile. Yes, in person she was alluring in her beauty. If, as is said, Hue is known for its beautiful woman, then this woman with her high wide cheeks, ecstatic brown eyes, unusual wavy hair, and slender petite figure is definitely maintaining the status quo. Yet she doesn't seem your typical demure Hue girl judging by her maroon sundress with white polka-dots, the multiple rings on her fingers, the bracelets and the Swatch watch on her fragile wrists, the pumps on her feet, and the eyeshadow above her eyes. On outward appearances she seems more at home in cosmopolitan Saigon than provincial Hue.

I glance at the menu only long enought to point to "banh khaoi." And a bottle of "Hue bia ". She smiles and seems impressed that I don't display the usual indecisiveness of a foreigner with a new menu, and suddenly I'm thinking I'm pretty smooth. She turns to the woman at the grill (who I later learn is an older sister) quickly relates my order with a hand gesture and then retrieves a beer from a mini-fridge. After removing the cap she sits down across from me and begins to happily stare at me and smile. At first it's a little strange, but still somewhat traumatized by my high school status as a geek, I more than welcome the attention from this lovely woman.

With the help of my pocket datebook, I indicate to her that I've been here before, twice. With raised eyebrows she gives me a look of surprise, and then points to her eye inquisitively, as to say " How come I didn't see you?" ( I guess she doesn't forget a face. A white one, anyway.) In reply I point to my eye and then to her' before throwing my palms up into the air, to say " How come I didn't see you ?" With a tilt of her head, she gives me a bashful smile and girlishly stretches her arms out on the table before me. As I feel her foot touch mine, it quickly becomes evident that flirting is her favored game.

When the banh khoai is ready, she prepares it in front of me by throwing some sprouts and starfruit slices in a small bowl of cabbage, adding a piece of the banh khoai, some peanut sauce, and then mixing it all up with chopsticks. I move to take the chopsticks, but she already holds up the first bite to my mouth. After feeding me she sits down and watches me eat. Silently, it is our respective body language that does the small talk in lieu of speech. In her quiet company every small smile, diverted glance, or nod of the head takes on stronger nuances than I am accompanied to. To communicate where I'm coming from, I pull out my sketchbook for her to see. It contains images and drawings from trips through Europe, Thailand, Japan, and Vietnam. As she becomes engrossed in the book, she seems to become a different person, suddenly no longer self-concious of her movements and behavior. I take this as a compliment.

For the next hour, we conversed through a series of charades, written numbers, and little drawings. Communicating with her comes easy. She is used to getting her point across visually, and as an artist I have made a lifetime of reading visual languages. As the restaurant gets busier, she periodically leaps up to attend to the other tables, taking orders and being flirtatious, but returns to sit with me and continue our visual "chat". Born in 1965, she is the youngest of seven, most of whom are also mute, including her sister who cooks at the grill, and her brother who owns the place. Occasionally she flies to Hanoi or Saigon to do modelling shoots, but spends the rest of the time working with her family in the restaurant. Surprisingly she does not plan to be married until she's at least forty. When I ask why, she claims she has no time for it right now. Nope. Not your typical Hue girl.

Rubbing her ring finger, she asks if I am married. I rub my own ring finger and shake my head. To explain that I recently had an intense relationship end I caress imaginary long hair, grasp my heart, and then press my two index fingers together before slowly separating them. I press my fist to my chest again and twist it to show how in the end my heart was broken . Acknowledging my pain, she momentarily adopts a sad face. She mouths the word "Why?". When I display a look of dismay and write down my age and the age of my former girlfriend, who is almost four years younger, she seems to understand the inherent problems with timing. I turn the same probing questions back to her. She claims no current boyfriend but displays a gold bracelet on her wrist and conveys it is a from a relationship she had in 1991, with a young American on business in Vietnam. I guess to illustrate the depth of the affair she pulled several letters from a nearby bureau. I noted the American return address on the envelopes but did not read the letters. To have done so, I felt, would have been tantamount to desecrating something sacred between them.

Before I leave, she points to her watch, counts out several hours from now, makes an eating gesture and then looks at me with an anticipatory smile. She may be just securing more business for her place, but sucker that I am, I'm already on my way to being seduced by her looks and charm. It's becoming a welcome diversion from my trip so I agree to return.

In the evening I join two other independent male travelers, Hans from Switzerland and Sean from Australia, for dinner. I notice Ngoc has changed her outfit and with the restaurant now full of international travelers, she is really in full effect. Bouncing from table to table serving drinks with a radiant smile, she comically banters hand gestures with the male patrons and takes the liberty to tweak a few noses as well. Every so often she'll join our threesome for a little more fun and present an inquisitive look upon spotting our near empty Hue beer bottles. With good conversation and a beautiful woman egging us on, it doesn't require much flirting to prompt another round.

" She seems to enjoy her job, eh?" remarks Hans, as she stands over his shoulder.

" Seems to be in her element. " , I say.

Reacting to the stupid smiles on our faces, she offers us each a comic look of suspicion.

" She must move a lot of beer." adds Sean leaning forward on his crossed arms and playing into her antics. "You're quite a flirt, aren't you?" he says to her with a big grin, not really sure if she understands, but not really caring. Ngoc swats his nose and goes off to fetch a few more bottles.

With an American in their midst, the others naturally turn the conversation towards the issue of the 2,000 MIA's and where I stand on it. Frankly, I tell them, I may be a little naive in my youth but when I look at the figures, I've got to roll my eyes at the arrogance of my country in insisting Vietnam is holding back MIA/POW information, while they have 300,000 of their own to mourn. Counting the fact that 8,000+ Americans are missing from the Korean conflict and 75,000+ are missing from World War II, I'm also not a little bewildered at how the postwar issues of Vietnam had managed to prevent the U.S. government from re-establishing diplomatic and economic ties with Vietnam for almost a quarter century. Sadly, our embargo was finally lifted and diplomatic links retied only after it was becoming obvious that the rest of the world was enthusiatically investing in Vietnam the new economic dragon, and we were missing out on the party.

Sean asks me if I had heard about the American politician who apparently chained himself to the fence of a Hanoi government building to protest the 237 American POW's supposedly still being held in a remote jungle prison. After the incident, the guy was told to leave the country by the Vietnamese government. I hadn't read about that one.

When I mention how American movies and televison have somewhat tainted the way young Americans perceive Vietnam today, Sean asks if many Americans are visiting the country. From what I could see, most of the young foreign travelers were from Europe or Australia. Many times at home I would be asked why I desired to see Vietnam, as if it were the last place anybody would consider visiting. Vietnam was slowly becoming a more trendy destination with Americans, but it would take time because of the perceived stigma the issue has been on society.

"I was told by a Vietnamese tour guide that up until 1994, most of the American visitors were returning veterans, " I said. " But I don't know what the actual figures are like now."

" Maybe you could find out from the Vietnam Tourism office," Sean suggests.

" Maybe they could tell you how many Americans are here."

There is a gap in the conversation while we think this over and digest our dinner.

" Well, at least 237 at last count, anyway!", bursts out Hans.

Just before I finish my last big bottle of Hue beer, my new friend sits down next to me, puts her palms together, opens them, and then holds her finger and thumb close together to indicate "little.". I pull out my little date book and hand it to her. She flips it open to the present week, points to the date I arrived, and then lands her hand on the table like a plane. After swooping it back up into the air, she points to the book and looks at me inquisitively. I indicate that I'll be leaving Hue in about four days. Then she asks for my "bigger" book, my guide book. Finding the Hue map, she points to various nearby locations and inquires about going on a day trip into the country with her. Having not done any research into Hue and its surrounding environs, I have no idea as to the significance of Tu Duc's tomb or the Lang Co peninsula . But as she draws her finger across these names in my book, that's not why I am nodding my head in agreement. An attractive woman is staring at me to see if I would follow, and I was feeling like these are the times when impulsive behavior is most rewarding. Before we formalize any trips, though, I indicate that I first have to take a day trip to the demilitarized zone. Maybe I would take a trip with her in a in a couple of days.We decide to leave it up for later discussion.

Later, as I lay in my bed waiting for sleep, I ask myself what I think I'm doing. I came here to land of a tragic and mournful history . Playing footsy with the local seems inappropriate behavior in this , "Hell, run with it. Vietnam is calling."

The next morning when I awaken, another new friend is already waiting for me in the lobby. Tam is a local university student studying English and French who also works the summer as a local hotel receptionist. The other day I befriended him through the use of my old standby icebreaker, my sketckbook. After he looked through it we spoke at length, pursuing various topics of conversation such as Hollywood movies, my income in New York, the speed of a French TGV train, why the French have curly hair, more Hollywood movies, and Hue girls versus American girls. Thoughtfully, he had also offered to guide me this morning to the local Art Institute.

I like Tam. Speaking with him I am immediately charmed by his sincere curiosity and affable manner. With his natural air of diplomacy he managed to break through that psychological distance I maintain towards strangers, acquired from living in New York for too many years. What ultimately hooked me into his personality, though, is the flattering way in which he answers me in conversation with a particular high-pitched and drawn-out, " Yeeaahhh.", as if I just stated something entirely original and enlightening.

This morning Tam and the rest of Hue are up and active well before I finish my last dreams. When I shuffle into the lobby, Tam leaps up from a chair to greet me.

" Hello, Colin. Did you sleep well?"

" Yeah. It was alright, although I had a bit to drink last night. "

" Ohh." He smiles sympathetically, noting my puffy face. " Do you still want to go to the Art Institute?"

" Oh...yes." I answer unconvincingly as I squint out onto the street.

The glare from the street is pounding my eyes, and I can feel an intense temperature waiting beyond the hotel doors.

"Is it always this hot at this hour?"

In a few minutes we are pedalling down a worn Hue street with Tam leading and negotiating space with scores of other early morning rush-hour bicyclists. We glide over a moat blanketed with huge lotus fronds and through an arch within the brick walls of the Citadel. The heat at 8:30 in the morning is unbelievably oppressive. We've only been out for about five minutes and already embarrasing dark patches of sweat are appearing on the front of my blue t-shirt. With my back growing damp under my Jansport, I feel like a typical big American buffoon who can't handle the tropics, even though I grew up in South Florida.

Riding under a canopy of trees lining the road adds much to the aesthetics, but does little to battle the humidity.

After cycling down a few side roads, Tam leads us through the gates of a fenced- in compound. Across a large unkempt courtyard with a circular drive stands a two story French colonial building of the familiar stucco- and- shutters variety. Behind this building sit several other smaller structures. Students sit passively here and there at the bases of several large trees. Tam and I leave our bicycles among the rows of motorscooters and bicycles lining one side of the compound and wander around aimlessly at first until we find an open door to a gallery filled with paintings. As my eyes float along the walls, I notice the paintings reflect certain trends I've seen from contemporary artists advertised in Ho Chi Minh city. Most of the paintings explore impressionistic studies of Vietnamese villages or abstracted nude figures. Behind me I hear Tam murmur in Vietnamese. A female voice murmurs back. Turning around I see a woman in her late twenties who addresses me in English

" You are an artist from America?"

I present my sketchbook to her to validate the statement. After glancing through it she tells me her name is Vinh, a former student, and presents a busines card printed in English. Printed at the top of the card is "University of Art- Hue City " Below this is printed "Nguyen Thi Quang Vinh, Painter. Professor at Hue's Fine-Art University. Department of Silk." Next to her title is a small graphic drawing of her profile. As I study her card, we are joined by an amusing young man with an infectious smile. He is introduced as Anh,Vinh's husband and a Professor of Sculpture at the University. He happily hands me his own card, printed similarily to Vinh's.

" Department of Silk?" I say, referring to Vinh's card." Is that as in textile design?"

" No. We paint on silk. " She gestures to one of the paintings. " This one is my own paintings."

As I stare at her silk painting I can feel Vinh's eyes fixed on my face, anticipating my first reaction. The dominant imagery before me is of a feminine figure bent over in a rice paddy with an infant strapped to her back. Several water bison horns on poles surround the figure. It is a very darkly executed painting, both beautiful and somber. The semi-abstract execution and stark pallette leave an otherwordly impression , as if glimpsing into someone else's dream. I ask Vinh for her intended interpretation.

Vinh points to the bison horns and explains they serve as allusions to the inherent strength within the Vietnamese woman. The rice paddy and infant convey dual tasks expected of all women. It is such traditional burdens that have been quietly endurred by Vietnamese women for ages. The working mother is an ancient and unquestioned role in Vietnam. In this man's society, the internal strength of Vietnamese women is a given yet rarely acknowledged attribute.

" Do you think my painting is poor?" Vinh asks suddenly.

" Poor ?" I reply, surprised. My silence has been misinterpreted as apathy.

" No....NO.", I stress, " It's beautiful. Especially if it comes from your heart. It is not poor."

I gesture to my heart. " Dep Lam. Very beautiful."

Anh stands next to her and smiles widely.

" In Vietnam the materials of life are poor," he says," but the art is rich.

My own art school years at Rhode Island School of Design have proven to be a valuable influence on my life's paths, so I've felt somewhat curious about the role such a school plays here, within a transitional Vietnam. The country's recent reforms of hardline government as part of its recent "open-door" policy include lighter censorship policies, allowing a virtual awakening for Vietnam's artists. As my new friends begin to show me around the school's grounds, Anh offers personal proof. He shows me several of his own sculptures installed in the courtyard of the school.

" Before 1986, we must sculpt like Russians. " He gestures to examples of his old work, a couple of classical Vietnamese nudes and one aging worker's propaganda piece.

"Constructivist.", he laughs, noting the drastic gap in style of the latter sculpture, " For government."

It was such propaganda art that artists were formerly forced to create if they expected to make a living. To produce anything else publicly was to risk being condemned by the government. Consequently, personal explorations in art were not encouraged. The "doi-moi" reforms started in 1989 began to finally change this attitude greatly. Judging by the private galleries popping up in cities all over Vietnam, the creatives in this country seem relieved to be able to breath again.

" Now we paint and sculpt for our own possessions." Although he has none of his recent work on view at the school, Anh says he now takes his inspiration from the traditional myths and indigenous sculpture of the montagnards in Vietnam's Central Highlands. As he explains this to me, Anh smiles broadly and laughs like someone who has won the lottery. I'm quickly learning that smiling and laughing are a dominant trait of Anh's personality . Vinh seems to be the more tortured soul of the two artists.

Anh finds a personal irony at the term used for Vietnam's reforms. With this "open-door" policy encouraging him to create as much of whatever he wants, he now finds it necessary to close the door on the excess of artwork.

" At my house I sculpt, and then I put it in closet and 'close- door'. Do not look at again. " Anh lets out another heart laugh at this

I tell him I understand. I have my own stash of unwanted artwork, condemned for eternity to a storage chest in my room.

As we stand in the courtyard an elderly man in a necktie approaches. Vinh introduces him to me as one of her former instructors. He does not speak much English, but seems amused to meet me. Since we lack a common oral language, I again pull out the sketchbook of my travels to speak visually to him. He takes great interest in all the sketches, particularily of Paris since he had apparently studied there as a young artist. Every other page he pauses at a drawing and points at it, mumbling tones of recognition in Vietnamese.

" Very good, " he says after closing the book.

" Do you want to look at a class?" asks Anh.

" Oh, yes. Very much."

So we say goodbye to the old teacher and set off looking for a class in session. As we stroll through the grounds exchanging information about the curriculums of our respective art school educations, pleasant music lingers in the air. Sneaking a glance through a classroom door, I see a small girl of about ten in a white-frilled dress and patten-leather shoes rehearsing a classical piece on the piano.

When we find a drawing class, my friends wait outside but encourage me to walk among the students within the studio. The twenty or so students have arranged their easels in a broken ring around the subject matter, a plaster bust of Ho Chi Minh. As I tread lightly through room, the only sounds are lead pencils brushing against paper and whispered words in Vietnamese from the instructor to her students. Natural light from the windows softens Ho Chi Minh's cheeks before settling on a far wall which displays a mosaic of charcoal studies of hands, feet, and a few self-portraits. The students acknowledge my presence only with fleeting glances, remaining withdrawn into their work . Most of the Ho Chi Minh portraits are plentiful in detail, but lack boldness and variation in line quality. The shy attitude of the drawings reflect an insecurity typical of young artists, hesitant to fully commit lead to the paper. But I keep my criticisms to myself, not comfortable to challenge the protocol beyond quietly crashing a drawing session. Realizing I'm a distraction if anything, I quietly thank the instructor and slip out .

Before Anh and Vinh attempt to find another class for me to look in on, possibly a sculpture class, we are apprehended by a stern headmaster who engages in a short conference with his two professors. Apparently word has reached him that a foreigner is walking the grounds without going first through the proper channels to receive permission. I am to leave at once, it appears. Undaunted, Anh and Vinh immediately invite me over to their house for tea in a couple of days. Tam agrees to accompany me there based on directions Anh draws in my sketchbook. Anh need not be insistive at his invitation, but he before we part he cheerfully adds, " You must come by , so then we will draw each other's portraits."

" Okay, it's a deal," I reply.

Twenty minutes later, after bicycling back from the Citadel to the other side of the Perfume River, Tam recommends we stop for some shade and a drink . He leads us off of Le Loi Boulevard. the riverside causeway and into a tree-covered courtyard. From a vendor in a wooden shack Tam orders a Pepsi and an orange soda, and we take a seat on little plastic stools next to a small wooden table. After a few minutes, the vendor comes out with the two open bottles of soda and two glasses filled with big chunks of freshly chopped ice. I've been warned not to take ice in Vietnam due to the potential repercussions of local water on my Western stomach. Tam movesd to fill my glass

" Uh, Tam..."

But with my glass already filled and the ice dissolving, I decided to keep my mouth shut and risk stomach problems rather than seem ungrateful for Tam's hospitality. Tam picked up his orange soda and we clinked glasses. I gulped my soda fast in a race against melting ice.

" May I ask you a question about America, Colin?"

" Sure, go ahead."

" I am making a thesis, a study for my school about what it means to keep tradition, and I wonder if you could tell me about the, uh, traditional culture of America."

" Uh, cultural...traditional culture?" I repeat, unprepared for this question.

" Uh, yeeeaaah. For example, in Vietnam it is tradition for girls in university and some women to wear the ao dai dresses."

" Oh, yes. I know about the ao dai."

" Yeeeahh. Well, uh, I was wondering about the cultural traditions of America. Could you tell me about these?"

" Cultural traditions, hmmm. Let me think about this."

It was an important question. And I didn't want to misrepresent my country, especially in a place like Vietnam. There was already enough misunderstandings between the two countries. I thought to give a simple answer at first, but then I became fearful of trivializing a diverse country like America with a bunch of cliches. The first thought that jumped into my head was "Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and Chevrolet.", but I decided not to extend Madison Avenue's obvious influence beyond our shores just yet. So I searched for another aspect of traditional culture.

" Okay...well, uh...."

So then for some reason I began to think about weddings and white bridal dresses and bachelor parties and drunken toasts, but I decided they aren't distinctively American. Even those occur in Vietnam due to the small but influential Catholic population here.

" All right, uh, we celebrate a holiday called Thanksgiving once a year, where families get together for big meals and give thanks for, uh...."

As Tam sat there with undivided attention, I began to feel I was giving too much of an Anglo/Puritanical outlook of what traditional American culture is. I thought of describing Kwanzaa or Puerto Rican Pride Day.

" Well, Tam, the truth is that even though much of our tradition is derived from Europe, our country is influenced by cultures and people who come from all over the world to settle in America..."

As I said this, I began to feel I was actually giving an inaccurate view of the realities of our old Melting Pot. Many of these immigrant cultures essentially come to America and adapt to an Anglo cultural predominance, their own traditions and history becoming watered down in the process. Of course, maybe it was premature to be describing this selective cross-culturalism to a guy who lives in a relatively homogenous country. I tried another approach.

" Well, honestly, these days one tradition everybody seems to share is watching Seinfeld on Thursday nights. Media. Media is an important binding American tradition."

A minor paranoia kicks in again as I think of Rupert Murdoch's Star Tv satellite televison, and "MacGyver" reruns in Burma, and Mtv in India, and Schwarzeneggar flicks in the Philippines, and the term " cultural imperialism". Tam began to look a little confused at my incoherence. I tried a return to basics.

" It's also an American cultural tradition to, uh, set off fireworks on July 4th"

" Ahh, Yeeaaah," Tam responded," Fireworks."

I feel as though I've been put on the spot. Perhaps it would have been easier answering Tam's question had I not known it was for school.

"Tam, can I get back to you later on this question? I need to think about it some more."

Lunchtime found me sitting down for some more bahn khoai at my favorite restaurant, although it was really the attractive woman who gave me so much attention that kept me returning. When I strolled up to the restaurant, Ngoc's older sister ,who cooked at the front, recognized me and handed me a menu. Her hand reached up and fondled imaginary wavy hair near her neck, symbolizing Ngoc, and then pointed to her watch with panicked and confused gestures to convey that her younger sister was supposed to be there now, but hadn't shown yet. She held up five, ten, fifteen fingers. The urgency of her message made me wonder if I was any different from any other single male who became a repeat customer after flirting with Ngoc. My typical male ego wanted to believe I was different, but it struggled with my sense of logic.

Ngoc soon rolled up on a motorbike and flashed a sumptuous smile in my direction, before running upstairs. After an apparent change of shoes, she came back down and sat down across from me. After some flirrtacious small talk and a few goofy stares, she signaled for me to retrieve my guide book. With a handlebar-reving gesture, she reopened her inquiry about a possible daytrip with her. Excitement grew within me. I came all the way to Vietnam, and this beautiful woman wanted to personally show me around. What more could a single guy ask for? But when she wrote down "$8" and " $12" , the costs for either a motorbike or mini-van tour, my heart sank. True to form, I had let my emotions carry me away, and once again I had become a sucker. With my mouth twisted to one side, I looked to Ngoc and pointed to my head. I would have to consider the prices and get back to her. When I finished my lunch , she held up six, seven fingers and mimed eating with an expectant face. Yes, I'd be back for dinner.

As it happened, I began to look forward to Hue's evenings. When the streets became easier to cross, and the flourescent lights kicked in, it was difficult for an independent traveler not to be drawn to the restaurants described as "popular" in guide book entries. At such places you were guaranteed to find a drinking partner or partners for the evening. Common languages were negotiable. At Ngoc's place, I sat with Harry and Ed, two young English men who were travelling throughout Asia for a few months before continuing their studies. Earlier in the day I had shared a long boatride with them down the Perfume River, hence acquiring extremely pink skin. Harry's bright pink skin clashed with his brilliant blond tennis-ball hair cut, adding to the humorous aura that surrounded his outgoing personality. The understated Ed was just plain pink and quiet. Their bonding agent was the requisite streak of cynicism common to us kids. Neither of them were thrilled with returning to the United Kingdom since they hadn't decided just what it was they were supposed to do with their lives.

" That's great, " proclaimed Harry after flipping through my sketchbook. " I myself don't claim to have any evident talent. It's a problem. Actually, that's not true. I do a great imitation of Lenin. "

Harry jumped up and froze in the standard Lenin stance. Immortalized by statues in communist countries everywhere, his chin jutted out in profile, one hand grabbed an imaginary lapel on his chest, and the other arm extended out into the air, out across the Motherland.

" He always seems to be hailing a taxi," remarked Harry , still in his Lenin stance.

" Must have been a busy man, " deadpanned Ed.

" That's not bad," I said. " Maybe you should take that on the road."

" Actually I have considered being a comic, or a copy writer. Except I don't really know how one goes about it, " Harry said.

" How old are you?" I asked.

" Nineteen."

" Don't worry. You'll figure it out. I thought I knew what to do at nineteen. Fortunately, I decided I was wrong."

" I'm still trying to figure out what scam I'm going to pull to make my millions," decided Harry, " I need a scam so that I can swindle a lot of people out of their hard-earned money."

" Well, for your sake, I fully hope to be ripped off by you someday. "

click HERE for Part 2

Colin in Hue, June 1995 Part 2

2008-09-09T23:00:00.000-07:00

Once again I sat in the lobby of the hotel, awaiting the courage to take on the midmorning sun. Binh joined me for a cup of tea.

" What kind of music do you like ?" Binh inquired, as if to pick up on the last conversation.

" Oh, all kinds. Um, many types. " I replied. I wasn't sure if she was familiar with k.d.lang, Portishead, or any number of John Williams' movie soundtracks, but even in Vietnam I wasn't about to associate my tastes with the more recognizable Billboard names such as Mariah Carey or Michael Bolton. So I turned the tables. " Well, who do you like?"

She smiled widely and her voice became breathy. "I like Bryan Adams. I like his song 'Forever' very much." At this comment, she literally clasped her hands together by her cheek and stared at the ceiling in a dreamy haze.

Trying to break Bryan's spell, I said, " I like Elton John, but only his older songs."

" Oh, yes. And the Beatles. I like them, " she responded.

" Do you like John Lennon's music?"

" Yes, very much. The song 'Woman' I like. And 'Imagine'." At mentioning this song she gains a concentrated look on her face. " It is very good in context and melody."

" Oh, I agree. It's one of my favorite songs."

" Do you like his wife Yoko Ono? She is not so attractive. But not ugly. Why do you think John Lennon liked her?"

" Well, maybe her character. I think when true love happens, the physical attraction is only part of it. It is a superficial part. It is attraction to the character that goes deep." I said this even though I haven't always abided by it in my youth. It seemed like a good answer, anyway.

" It is hard to find someone compatible, loveable, " she commented. " If you had to choose between someone beautiful and someone with good character, who would you choose?"

Trying to remain diplomatic I replied, " I've been in both circumstances. Physical beauty only goes so far. It's character that has staying power. My last girlfriend was very beautiful, but it was because of her character that I fell in love with her. Otherwise it wouldn't have lasted or been as enjoyable. " My last girlfriend being my ex-girlfiend. Ouch.

Binh paused and thought about this for a few seconds.

" I think you have deep inner feelings." She said.

At lunch, I returned to my favorite restaurant. During my meal, Ngoc spent half her time sitting with me, trading pleasant looks. I indicated that I had met two artists at the Art Institute and was supposed to meet them for tea soon.

She asked for my guide book and inquired about the daytrips she had previously suggested. With a disappointed look, I shook my head and rubbed my thumb and finger together. In my datebook I pointed out to her my other destinations. I was, unfortunately, on a budget. The reality was that I probably could have parted with a measly eight dollars for a day. But I had decided to keep myself at bay due to the confusion at what her real motives towards me were. For a while, I wasn't completely convinced that her flirtacious nature wasn't all to just drum some business out of me. Still, I had sadly concluded that since I was transitory, then maybe it wasn't worth entertaining the allure she exuded.

She maintained a poker face and picked up a pen. She circled a few locations in the countryside near Hue, pointed to me and then herself, made a handle-bar revving motion, rubbed her thumb and finger together, and then wrote down a "0". Then she pointed to tomorrow's date in my book. She put the pen down and waited for a reaction from me. I hadn't expected this reply. I rubbed my thumb and finger together and shook my head inquisitively. For free? She nodded and repeated the gestures. Yes, for free. The discrete nature of her movements suggested this was somewhat against the rules.

I was a little ashamed. I thought I had figured her out, but I was pleased to find I was wrong. She wasn't just turning on the charm as a sell. She really did want to spend time with me. I looked at her for a long moment and assessed the situation. As agressive as her personality was, I could tell she was uncomfortable being this forward about a date. I picked up the pen. Circling the location of a floating restaraunt on the Perfume River, I asked her if I could take her to dinner afterward. She agreed. After agreeing on a time to start out the next day, she gets up and tends to some other customers.

Towards the end of my lunch, a balding and stocky middle-aged American man invited himself to sit down at my table and just began talking. Until he joined me, I had been passively watching him talk up another individual traveler at an adjacent table while I ate my chicken and rice. Without any prompting he soon revealed he is a veteran from the "American " war, as it's known in Vietnam.

" Yeah, I was here 67-68." he said somewhat whispfully," Based out of Camp Carroll."

" So you were here during the Tet Offensive?" , I inquired sincerely .

" Oh yeah. January twenty-seventh, 1968. Not three hundred meters from Highway Nine we ran into an ambush. ." He paused for a deep breath. " Really bad. Within fifteen minutes there were some twenty-seven dead and forty-some wounded."

" Out of how many?", I asked.

" About one hundred thirty. "

God, more than half of them cut down in fifteen minutes , I thought. He lit a cigarette and stared away at a tabletop full of receipts as he began to rattle off names of companys or units. I couldn't keep up with his military lingo, but I didn't interrupt. Marine Third Corp Battalion, Foxtrot, Echo, Golf, Alpha, Delta, Bravo, Charlie. He took a drag from his cigarette and continued his list, still staring ahead as if he was looking at the troops in front of him. He mentioned the vicious street-to-street fighting that took place in Hue. Eventually he broke his trance and looked to me.

" Some of my friends died probably not...meters from here."

He gestured out to the street where children play and motorbikes sped by, oblivious to the past.

" I still get the creeps walking around here at night. " he confided further, " Some of these streets where there's no lights have an 'inky' blackness to them. It's the same inky blackness we would have to set up a perimeter in for the night. Just didn't know who was out there."

Not knowing really how to respond, I mentioned that I had done my own reading about the conflict.

" Yeah, this city was flattened, " He responded. " What you don't hear about is the three thousand or so people they killed . The VC. They killed the doctors, teachers, professionals..." His voice trailed off.

As I listened to him vent, I learned he was from California and had made money after the war handling investements for Hollywood producers. It seems for the past 10-15 years he'd been jumping around Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam, working in various unrelated industries until he was forced to move on. As an ex-marine who had been in and out of Vietnam since the war, the local government had begun to keep tabs on him. The suspicion of the Vietnamese government seemed to be his biggest complaint. If he's not really still working for some US agency, it's evident he has been constantly trying to find ways to keep Vietnam a part of his life. I began to wonder at this bond he desires only to strengthen.

When he began to describe his reason for returning to Vietnam, my initial image of him grew more complex. He was sponsoring a local Hue family by donating twelve hundred dollars a year, a very hefty sum in Vietnam, so that the family's children could attend school. (Everybody pays a fee to attend school). He was also trying to find the family's father a good job in Hanoi. The father was a former South Vietnamese soldier, which placed limitations on his family's social and career aspirations. In describing the red tape he's had to experience in formalizing the sponsorship, he began to show more emotion in his voice. Apparently the local officials could not understand why he wanted to pointlessly sponsor what they regarded to be worthless family.

" "BUT WHY?!!', they say, ' BUT WHY!!' ", he repeated several times, angrily mimicking some local officials. " They just can't understand!" he concluded, exhasperated.

I was a little overwhelmed by this man's anxieties. His sentiment for this Vietnamese family touched me. Unfortunately as my curiousity about this man was starting to grow, Ngoc came up to me and pointed to her Swatch, reminding me of my appointment with Anh and Vinh. With humorous gestures, she indicated that I was already late. As much as I wanted to stay and listen to the ex-Marine, I had to excuse myself. He waved me off with a sort of indifference, as though he was used to it. It seemed too much like a rub-off and I felt bad. Before I stepped out of the restaurant, I hesitated and turned back. But he had already found the ear of another traveler.

Adhering to the map in my sketchbook that Anh had drawn, Tam again set out to guide us to the artists. But I quickly bicycled ahead of Tam, my male sense of omnidirectional confidence serving my impatience. I knew I was only looking for a lake on the left side of the street, anyway. On the way, the rush hour traffic provided me with an enjoyable high, visually and audibly-induced. The manic activity of the locals, the resulting dust in the air, and the orange hues from a low sun had my adrenaline flowing freely. It wasn't until I had drifted into the middle of the road and heard Tam's urgent cry of "Attention!" accompanied by the bleating horn of a police jeep bearing down on me that I sheepishly deferred to Tam's lead.

Somewhere west of Ho Tinh Tam Lake, down a few unpaved roads within the center of the Citadel, we found the humble residence of Anh and Vinh. Their single story stucco-and shutters-home was identifiable by a front courtyard occupied by various flora and a couple plaster Vietnamese nude studies. Tall trees in the surrounding neighborhood pleasantly offered adequate shelter from the sun. Vinh first appeared and invited us inside. After giving us a quick tour, she immediately she broke out the teacups. The interior of their home was simple but comfortable, three small open rooms painted in the standard light aqua of so many Vietnamese interiors. Various small sculptures, books, and art supplies layed strewn about about in an unabtrusive manner. Anh cheerfully strolled in about five minutes later, his khaki shorts stained with material from some previous project.

While Vinh paged through my sketchbook again, Anh pulled out a book he had made several years earlier. Through writings and photos it documented his thesis project at the Art Institute. Anh explained how his interest in indigenous art drove him to repeatedly hike up into the Central Highlands and visit one of the mountain tribes before they became comfortable enough to let him live with them for several months at a time. The purpose of these extended journeys were to study the customs, and in particular, the folk art of the tribe. His own resulting sculptures show a heavy influence from these studies.

He handed me several photos taken earlier in the year of one seven or eight-foot tall piece gloriously executed in wood. The main body consisted of a cubist man and woman embracing in profile, the woman's convex breast fitting into a concave shape within the man's chest. Below their feet was a pedestal around which had been carved graphic representations of people at work. From behind their heads sprouted two great wing-like apendages which arched upwards and inwards. Into these wings were carved repeating patterns of various figures in motion, as if participating in a manic dance. Anh said the title was " Glittering life of the exotic people". He offered one of the photos for me to keep. It went straight into my sketchbook.

Vinh produced for me a large pile of watercolor and ink studies to look through. Some of her work was also based around visits to hill-tribes, and some took its subject matter from the lowland countryside. The common thread through most of the work ,though, was her focus on women, whether dancing in groups during an evening tribal festival or quietly wadding through rice paddies, hunched over in work. Of the two artists she seemed more concerned of what I thought of her work. As I poured through her pieces, I could feel her carefully gauge how long I looked at each piece. Accordingly, I made sure to comment on many of the pieces. I could sypathize with Vinh. Although I seem blase when somebody flips through my sketchbook, I really pay attention to such things.

I had to wonder how difficult it is being a female artist in Vietnam. On the outside it seemed Anh and Vinh regarded each other as equals. But Anh seemed to be getting a lot of the commissioned work and because of good standing in the eyes of the government, he had recently received permission to travel to Amsterdam. There he planned to visit some Dutch artists he had previously met, to help further his studies. Regardless of what status their respective gender afforded them as artists, the two seemed like a happy pair enjoying a relatively privileged lifestyle. Their house was their own, with no extended relatives living with them. Their taste in clothes suggested a more cultivated sense of style than most of Hue's. They were happy and productive enough that they had elected to delay having children for a few years. Their domain did not appear to be the norm, having only recently been made possible by Vietnam's shifting economic policies. To come of age during these changes seemed to put one at advantage to older generations.

Before it became too dark, Anh pulled out his drawing tablet and ink bottle and declared it was time to carry out our forementioned deal. So we quietly sat in waning light of dusk, our eyes scrutinizing the peculiarities of each other's faces before darting down to lay ink on our paper, and visa versa. In his concentration, it was the only time I caught Anh without his perpetual smile. After we finished, Vinh excitedly approved of my drawing and inisted that I draw her portrait, too. So I did.

By the time Anh flicked on the flourescents, about four hours and several kettles of tea had passed. Although we enjoyed each other's company, I decided it was time for Tam and I to leave before our hosts feel obligated to feed us. I took with me the portraits and arranged to have Tam return the originals after I had made copies for myself.

The next day, when I arrived at the appointed hour , Ngoc sat down with me, glanced over to see if her sister was watching and then discretely indicated that we should wait a few hours before venturing into the countryside. She looked up to the ceiling and waved her fingers to suggest was something falling from the sky which then softly caressed her arms. At first I thought she was predicting rain, but when I glanced out at the street simmering in the sun, I realized she wanted to wait until later in the afternoon when the sun would be less intense. If her golden skin was at any risk from the sun, then my pink skin was probably more so.I nodded in agreement. She pointed to her watch and held up three fingers before pretending to rev a handlebar. In reply I flicked up my thumb. To kill some of the time I gestured for a menu and then ordered some chicken ga' and a soda. When she brought out my food I motioned her to my opened guide book. Looking at the the map of Hue and its environs, I held up three fingers and pointed to various sights, then held up eight fingers and pointed to the location of the floating restaurant. At this I turned to her and raised my eyebrows. She smiled slightly and nodded. Good, just making sure.

After lunch, I sat and hypnotized myself to the sound of motorbikes and Vietnamese babble while Ngoc attended to other customers upstairs. Her 70-year old mother noticed me nursing my Sprite and approached with a little gift. In a bizarre and grand gesture she danced towards me, wavering her torso like a belly dancer as she raised a single banana above her head with both hands. When she reached my table she snapped the banana in two and dramatically swung an arm down, offering me half with a big smile. I laughed and thanked her, feeling privileged that Mom felt comfortable enough to be goofy around me. It was evident that as much as Ngoc was trying to keep things under wrap, her Mom knew something was up. When Ngoc returned I indicated I would leave and return by three. When I asked for the bill, she waived it off.

It was three o'clock when I strolled into the restaurant again. I noticed Ngoc had changed her outfit. When I stood before her, she quietly pointed to me and then walked her fingers along a tabletop and around an imaginary corner. First I was to walk to the bridge, apparently by myself. With another handlebar-revving gesture she she would ride her motorbike there in a few minutes to meet me. I guess for reasons not entirely different from Audrey Hepburn sneaking out of the palace to meet Gregory Peck, our countryside jaunt was to be a covert operation. Fraternizing with the customers was one thing, but disappearing with a customer for an afternoon was sure to generate gossip. Although I was game, I still rolled my eyes melodramatically before departing for our rendevous, out of sight of her family.

I waited at the bridge for only a minute before she pulled up on her motorbike wearing a large brimmed hat, sunglasses, and a mischievous grin. She presented me with the bike, slid on behind me and grasped my waist. I gunned the bike and pulled off into the chaotic two-wheeled traffic. Immediately we entered a bottleneck at the entrance to the bridge. Suddenly it occurred to me that I hadn't driven a motorbike in about eight years; the last time was on the empty suburban streets of South Florida, nothing like the 50cc maelstrom that surrounded me. I felt intimidated, but I still managed to maintain my composure. Panic, I assumed, isn't very debonaire when on a date in any country.

After a mile of intense concentration and a sweaty grip on the handlebars, the traffic began to diminish along with any thoughts of disaster, and I began to enjoy the ride. The passing scenery began to make it difficult to keep my eyes on the rural roads. Stucco and shutters were giving way to palms and paddies. The further we rode away from the city , the more people would take notice of us and stare, some befuddled and some amused at the sight of a foreign man joyriding with a local woman. A slender gloved arm would occasionally appear in my sights to point directions or to remind me to switch gears. Wincing from a few teasing pinches on my neck and then catching her smile in the sideview mirror, I asked myself how anybody could see Vietnam on a package tour.

About 5k from Hue, she pointed to a turn off. We rolled down a tree-lined dirt road that soon widened into a shaded clearing. A woman vendor sitting cross-legged on a wooden bench watched passively as I parked the bike next to her stand. She remained seated, preferring to let the bottled water, fruit, and other items speak for themselves. Ngoc pointed me towards an arched gateway and then sat down next to the vendor. Although they didn't immediately communicate, it was evident by their smiles and body language that they were familiar with each other.

Up close, the archway displayed tiny graffiti, mostly Vietnamese names, carved into or written on the weathered wood. I stepped through the gate, personalized by so many visitors before me, and stood before a serene environment. A perimeter of trees quietly whispering in the wind stood around a dark pond occupying a large stone basin. Beyond, up on a small hill , stood a modest pagoda and a small cemetary. The only real movement that caught my eye were subtle ripples from invisible fish sporadically breaking the surface of the pond. No one else was visible, but I could hear quiet stirrings from within a nearby monk's dwelling against which a thatched broom leaned. After skirting the pond I instictively wandered to the left, up a series of paths to the simple tombs. I reached the top of the hill and slowed my pace. Looking back down through the trees and the arch, I could see Ngoc in the distance making gestures in conversation with the vendor.

The land lacked the refinement of temples or tombs I have seen in Japan, but like these places, it could easily have seduced me into hours of contemplation. Knowing the local history of recent decades was enough to supply the profundity usually conveyed through decor. I ambled aimlessly around the dead's homes. If I had the time I would have stayed to watch nature overtake the graves. Among these crumbling structures, I experienced a wave of solitude accompanied by a strange sense of satisfaction. Far from the diversions of my world- diversions which seemed sophomoric at the moment- I felt privileged. The sound of twigs snapping under my feet and the vivid feel of moss clinging to a tomb's wall would become sensations I would relish. Tactile sensations like these create in me a longing for a Vietnam independent of an American mythology I unwarily embraced and exported to this country.

On the road again, the sun was beginning to hit us from a lower angle. The effect was soothing instead of pounding. As we rolled up to the next location, it was evident by the multiple vendors and the Vietnamese tourists piling into a mini-van that this was a more renowned local attraction . Emporer Tu Duc's tomb. The entire compound is surrounded by an immense octoganal wall, making it difficult to gauge its size from the outside. This time I was happy to see Ngoc escort me onto the grounds.

Passing through the gate, several middle-aged vendor ladies eyed us before exchanging a few hushed but visible giggles. As we walked past them I looked over at Ngoc to see her reaction. She chose to ignore the ladies' antics. We strolled along a wide brick pathway to the right of which was a small lake with an island of overgrowth. To the left was a stone stairway leading up to an unexcessive palace. Somewhere further back on the grounds were the tombs. It is recorded that in the late 1800's, Emporer Tu Duc used to come to this place to relax with any one of his 104 wives. Even though Tu Duc's tomb is one of the most frequented tourist destinations in Hue, the visitors were thankfully sparce that day. It had been obvious that we were subject to scrutinizing eyes, so I think we were both relieved at the privacy we found at the tombs. It's all very much a romantic locale, especially if visiting with someone who induces sweaty palms.

We sat down among the columns of an open air pavillion on the edge of the lake, where it is reputed Tu Duc used to recite poetry to his concubines. Opting not to dazzle my friend with poetry, I instead pulled out my date book, opened it to a back page and drew a simple picture of an envelope. Ngoc watched as it I wrote "California" above the envelope. I wanted to know about the past relationship she obviously cherished quietly in her heart. She did not protest. With a concentrated expression she began to relate to me her description of a man similiar in age and appearance to me. Apparently he worked in Saigon on business, and had been back and forth between our two countries. She related at least one opportunity she had to meet up with him in Saigon when she was in town for a modelling job. Their relationship seemed to jump around over a couple of years. Physically it appeared to be on again/off again due to his travel. The continuity was maintained in her heart.

I rubbed my ring finger and looked at her inquisitively. She shook her head no. After rubbing her thumb and fingers together to say "money", she pointed to herself and made a "small" gesture with her hand. Then she pointed to the drawing of the envelope, rubbed her thumb and fingers again and made a "big" gesture with her hand. She shook her head no, again. Essentially she was telling me that she thought he made too much money. They were from different worlds. Whether she really believed this or if it was just a defensive reaction to a broken heart, I'll never know. I pointed to myself and indicated that, as an artist, I don't experience that problem of making too much money.

We sat under the pavilion for about forty-five minutes, alternating between silent conversations, and just looking at each other and smiling. It was not awkward just looking at her as she looked at me. She pointed to my blue eyes and put her fist to her heart. Rocking her arms by her chest and pointing to my features, she joked that she wants to have a baby that has blond hair and blue eyes. I laughed and shook my head. I pointed to her brown eyes and wrote down " dep lam" , or "very beautiful". Her smile turned bashful and she looked down. Finding this irresistable, I pulled her hair back behind her ears so she couldn't hide her face.

Although I never really felt limited in communicating with her, the longer we sat under the pavillion, the more I wished I knew more about what was going on in her mind, because the longer we sat there, the more I desired to lean over and kiss her.

I was afraid to, though. I felt for her, but my transitory status held bearing on my impulses. She had already obviously confided in me more than she would to most visitors. Knowing of her previous relations with a transitory American only served to heighten my sense of impending guilt. I was probably underestimating a full grown woman's sensibilities, but this did nothing to alleviate my fear of taking advantage of her.

As much as I restrained myself, though, a tension, an excitement was beginning to mount between us under the pavillion. Her eyes reflected it. The way we huddled close reflected it. There was a consensus in both of our faces. A threshold was already being reached in the conversation. After a while we just looked at each other. My chest began to subtly shake with anticipation. Should I make a move? I felt so painfully adolescent. When a well-timed group of lively Japanese tourists arrived to take photos on the pavillion, I suggested to her that we get up and walk on.

Following beaten dirt paths away from the tourists, we walked through scenery that only enhanced the romantic overture. Birds chirped, wind whistled through the trees. Ngoc pointed out a beautiful small flora on the ground that would gracefully fold its leaves shut upon a gentle brush of the foot. She found a small white flower to playfully place in one of my button holes. Finally, like some whimsical omen, a strange purple-colored ladybug landed on my chest. The whole fanciful scene was comically testing my so-called restraint.

Letting the ladybug fly from my fingers, I paused to look around for a moment and decide our next direction. The path had lead us up a steady rise to a nearby tomb, an open area enclosed by four stone walls with a sealed sepulcher in the center. A heavy wooden door rested half off its hinges at the entrance. As I turned to consult Ngoc, she suddenly grabbed both my arms and pulled me to her face, pressing her lips to mine. I immediately embraced her and we kissed like the young fools we are. After a minute of this unbridled passion, she led me into the nearby tomb. The intimate confines of the surrounding walls encouraged our kisses to become deeper. In a few minutes we exited the gate of the tomb with big smiles on our faces, as if we shared some kind of inside joke. She grasped the heavy door and mimicked closing it with us inside. With an amorous look she pointed to both of us and then pressed her hands together near her face, joking that maybe we should lock ourselves in for the night. At least I interpreted it as a joke. For the moment, I wasn't so sure we needed to rush into things any further. She kissed me again, and then led me away, her fingers grasping my own.

My mouth had dried quickly. I paused to unzip my bag and pull out a bottle of water. Ngoc walked on without looking back. After refreshing myself, I caught up with her and offered her the bottle. She didn't immediately turn towards me. I touched her shoulder and she only half-glanced back. She was hiding her face. Slight tears were welling up in her eyes. I stopped her and dipped my head at her in concern while digging in my bag for a tissue. She wiped her eyelid before conveying a vivid message to me.

She began by pointing over her shoulder which by now I understood to mean "before". She pointed to herself, she pressed her fist to her heart, pointed to me, and then indicated "small" with her fingers. Before she had felt for me only a little bit. After a slight pause she pointed to the ground, and then repeated all the previous gestures, except the last one when she put her palms together and made them drift apart wide. Now she was beginning to feel for me more and more. I put my arms around her and stroked her head. As we embraced she made no sound. She looked up to me, smiled weakly, kissed me and then gestured that we should continue on.

For the rest of our late afternoon tour through Tu Duc's tomb, we sought out intimate corners that seemed remote from the world; if not in space, then in time. The courtyard of the palace, surrounded on all sides by the emporer's modest quarters, seemed to prohibit all sound and movement. It was still enough to seem difficult to Within the dark wood walls of the palace, we were instantly drawn to to forgotten, unadorned rooms. There in the lingering hot air and dying soft light, confident that we were shrouded from the outside world, we would steal another quick kiss. Outside, orange hues were signaling the end of the day, so we slowly and reluctantly began to head back to the motorbike. Ngoc had to return to assist her family for dinner. Descending the steps away from the palace, I heard her behind me quietly cry out in an urgent high-pitched voice. I turned and she gestured me to come over. One last kiss before subjecting ourselves to scrutiny of vendors, before re-entering Vietnam, present day. We continued down to the stairs . It was the only time I would ever hear her make any sound.

We motorbiked back to Hue until two-thirds across the bridge where she directed me to pull over in the busy evening traffic. I relinquished the bike to her and then pointed to my watch before holding up eight fingers. She nodded and then rode on. When I walked past her restaurant, she acknowledged me with a discrete, safely cordial smile.

Sometime after eight, after another secret rendevous at the bridge, Ngoc and I were served shrimp and rice, spring rolls, and a few other culinary peripherals on the deck of the floating restaurant . The sun had recently set and pinpoints of light were sheepishly emerging from the deep blue sky. From our corner table next to the water, we watched a tourist boat set out floating lanterns onto the middle of the Perfume River. Several days earlier, before I had met Ngoc, I had dined at the floating restaurant by myself. It was during that meal that I watched the sun set beyond the far banks of the Perfume river, leaving in its wake a smoldering sky of amorous colors, and leaving me feeling inadequately alone. I had not expected to return after that first dinner.

I had asked Ngoc if I could draw her portrait in my book, and was lent a ballpoint pen from a lone German woman who dined at a nearby table. The woman had been watching us and became giddy with excitement when she was asked to contribute to our little romantic date. As I sketched Ngoc, she busied herself by dividing up the dishes between us. I put my sketchbook down and attempted to try a shrimp, but my hand was smacked with a clear message. No eating until I finish the portrait. Eventually my portrait was approved and I was allowed access to my meal. In between knowing smiles, we ate our dinner . A small scufflling noise by my feet caused me to look down in time to see a healthy-sized rat scurry from under our table and into the direction of the kitchen. Ngoc saw my reaction and followed my wide eyes to the rat. She looked back to me, mimicked picking up the rat and cutting it into pieces for our dinner, and then smiled widely. For the rest of the dinner we sat with our feet resting on the rungs of the chairs.

After dinner we headed back over the river to her family's joint because she had to resume work. After she dropped me off at the usual spot, I found a photocopy stand and made a copy of her portrait for her own. At the restaurant she lead me upstairs to sit with Dave, a lone American traveler I had met the day before. While we Dave and I talked, Ngoc would periodically slip upstairs to join us for another Hue beer. She claimed she could match us beer for beer, drinking at least ten of the tall bottles in one night if she had too. I threatened to challenge her on it but she didn't seem deterred.

Dave had recently come to Vietnam via Thailand, where he worked as an extra on the Disney production " Operation Dumbo Drop". The movie told the supposedly true story of a squad of G.I.s enlisted to transport an elephant into enemy territory during the war... with all the ensuing hilarious consequences and an all-star cast. A feel good adventure-comedy that took the role of Americans saving the South Vietnamese from communism and manifested it into that of tamers looking after a wild animal. The movie still includes scenes of blowing away two-dimensional NVA soldiers, but now it's great fun for the kids, too.

Dave seemed somewhat embarresed when he initially described the plot to me, and agreed to its dubious nature, but it had paid for his trip through Southeast Asia. During the production he had played an American soldier for atmosphere.

" It was pretty cool, though, " he said in an understated manner. " They dressed us up in fatigues and gave us M-16s , and we spent a few days going up and down in helicopters"

Around one in the morning after finishing only about six bottles, I was sufficiently tipsy and indicated to Ngoc that I was going to bed. The next day would be my last in Hue. Since my flight wasn't until late in the afternoon, Ngoc made a handlebar-revving gesture and conveyed that she would take somewhere for breakfast the next morning. But before escorting me to the airport, she indicated we would tour the countryside again. Then ,with a mischeivous grin, she wrote down "Tu Duc".

Breakfast was at a place within the neighborhood making up the southeastern quadrant of the Citadel. After a typical Vietnamese morning bowl of "pho" and a bottle of water, we motorbiked back to Ngoc's restaurant to wait out the intense midmorning sun before venturing into the countryside again. The sun did eventually abate, but only because it yielded to less preferable thunder clouds which began to blanket the entire sky. Judging by the expanse of the gray, it was not to be a simple in-and-out downpour. After whipping winds momentarily announced the storm's arrival, sporadic raindrops began to smack the ground. So much for our final big day in country.

From the privacy of the upstairs balcony we stared out at the demise of our last chance at any remote intimate encounters. It was disappointing, but we both shared a look of complacency and shrugged our shoulders at the change in plans. For the next couple of hours we were content to just stay in and watch the surging and fading waves of the storm. At the far side of the room, four of her neices and nephews sat in a circle on the floor with cards and played a heated game of Go Fish. A couple of the players were so young that they couldn't read numbers. Instead they individually counted the number of spades, diamonds, clubs, or hearts on each card before making their move.

When nobody was looking Ngoc would steal a kiss from me and then run downstairs to help out. Her mother wandered upstairs and found me sitting alone. She came over, offered me a pinch in the side, and then rummaged through a closet. She pulled out a red photo album and laid on the table before me. The entire album contained pictures from a funeral procession, dating back about fifteen years earlier. From what I could gather, it may have been her husband. As I slowly flipped through it, she stood next to me and silently pointed out the familiar but much younger faces of some of her children who were now full grown and could be found downstairs. When I finished the book, she calmly took it away and left me with an approving smile.

When the time came to leave for the airport, I checked out of my hotel and brought my luggage back to the restaurant where a minor argument had broken out. Apparently two taxi drivers had been called for the same fare, and neither would give in. Before I had a chance to choose between the rides, though, Ngoc pulled me into the car of the younger driver. The driver jumped in and we left the other man standing on the street with an exasperated look on his face, surrounded by an audience of curious on-lookers. As we drove away Ngoc pointed to our driver in the frontseat and gave a thumbs-up. She pointed back to the loser behind us and grimaced with a thumbs-down.

It quickly became apparent that Thanh, our driver of choice, took a particular pride in his automobile. It was a big wide twenty-five year old product of Detroit, but it was in beautiful condition. As we lumbered down Hue's roads, its expansive frame and unusual robust horn sent Japanese mini-vans scurrying for the side of the road.

" You like this car?" Thanh asked, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.

" It's beautiful, " I said.

" It was a US Air Force car." He said, beaming.

As evidence he pointed out a small metal plaque mounted on the dashboard. Printed on the plaque were graphics listing several combinations of light signals the driver had to abide to in determining whether he had clearance to traverse a runway. I guess you just didn't look left, right, and up before crossing.

I looked over to Ngoc, who looked so tiny sitting upon the vast vinyl seat, her eyes just clearing the window. When I touched her arm, she looked over and playfully slapped my hand. She rubbed her ring finger as if to say, "not unless we're married", and then returned to gazing out the window. So I played her game and pretended to ignore her until I felt her hand sneak over mine.

At the airport I checked in and then waited outside with Ngoc for my flight to arrive. The incoming flight that would take me away was late due to the bad weather. Thanh called me over to a small group of taxi drivers admiring another American import. It was a familiar American icon that instantly cast a wave of nostalgia upon me; a Ford station wagon complete with the wooden side paneling. The family truckster looked as though it had just rolled off the line, except for the cream color that had been hand-painted around the wood panelling. The driver, an older bespectacled gentlemen, was very proud of it. He claimed it was left behind by an American general. Without prompting, he even popped the hood for me.

When a double propellor Vietnam Airlines plane finally landed, the waiting passengers were called into the departure lounge. I wanted to kiss Ngoc goodbye but wasn't sure if it was very proper in public. She waited with me until just before I went through security. She leaned in and quickly kissed me goodbye. Then she turned smiling, and headed for the exit.

Once inside, I bought some gum to help my melancholy and moped around the departure lounge until I found a window looking out onto the front parking lot. Among a group of anxious taxi drivers waiting for the new arrivals, I spotted Ngoc standing next to the young driver, looking to help him find a new fare. I caught her eye and she joined me at the window. Through a crack in the panes I slipped her a piece of Doublemint. We exchanged silly smiles and then waved goodbye once more. I watched her return to the young driver's side and then I turned away before someone else could enter her life. My last memory of Hue is slumping myself into a plastic chair before the airport television. While a degenerated video played David Copperfield making a tiger disappear from a cage, my mind disappeared into the overcast sky beyond the tarmac.