The Vietnamese don't mess around with their cafes. Forty lawn chairs
and accompanying tables setup on the sidewalk, not clustered, but
facing the street. Unabashed people watching. The world is our
television. A sidewalk barber, unseen since India, plies his craft to
my right as the sun dips lower. A fresh pack of "craven" brand
cigarettes stowed away in my backpack, a gift for a chain smoking
crony. What a name. My tummy tum has been filled with pho
and bon mi. Approximately one dollar each. God I've missed bread. The
bon mi rolls are extraordinary. Fluffy inside, crusty outside, adding
texture to the combination of chicken, julienne cucumbers, peppers,
lettuce and a hint of chili infused basil. My munchings brought
envious stares from shirtless gaggles of loafing middle aged men as I
ambled down to destination unknown. At the cafe all heads snap to
attention as a Russian Michellan man staggers past moping his doughy
brow in the suns last dying rays. The spectacle passes, the show goes
on, all from the comfort of my street side living room.

I made it to Vietnam. Showed up without a visa, so I was forced to pay
a bribe, but all is well. It was better than being forced back onto a
plane to Malaysia. And kind of exciting. My first of many "Back in 'Nam" stories.