I hadn’t talked to Coyote in a while, not about the blog anyway. He still hung around, looking over my shoulder when I was writing in that annoying way he has and harrumphing occasionally. In a more successful ploy to get my attention, he made me a drink – passionfruit juice mixed with an aromatic and evocative rum he knew I would recognize.
“So what do you think I should do?” I asked. The heat of the day stirred memories. Upstate New York wasn’t Saigon but it was doing its best. Read more
The little Quan Am, carved by an artist in Hoi An of pink Vietnamese marble, sits on a shelf in my living room. On either side are beeswax candles in ceramic cups that in traditional Vietnamese dance are held in pairs in one hand and tapped together like castanets. Before her are shells picked up along the shore of the South China Sea, a dish of rice because she is, after all, from Vietnam, and three chocolates because the papers are red and gold.
In the time she has sat there, facing the comings and goings of the house, I have begun to imagine I hear entire conversations taking place within the niche. Read more