Musings of a meanderer

Bursting onto the rapidly darkening streets with a pocketful of dong and a stomach rattling with the memory of my in-flight 'meal', I was eager to embrace the noisily humid streets of Hanoi.
I roamed the foreign alleys with uncertainty and hunger as my travel companions, bravado fading in step with growing disorientation as I roll a pinch of tobacco into a nightcap for the eve. The friendly grumble of an approaching moto, distinctive from the stalking tone of the circling “xe oms”, cut short as it reaches my feet. Shyly trading halting sentences and elaborate hand gestures, I follow these three young men into the shop next door, to perch upon the ubiquitous low plastic stools. Warm tea sloshes across the table, as glass thimbles are distributed and a bottle of Vodka Hanoi emerges, its blue and silver label betraying the innocence of this clear liquid. And so, we drink, throwing choruses of “yo!” into the air to celebrate a new friendship. An impossibly huge platter of bright green and flaccid grey lands upon our table, swiftly followed by finger bowls of water and soy. Curiosity grips my stomach as uncertainty flits across my face, certain that I cannot eat what is so proudly provided, uncertain I can convey this without offence to the beaming faces peering into mine. Claws are lifted to eager lips, teeth delicately ripping away nails then crunching down on bone and skin. Not mine. I'm familiar enough with chickens feet, having endured a lifetime of yum cha with an insistent Chinese mother. I snatch the slivers of cucumber away, language difficulties swallowed by the thimbleful as we discuss vegetarianism, common in this Buddhist country. Despite this being a one dish establishment, a boy is dispatched to seek a meal for this difficult foreigner. Embarrassment mingles with the flush of alcohol in my cheeks as the vodka fuels my hunger pangs. The lights flicker, accompanied by a flurry of activity as doors are bolted and stools carried into the lane way behind. “Licensing”. More drinks are poured and more scurrying is to be had as we giggle our way to a building across the street. A steaming bowl of broth is shoved under my nose, chopsticks appearing in my hand as I grin at the raw beef slices adorning my new meal. Bought specially for the smiling foreigner who is so hard to understand. Gesturing for more drinks to be poured, I swallow my inhibitions. So this is what travel tastes like; how could one meal be so nourishing yet leave me so hungry for more.