Translucence

The heart of Hanoi is Hoan Kiem Lake. She is the mandala from which pumps a chaotic verve that flows through old French boulevards to narrow, clogged streets, perfusing an entire city with a roaring spirit. A concrete moat where flashy and rusted motorbikes compete with enraged engines for dominance protectively encircles her.
I eye the sanctuary of the lake through the whirlwind of traffic and inhale as I timidly tip-toe across. Motorists weave around me in a fury of color and noise. I clutch the metal dog tags that dangle around my neck hoping for luck or a force field.
Finally, I exhale.
Hanoi has an old, mysterious soul veiled by modern intentions. I know exactly where I am. The sweat-soaked map I grip assures me of that. Yet I have no idea where I am. A chattering of young women in rustling white ao dai breeze by with hands deftly exchanging from ice cream cones to cell phones. From his perched billboard, Uncle Ho casts suspicious glances at the neon-lit Colonel Sanders who guards his newly erected Kentucky Fried Chicken, a glaring beacon of capitalistic change. Then there is the murky, but regal Hoan Kiem, concealing relics of dynasties and subtle treasures.
I feel like a lost, lumbering giant continually jarred from my lethargic trance by the cacophony of machines and gears that whisk around me. Instinctively, I’m drawn to the haven of plastic chairs laid out territorially near the water’s edge where a vendor is selling glasses of iced tea and fresh globe-like coconuts.
I choose a chair next to a man whose wrinkles run deep like trenches. He’s lean with a kind of deceiving frailty born from years of resilience. I begin to unfurl the map, but stop. He’s staring at my dog tags.
After a pause of silent recognition, he speaks to me in his staccato, but vocally decorated language. My mind decodes his words as he reveals his city and the war that connects us through time and suffering. He eases the pain I wear. She offers her placid pool for reflection.