I Run with Mustangs

An expat desperate to stay in Vietnam, I was en route for a visa run to Cambodia. My trip to Phnom Penh was protocol. The capital city represented ground zero for cheap booze, sex trafficking and NGOs using the recent genocide to justify their organizations’ missions.

Typically a one-day turnaround, I stayed longer with a promise of a six month multiple-entry Vietnam visa, allowing me to drift in and out of Saigon. I upgraded to Villa Langka, a boutique hotel styled in clear homage to Balinese design—showcasing tropical greenery along the walls and an open dining area adjacent to the centrally located pool. The layout offered communal interaction, not one of exclusivity among guests.

The chatter of French and German drifted in the air, lightly sprinkled with hushed Khmer. No music played. The absence of techno or love serenades on blast was rare in Southeast Asia. The silence gave me pause; I brought my knees to my chest, sunk my back into the chair, and sighed. I felt like royalty staying at a hotel free of prostitution and cocooned in decor patterned after sundresses of little girls.

While I ate dinner, a man nearby worked on his laptop smoking cigarettes. Failing at yet another attempt to quit, I asked for one. He obliged, and I inhaled without remorse as he worked. He closed his laptop, ate his dinner and offered me another.

He was a professor from Toulouse on his bi-annual trip to the region supervising an exchange program. We spoke candidly of calculus, the future of my engagement ring and whether or not Vietnamese wine was palatable. Talk of local politics and urban development flowed after a bottle of wine.

The restaurant closed three hours later, signaling midnight. Alone, we enjoyed our anonymity yet afraid to express our excitement for the other’s company. “I’ve been to Las Vegas several times, but never played at a table,” I said. We set out to NagaWorld Casino.

The tuktuk gambled with our lives, alerting cars of our value with a timid tap of a beep rather than a wail of a foghorn. Tit for tat, I lost $100 at blackjack before I finished my drink. The professor had better luck, winning $150 at roulette.

He bought me a drink. A gentleman, he never once made an advance. No wedding ring or tan mark. But then again, he is French.
A routine business trip for both of us, our playful, nameless interlude made it less mechanical. We returned to our separate rooms. We met at breakfast before I boarded my bus. I asked him his name, it was Bruno.