Something as simple as crossing the road

On the narrowest of streets is crammed a symphony of motors and horns, each instrument trying desperately to drown the others out. People move constantly, on bike and on foot. Children run, screaming, filled with joy. An old woman is making pho on the corner of the most tightly packed intersection I have seen. Parks, ponds and temples, where tourists seek refuge from the overwhelming mass of activity, dot the city maps. But they too are immune from the crushing buzz.
The city is Hanoi and it is 2.30pm. There is a French café on the other side of the road that is calling me, a momentary sanctuary from the noise and the people and the buzz.
On the other side of the road. Shit.
The bikes and scooters do not drive past, they swarm. Wave upon wave of vehicles cluster and the flow is incessant. They never break, the waves, but ceaselessly swell. Locals cross unthinkingly. The water parts for them. Only white people stand on the curb, too terrified to cross.
The old pho-maker is laughing.
‘Mister, you American?’
‘No. No I’m Australian.’
‘Ah, G’day mate!’ Her croaky laugh is infectious and I cannot but share it with her.
‘You have to help me. I want to cross the street. How do I get there?’
She laughs again. ‘It’s easy! All you do is walk.’
I look at the road and see no letup in the traffic. I take a deep breath and drop my right foot onto the road and then my left and then, zooming past, a motorcycle comes within inches of my next step and I, terrified, retreat to the footpath. I look towards the old pho-maker. She has seen it all before.
‘You stop.’
‘I didn’t have a choice. That guy would have hit me!’
‘Don’t stop. Just walk.’
I look at her and back at the road and back at her again. Shaken but determined I survey the oncoming traffic. I take a deep breath and drop my right foot onto the road and then my left and then my right and keep going until there is no further to go. I could not tell you how it happened but it did. I crossed the road in Hanoi and I survived. I turn back to the old pho-maker and give a nod in thanks. She waves back to me. She has seen it all before.
The French café is antiseptic compared to the hustle and bustle of Hanoi’s street life. It is clean, the air-conditioning is freezing, and the roar of motors and the blaring of horns can only vaguely be heard above the same grating K-Pop track that repeats and repeats and repeats. I look outside and through the throng traffic see the old pho-maker. I long for the buzz.