I was feeling good about my ability to riff with the locals. Servers, tailors, Grab drivers — so many solid interactions. I don’t travel a lot, but I’m nimble when I do. When confronted with hostility, I stay unflustered and charming and I get them smiling. My charm was feeling like a movable feast, a tangible element I dispersed like a currency accepted everywhere. So it was from this height that I toppled when I returned to our guesthouse in Ninh Binh.
The housekeeper had just finished making our room and I passed by her on the staircase. Her bloodshot eyes frightened me. “A junkie-maid,” I thought, entering the room to discover my hundred dollar bill missing. I asked the housekeeper to come back, pointing to the nightstand where I’d left the bill. She looked confused, then panicked, as my tone grew accusatory. “It’s okay. Just give it back. Everything will be fine.” But she spoke no English and I can only imagine our disturbing tableau of grimacing and gesturing.
Then I saw the bill. Under the bed. The fan had blown it off the table. I wanted to crawl under there with it. Where was my charm now? The bad guy in a cliche. I apologized with gusto but she left, and I stood there in the pin neat room — in no way the work of a junkie — and thought of the many reasons her eyes were red. The dusty town. Malnutrition. She’d been crying. There’d been a tragedy. My mind shoveled nightmares upon my heart. You loser. Go give her some money. Oh, your offensiveness knows no bounds!
I turned my head to the window, which opened to the green mountains. They were ogres on the march to crush me. Demons emerged from mountainside pagodas. I had humiliated the primordial mother and would now be dealt with accordingly. Maybe this would be the catalyst to finally unleash my latent insanity — Whoa, simmer down, Lovick. Hold the line here. “Everything, ok?” It was Yulia, standing in the doorway with a bag of souvenirs.
