Coming Home to Hue

March 30, 2009

The first rime we were in Hue it was December, and the weather was cloudy and cool. But it was great weather for walking. We visited the temples and gardens of the Imperial City, imagining the charmed and privileged lives of Hue's emperors and elite. We walked along the Perfume River, and watched the sampans and dragon boats as they drifted slowly by.

We frequented the markets – the big, dirty Dong Da market where you can buy anything from fresh fish to watches – and the little markets that spring up anywhere and any time there's a few hopeful sellers and at least one willing buyer.

One of our favourite markets was just around the corner from our hotel. In the midst of the fruit and vegetable vendors, there's a little food stall where Xinh (pronounced 'sin'!) cooks up some of the best 'street food' we've had. We'd stop by almost every day just to see her. We'd find her squatting on the dirt floor crushing ginger with a little mortar and pestle, or standing over one of her big steaming cook-pots, stirring, and smiling.

She'd serve us big bowls of pho and laugh at the pictures we took, the things that interested us – her cooking pots, her plates of food. She spoke not a word of English, and we no Vietnamese, but we became friends nonetheless. We gave her a booklet of photos before we left.

We sampled Vietnamese cuisine at many restaurants, all good, but settled on the clean green Sai Gon Pho as our favourite. During our ten days in Hue, we were 'regulars' there. We took photos of the cute waitresses in their matching t-shirts. We became friends with Hang (which means 'moon'), the owner. When we said good-bye to her, and told her we were on our way to Danang, she was ecstatic.

“Danang! I go Danang too! My son open new restaurant in Danang! You come to opening!” And she gave us his card: for the new Sai Gon Noodle in Danang. We promised we'd try, and managed to make good on our promise. 

The opening was wonderful – mostly friends and family. We were the only 'falangs,' attracting lots of smiles and thumbs-ups. The place was just like ma's, the menu was identical, and the food, of course, great.

But maybe the best thing about Hue was our hotel – the Binh Duong II – a family-run guest house just down the road from the Sai Gon Pho. We had a nice big room with a balcony and all the amenities, including in-room internet. But the reason we liked the place so much was the super attentive and friendly service. By the time we left we felt like part of the Binh Duong family.

So when we decided to go back to Vietnam in March, after a hot couple of months in Cambodia and southern Laos, we headed straight for Hue. We emailed the Binh Duong to let them know we were coming. They emailed back right away: “your room will be waiting for you!”

We got into Hue in the early evening, after a long bus-ride from Savannakhet in Laos. After the lackadaisical attitudes and general inefficiency we experienced in Laos, we were looking forward to Vietnam, and in particular to Hue: it felt like we were going home.

We weren't disappointed. Our friends at the Binh Duong hotel were all there and waiting to greet us when we arrived: “Welcome, welcome, welcome. We are so happy to see you!” Big smiles, warm hand shakes. Our bags were out of the taxi and up to our room before we could turn around. We were home!

We headed down to the Sai Gon Pho for dinner. When Hang saw us walk in she dropped what she was doing and rushed over to say 'hello.' I even got a hug – not a characteristically Vietnamese greeting, but she was so excited she forgot herself. Hang also speaks very little English, but she managed to get across the message that tonight's dinner was 'on the house.'

Not long after we sat down, Hang put a video on the restaurant tv. It was one she had taken at the opening of her son's restaurant. She sat down to watch it with us, and shrieked when we came on, pointing to the tv, and then to us. “There you are! There you are!”

When we said good-night to Hang, thanking her for the free dinner, she said: “You not just friends, you family.” We were home: it was a good feeling.

The next day we stopped in to see Xinh. She was even more amazed to see us than Hang. Her face lit up, she put her arms around me, and kissed my cheek. Then she led us to one of her little tables, insisting that we sit while she got us a glass of tea.

As we were drinking it, she went over to her glass-fronted cupboard, opened a drawer, and pulled out the little photo album we'd given her. She sat down and showed us the photos. She lingered over the photos of her with each of us, pointing at them, and then at us, and smiling. The album had been well-looked at: the pages were sticky.

She put the album away, then came back and sat beside me. She snuggled her shoulder up beside mine, held my hand and stroked my arm. She put her finger on the bridge of my nose and smiled. She likes my nose, so long and straight. She pointed to her nose, small and upturned, and laughed. But truly, she is so beautiful, with her high cheek-bones and fine chiseled features – and her nose is perfect. It's an Asian nose!

Xinh was so excited she couldn't sit still for too long. She jumped up and started plying us with special treats. She started with a plate full of little banana-leaf wrapped packages of sticky sweet coconut rice – a Vietnamese staple snack. A guy beside us was eating some whole jellied shrimps with hot chili sauce. We asked her what they were (using the old point and gesture sign language that works so well.) Her answer, of course, was to give us a plate of those.

As we were eating the jellied shrimps, Xinh sent her young helper, who had been making trays of stuffed dough-balls, out to get some sesame seeds from one of the market vendors. Xinh got an electric mini-blender(!) out of her store-all cupboard and poured the seeds into it. She put the blender on top of the tv – there are no 'counters' in her market 'kitchen' – and only one plug, dangling from a cord just above the tv. It's primitive, but it works.

Xinh popped several dough-balls into a bot of boiling water. Then she stirred the ground sesame seeds into a milky liquid that she'd been simmering over the charcoal fire. Once the dough-balls were done, she put a few of them into a couple of glasses and poured the milk over top.

Xinh watched me expectantly as I tried the 'dough-ball soup.' The milky liquid was sweet and coco-nutty. The balls were tender. I decided the stuffing was sweet yellow bean. I gave Xinh a big thumbs up, and said, 'coco-nut' and smiled.

She got the message, and went over to her display case and came back with a big plastic jar filled with toasted sweet coconut curls. She sprinkled some of them on top, and stirred them in. I happen to love coconut, so when I saw the jar I couldn't hide my enthusiasm: It was rewarded with a plastic baggie filled toasted coconut curls – a snack for later.

Once we'd finished the coconut milk soup Xinh came over with another sweet treat – a glass of sweet red beans. By now I was getting full – I'd already had lunch! But Xinh was having such a good time it was hard to say 'enough!'

When we finally left, sated, Xinh gave me another big hug and stroked my cheek. “I come back,” I said. “I come back.” She just smiled, and held my hand, and smiled again. We don't share a language, but in these situations, words are superfluous.

As we took our leave from Xinh I felt again that powerful sensation: We'd 'come home' to Hue. These people – my Binh Duong family, Hang and Xinh, especially Xinh – are my friends, all the more special and appreciated because we don't speak the same language. The 'language' we share is the language of the heart.