It’s a blustery evening in Hanoi. I’m sitting in a cafe near the cathedral drinking tea and watching the world go by. I’m much looser, less brittle, than on my last trip, who knows why? But I’m definitely living in calmer psychic weather, even as the leathery leaves of the trees along the street whip around and tear loose, swirling through the neon dusk. Trees and lakes and a tragic history: this is a poet’s city.
Walked around the Old Quarter this afternoon, but didn’t take the camera — just wanted to stroll about and stare at things. I did find a market I want to get some pictures of, though, if only to demonstrate to my students the, let us say, catholic range of Vietnamese foodstuffs. Lots of eels and crabs and fish and frogs and all manner of fowl as well and all of them alive in basins, tubs, and cages: this is a cook’s city.