After the pristine guest house and ways in general of Tokyo, we plunge into Ha Noi’s old quarter.  I was here 20 years ago with Jennifer who was adopting Mai how was a mere 6 months old at the time.  Ha Noi is both insanely busy and chaotic and daring and completely unknown, and then, it is like coming home.  I recognize the chaos, the grittiness of a place build over and over upon itself.  The layers of history, of living, of what is decaying underneath what is thriving.

And we’ve been here since 2 a.m.

We are staying in a very funky place—the absolute opposite of Guest House Wagokoro in Arakawa.  

Autumn House is down a very deep and dark and narrow alley.  A house of three narrow floors—one room per floor—the only “window” in each room is a floor to ceiling french door that opens to a tiny balcony and another back alley.  Right now it feels a bit unnerving, but give me a few days to see how I feel.  

20 years ago, I stepped out of our hotel and a shot of terror ran through me at the idea that if I was not careful I would could make an unthinking turn and never find my way back to the hotel.  This morning I am not as fearful, but I do carefully take a picture of the entrance to our alley and note the building across the street.

This is not my world. I am aware of my guest status.

But we were met by Ed’s friend of many years, someone he considers a daughter, Tra My.  She met us at the airport at 2 a.m.—after a much delayed flight—with a car to take us to our house.  After a night’s sleep, she picked us up, she and her sister, Linh, took us via motor bike—Ed and I on the back of Tra My’s bike, Julia on Linh’s bike—for a breakfast of pho and then an ice coffee for me and ice cream for Julia at a cafe by the lake. The motor bike ride through the teeming streets of the Old Quarter—something I did not ask for or do the last time I was here.  I think that Jenifer might have taken a ride on someone’s motorbike—blew my mind.  There are what appear to be very loose rules of the road—as there was 20 years ago—many more cars and motor bikes, few pedal bikes—with Tra My weaving in and out of traffic, coming right up to the fenders of cars before she turns to one side.  The ride reminded me of zip lining.  I just had to let go, let go of both apprehension and possibly good sense.  Go with it.

It was quite wonderful.

I am hoping that the pace of our traveling slows down at this point and I can do some pondering and reflection. 

I will say this for now—before I post this and get to working on two writing submissions I have for a writers’ group and Monday’s HILR class—the experience of a week in Tokyo which was far too short and now the plunging into Ha Noi with very few actual plans is exactly why I thrive on travel.  This is what opens my soul.  All this that I do not know changes my gears, starts me to imagining, begins a process of creativity that I cannot touch at home.

I could write novels on the road.

Do I dare to write such a statement?  Can I make it as a promise?