I Love You, Sa Pa

I hate being alone when I'm sick, and yet that's always how I seem to find myself. I had a fever two weeks ago in a dorm room somewhere in Northern Vietnam. My persistent runny nose evolved into a nosebleed, and as I was cursed with the top bunk, my double-socked feet would slip on the iron ladder on the way down. Two sad tissues remained stuffed up both nostrils for an inconvenient amount of time. The day before, I prematurely booked a six-hour hiking tour in the hopes that I'd will myself into feeling better. Trick my body into listening to my sick and twisted mind. When I went to the front desk to cancel and plead for my 400,000 VND back, the owner, Mr. Tran, asked me, "How I got this way?" I had to tell him that I simply did not know.

I started to despise the town I was in. Not because it was ugly or boring, but because I hated the way I felt in it. It absorbed my sickly energy and then all of a sudden the sky was grey, the air was cold, and the sidewalk slippery. I still have a big bruise on my knee as evidence for the last one. Local women with baskets of souvenirs exclusively chose me to chase down the street, and the paths I chose to walk seemed to spawn a million sets of stairs.

I tried to run away, and the misfortune followed me. The sleeper bus to my next destination magically turned to jelly. Every movement more wobbly than the last. My lifeless body trapped in its gelatinous center.

I gave myself three days to explore Vietnam's capital. I feverishly wandered around in search of sustenance, which I found in the form of Bún chả, a dish of grilled pork patties in broth served with vermicelli noodles and a disproportionate amount of herbs. The restaurant I found was plastered with Michelin Guide stickers and had one tiny seat left. My table-mate was a guy eating exactly what I wanted, watching some sort of game on his phone. He gave me unprompted advice regarding how to eat my food as well as half of his beer. He called his friend to ask what I should do while in Hanoi, which I found strange due to the fact that he lived there. He offered to drive me around. I declined, we shook hands, and I left.

After 23-and-a-half hours, I arrived back home to Baltimore. I slept for three days straight. I've shown pictures to those who've asked and have tried to describe what it was like to be away. No description feels accurate enough. I've been attempting to relive my trip through notes-app entries about feeling sick and shaky videos. I think it's working.