This is an ode to the town where the orchids grow on
vines and hang down like lanterns.
To the town where taxi drivers park on
gravely patches alongside the road, stick incense into their license plates, and
slowly watch it burn.
To the town whose perfume is made from
that potion of orchids and incense, whose melody is made from the creaking of
bicycle wheels and the trumpeting of horns.
Now we are in this quant city whose
beauty borders on boastful. In the afternoons there are so few cars that I can
briefly lower my alertness when crossing the streets. It is wonderful to be
able to day dream on the streets again. I welcome the walkability of this city.
It is also a visual feast in its existence. Offering plenty even to the casual stroller.
I like that about a place. I don’t want to wait in line a pay to see it’s main
attractions. The city itself should be an attraction.
On the train we followed tracks that
hugged the coastline’s waters and danced around the mountain’s peaks. It was
the brightest day we had seen in Vietnam and the slick palm trees shimmered
like glass in a leafy green forest. Strangely, he clouds didn’t retreat with
the sun, they grasped the tops of the mountains until their peak were beyond
visibility. It wasn’t a tight grip, something gentle, even kind. I saw these
views facing backwards on the train. I hate looking backwards but I had no
choice. The seats in the train car were oddly arranged so that half faced
forward and half faced backward, with passengers facing each other in the
middle. The views in the distance were slow moving, but close I felt the images
were being pulled from me at a
tremendous force. Faster than a curtain disappears to the sides of a stage. We
passed a small town where the backs of homes faced the train tracks, and one
clotheslined yard ripped past the other.
If I could have seen them coming I would have known. But they snuck up behind
me and vanished into the edge of the window frame before I knew what I was
looking at. One clothesline after the other.
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