In the coolness of a hostel lobby, a young, slick-haired Vietnamese man hung up his phone and nodded and said okay, now we go. He said it while walking and he pointed to the street, so I left the group behind and trailed the hostel man, pushing Frank along with us. The town of Ninh Bình isn’t much of a sight, and when everything is closed for Tết, it feels comatose. However, I listened carefully and could still hear the holiday sounds of cooking and shouting from within the rows of squat, shoulder-to-shoulder houses and shops.
A mechanic’s shop about two blocks away had its shutter open. An old man sat inside on a red plastic stool on a greasy cement floor. He stared out into the street beyond. I discovered that a lot of Vietnamese people are very skilled at this. He had a wooden bong beside him in a plastic bucket and looked at me passively. He pointed to me, then to the floor beside him.
I pushed Frank up the narrow concrete ramp and brought it inside. A young mechanic emerged from the back, and he and the hostel man talked and pointed at Frank at various angles. The old man had nothing to do with repairs here, and he produced two beers, two glasses, and some ice from a cooler. He spoke no English whatsoever. Nods and smiles took the place of idle conversation. I hadn’t really eaten since the night before, but it was the first time I felt I could relax, so I drank the beer with him and exhaled a lot.
Chook moon nam moy, happy new year, the preface to anything involving alcohol during Tết. Toy tick noy, I said, I like here. Come oon, I said, thank you. My Vietnamese now depleted, we toasted our iced beer, and we nodded and smiled.
The old man pulled out a water bottle with something amber inside. It was rượu, a word that sounds like sneezing, a blue-collar moonshine that every stoop-sitting grandpa keeps close at hand. It is common to see insects and small reptiles drowned in the bottles for medicinal purposes. This one seemed to have a handful of moths added to it.