Table for One

by Elysia Cook McDermott (United States of America)

Making a local connection Vietnam

Words of sage advice interrupted my modest dinner of banh cuon, a savory dish of rice-flour crepes packed with ground pork and mushrooms. “If you grip higher up on the chopsticks, it’ll be easier to use them.” A voice of gravel, onerous and deliberate, delivered the piece of wisdom from a neighboring table. The older gentlemen, a picture of carefree ease in a white caftan and a straw hat, smiled my way. His only companion was an empty styrofoam cooler; its contents, evidence of a lazy afternoon, occupied the tabletop. “I come here every day and they give me one of these,” he remarked, gesturing towards the cooler. “There’s always five beers in there.” I counted eight bottles in front of him, but didn’t point out the discrepancy. He was no bum, though. Steve, as he later introduced himself, was reaping the rewards of retirement after 27 years as a longshoreman in Australia; prior to that, he was in the Navy. Asia was already well-worn to him by the time he decided to retire there, since his naval work shipped him all across Indonesia, the Philippines, and other parts of the continent. Despite all of his opportunities to explore the region, he found himself returning to Vietnam — once, then again, and yet again. He put his wanderlust on hold to marry and raise his children, “But I still had the travel bug,” he recounted with a raspy cough. “It wouldn’t go away.” He and his wife, who didn’t enjoy traveling, eventually divorced; once his kids grew up, “I said, ‘fuck it!’”, he laughed. “My kids have their own families now. They don’t miss me.” Six years later, Steve starts and ends his days in the comfort of a 450-square-foot apartment in Hanoi’s Old Quarter. Every morning, he wakes up around 6 am and eventually finds his way to the bustling streets for breakfast. “I’ll take a walk after, then come back home and take a half-hour nap,” he said. “Then I come here around 3 p.m. for my drinks, and stay here however long I like.” He paused. “Say, do you drink beer?” he asked. “There’s a good spot around the corner where you can drink and people-watch.” Dodging motorcyclists on their way home for the evening, we meandered around the bend and planted ourselves in petite, plastic chairs that littered the front of the aforementioned watering hole. Steve gestured to a man, and a pair of beers joined us at the table. We toasted each other as the streets, now dimmer from the setting sun, continued to hum with the fervor of passing vehicles and the shuffling of those on foot. When the only remnants of our second round were empty glasses, I waved away the temptation of a third. “Yeah, I reckon I’ll head home and take a shower, then have a couple of vodkas with pineapple and head to bed,” he nodded. “You have more stamina than me,” I told him, already feeling a bit tipsy from the two light beers I’d downed in his company. Some people would consider his routine the quintessential retirement. Leisurely days spent sleeping, strolling, and imbibing — a vacation without an expiration date — are what many strive towards. Whether he’s truly content with that lifestyle, that much is uncertain. I don’t think I can count myself among those who would be truly at peace with its prolonged lack of productivity, especially on my own. But then again, I’ve only lived a fraction of his years. It’s a question to ask him the next time our paths cross, I suppose. There are no plans set in stone, but schedules are superfluous. “You know where to find me around 3 pm,” he said, standing up and adjusting his hat. “I’m there every day.”