Flower

Hello, Wilson

Today's e-mail is about a street hustler.

Because I might have trouble pronouncing her name, she told me to call her "Flower." It is an appropriate name, because she has only one stem. The other was blown off in a B-52 raid over Hanoi during the American war. At least that was her story, and I believed it enough, because in Hanoi all stories have at least an element of truth in them.

A GoPro grab shot of Flower, who will be my guide to the Hanoi Hilton.

Flower found me strolling around the Hoàn Kiếm Lake, situated in the heart of Hanoi, testing my GoPro on National Day, September 2. It was the 71st anniversary of Vietnam's Independence, declared in 1945 at the end of World War II. The French would try to hang on to its colony for another 9 years until the catastrophic defeat at Dien Bien Phu, at which point the Americans would move in to provide a bulwark against Communism, and ultimately, for Flower, to drop the bombs that took her leg all the way up to her hip.

She was part of the throng of families and friends crowding the blocked-off boulevard, a sweet face moving through the crowd with two crutches and one leg. I think I smiled and then looked on, not wanting to disclose my curiosity by staring, but a few moments later there was a tug at my sleeve. She told me the fanny pack, which was at my waist on my back, was vulnerable to people who might open it.

I said it didn't matter, and opened it to divulge the four kazoos I had taken along for the day, just in case. I hadn't distributed them in the villages, and I had some to give away. I offered her one. She declined. And then she began talking. In fairly sophisticated English. After a short while we sat on a step by a wall.

Flower could probably work as an interpreter, but because of her leg, she cannot travel easily. One thing she does to make money is serve as a guide for tourists. Would I like to see the Mausoleum? she asked. No, I said. Ho's wishes were that his ashes would be distributed throughout Vietnam. He didn't want to be pickled and put on display. (I didn't say it quite so bluntly, naturally.) Out of respect, I will not look, I said.

But I do want to see the Hanoi Hilton, I said. I want to see where John McCain was imprisoned. She was reluctant at first, because the French had imprisoned many Vietnamese in the same building before the American war. But we finally ageed. She would come to the May de Ville Legend and wait outside for me and we could take a bus, she said.

Why not come inside, I asked. Because the hotel would rather someone else gave the tour, she explained. The cost would be $40, for probably about four hours.

We didn't haggle over the price. I'm going to pay $40 to be taken to the prison that held bomber pilot John McCain, in the care of a street hustler who speaks reasonably good English and who claims she grew up with only one leg because the other one was blown off when she was fleeing Hanoi during a bombing raid. I don't care whether the story is wholly true. She has one leg, she speaks English, and she needs to make a living. The woman has spunk. It will be a day well spent.

Love,
Robert, and Jean Baptiste