The alleyway to your hostel twists and turns so much that you feel as if you are in the midst of a snake. The noise from the street dissipates and you feel as serene as if you were in any forgettable small town.
Dodging more scouters than you can count you make your way to the war museum, avoiding only two sudden downpours. The images on the wall do more than any page in a history book as you stare at children born without eyes, men with half a face and women with holes in their skin so inexplicable you wonder how a god could’ve even imagined it.
A handsome young man stands next to you. Dumas flashes in your head: “He was a handsome young man, but then again all young men are handsome.” His eyes are red and your normal thoughts dissolve as you realize the feelings you’ve been keeping back like any good Texan would’ve.
The young man suddenly leaves the room filled with images of war and bangs a wall in a flurry of tears. You turn around so as to not cry. He had dirty blond hair as well, without a second glance he was you, twenty something on a trek.
The neon lights of Ho Chi Minh sting your eyes like the young man’s tears must have stung his. A park appears out of nowhere behind a grandiose statue in a roundabout. Women and men exercise to music. You swear they just twirked it. The memory of the museum and the young man seem to fade like the cigarette smoke around you.
The alleyway to the hotel curves and embraces you as you escape to privacy.
Did you want to cry?