Hai mươi tám. The Blind Rickshaw Driver

My rickshaw driver was unable to see clearly, was continually adjusting his ill fitting glasses, and with our near accidents on the traffic roundabouts, I suspected he was half blind. But every day he was there to pull me through dusty, noisy back alleys to the market for a breakfast of yellow mangoes. He was my go-to for all the sights around Saigon.

二十九. Hong Kong Handover

I’m hurrying down Gerrard Street, hunched shoulders, first stop, the Loon Fung supermarket. It’s to pick up the South China Morning Post, like I do on a weekly basis. The sounds and smells are the same as Hong Kong, the scent of street market, five spice and cinnamon. Only the air is cooler, not humid, nor is the air thick with sidewalk steam, nor is it 30 degrees, nor real feel 40.