Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
It's one thing to be blathering on to yourself, but it's an entirely different thing when
your audience includes an elderly gentleman in a business suit.
“No, I'm fine,” I explained. “I'm just having a minor meltdown. I've found myself stuck
in Ho Chi Minh City. Which has been lovely really, but . . .”
He stared at me, waiting for something else.
Finally, I confessed, “I'm just tired.”
“Yes, life can do this to us.”
His sympathy made me relax a bit, enough to explain my journey.
“And how perfect,” he replied, laughing. “It has brought you here to our opera house.”
“Well, not in the best condition,” I admitted before telling him about my journey.
He smiled at me warmly, reminding me of the fatherly concern of Filipo in Italy. He
seemed to know how fraught long days can feel.
“Are you here tonight?” Bao asked me. I looked up. Removed from my frustration for a
moment, I hoped he might offer me a meal or a place to stay.
“Yes,” I quickly replied.
“Then maybe we make your night better. Would you like to come and see the opera?”
he offered.
I felt like I was back in India, suddenly being asked to a karate match while Kindness
One leaked in the background. But I figured no one was going to kick me in the face at the
opera.
That night I arrived and sat in my seat, wearing the same shabby clothes that had accom-
panied me the whole trip. I had discovered upon going into the opera house to retrieve my
ticket that it was the director himself who had invited me. At the intermission, Bao came
up and asked me if I would be interested in joining the performers on stage.
Joining the performers on stage? Surely this man wasn't real.
He
was
real, and soon I found myself standing on stage in front of an audience of hun-
dreds. You cannot make this stuff up.
During the last ten minutes of the show, they gave me a set of drums and allowed me
to become a part of the performance. For those ten minutes, I poured everything I had in-
to those drums—the exhaustion, the joy, the fears, the kindness, the cry for home, and the
exhilaration that had reverberated throughout my journey. I had never been much of a mu-
sician (as Tchale and Finesse could certainly attest), but in that moment, it didn't matter. I
wasn't just banging away on some drums, I was telling a story, one that I hoped might end
well—or at the very least, would end with me getting out of Nam.
