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That guy's long-distance bike plan has us thinking, though. It might be liberating to ditch all these trains
and boats and instead hit the open road on a couple of ten-speeds, wind rushing through our hair. We've
been letting ferry captains and train engineers do the steering for us. Wouldn't it be empowering to take the
helm for once? Even if it's merely the helm of a Schwinn?
It seems overly ambitious to just buy a pair of bikes and set off on a vague course toward Singapore.
But we've managed to find a group bike tour that leaves from Hanoi a few days from now, headed south to
Saigon. I'm generally allergic to package tours, as I hate the thought of being glued to a bunch of strangers.
But this bike trip would provide us some much-needed exercise and also move us a few hundred miles
nearer to the equator.
Given the difficulty of getting out of Beijing this week, there's a real risk we won't manage to reach
Hanoi before the bicycle trip leaves without us. But we decide it's worth a gamble. We click to reserve the
last two open spots in the tour group and cross our fingers that we'll get there in time.
THAT evening, while wandering the basement of a shopping mall (in search of cheap, knockoff Olympic
souvenirs), we notice a restaurant packed with locals. It's not a particularly auspicious location, but the
place is full of happy-looking families, and we're hungry for dinner.
It's love at first dish: green beans with Szechuan peppercorns. The Szechuan peppercorn was banned in
the United States for a few decades, as it can carry bacteria that's harmful to citrus trees. Even now that the
ban has been lifted, it can be hard to find the real thing in the States. When you do, there's no mistaking it.
Our green beans are loaded up with peppercorns, and they're activating taste buds we didn't know we
had. A specific patch of my tongue, along the side, is radiating with a near-sexual pleasure. The name “pep-
percorn” is misleading, since it's not actually related to pepper. It's in fact the dried husk of a small berry.
Whatever its origins, it's a magical substance—somehow numbing, warming, and spicy all at once. I swear
it's narcotic, too. The more peppercorns I eat, the groovier the world gets. Rebecca's hip to it. “Hey—do
you feel kind of high?” she asks with a sheepish grin. Sure do. Everyone else in the restaurant looks blissed
out, too. It's like a culinary opium den.
Our next dish is stir-fried chicken. Unabridged. From the look of things, it's pretty clear that someone
plucked the bird, laid it out on a cutting board, took a few desultory whacks at it with a cleaver, and then
tossed the whole shebang into a hot wok. The dish reaches our table as a jumble of gristle, bones, and
talons. On a normal evening, this might have occasioned mild squeamishness. Not tonight. Under the dis-
inhibiting influence of the peppercorns, we are at perfect ease with the grim realities of unedited poultry.
Rebecca immediately grabs for the chicken's head, while I dig out its feet. We soon find ourselves employ-
ing them as props in a peppercorn-fueled, absurdist puppet show.
WE make another morning foray to the railway ticket window—having been negged the previous three
times—and pray that the Golden Week rush has at last quieted down. The line is still long, but when we
reach the window we're able to buy the last two remaining seats on an overnight train headed south. It will
take us to Nanning, near China's border with Vietnam. From there, we can take a bus the rest of the way to
Hanoi—or, if we must, pay someone to drive us.
As we're leaving the counter, clutching our tickets with relief, the lady railway clerk gives us one of
those loud, attention-getting hand-claps. We turn around and she motions us back to the window. She grabs
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