Backtracking: Danang Shrooms

As I endeavor to pull my life together in Australia, I think back to the weird and exciting events of my recent travels. There's a particularly good story that took place during the exodus from Hoi An.

We left Hoi An in a rush so that I could attend a hastily scheduled doctor's appointment at a Western-quality, Western-doctor-staffed medical clinic in Danang. I had forwarded my parents a number of horror pics of my engorged leg, and their distress quadrupled when Jacksonville-based doctors said the leg was in a state of cellulitus (ick) and I was probably harboring a staphyloccocal infection that could cause permanent disfigurement or amputation. These are awesome things to hear about one's leg while one is trying to enjoy the charms of the developing world.

Dad emailed to remind me that I'd be uglier with an indefinitely mottled leg. Mom emailed to tell me that she'd researched every medical facility within 500 miles of me. Their scare tactics worked. Thank you, Parents. Off to a doctor I went, knowing nothing they could do would be as harrowing as getting the first stitches of my life on a newspaper-covered "operating table" in a government hospital from a doctor who spoke nothing like English. As it unraveled, a cool $114 (US dollars, please) got me in with a doctor who confirmed the Jacksonville diagnosis and out with two weeks' worth of knock 'em dead antibiotics.

Multiple choice: Complete this sentence.

Moms are always:
(a) right
(b) omniscient
(c) badgering
(d) irreplaceable
(e) all of the above

We had several hours to kill before our plane to Hanoi, so we asked the nurses for a restaurant recommendation, and were soon in a taxi headed to someplace called Ashira or Asima or something like that. They had said something about mushroom soup. Sounded appealing. We walked in the door to find no less than thirty waitstaff occupying a space that could accommodate maybe 60 wealthy customers, of which there were currently five, plus us. Picture that we are carrying our backpacks, dressed for a morning of milling around Hoi An. We don't smell particularly bad, but I'm not exactly wearing strappy heels that show off my perfect pedicure. And we certainly can't communicate. Andrew mimes scooping out of an imaginary bowl to indicate we want soup. We are seated on the second floor.

When the manager came to deliver our menus and our peanuts (appetizer? garnish? to be eaten with chopsticks?), we learned that the restaurant had opened the night before, hence all the bustling fanfare with the waiters. There were no less than four people servicing only our table, and no less than ten guys at anytime lined along the wall staring, watching, waiting for us to flinch so they could whisper comments to one another. My nerve-wracking travels in India herded themselves into my mind. We opened the menu, and found... mushrooms. Page after page of pictures of mushrooms. When I master wines, then cheeses, I'll have to turn attention to mushrooms. Apparently there is huge variation and variety, and certain Asian restaurants revel in it. When it came to ordering, we were befuddled. The manager helped us to select a "very nutritious broth" and three different types of mushrooms, as well as some cabbage. I ordered a bottle of wine (which was terrible).

The meal proceeded thus: A huge steaming pot of broth was placed in the center of our table over a purpose-built burner. Plates of mushrooms and cabbage arrived at intervals. A waiter whose sole purpose was to watch us eat mixed the shrooms into the broth, and theatrically ladeled this soup into our individual bowls. Three sips later, when our broth levels got low, she scooped more in. In case there was a moment this dedicated scooper couldn't handle, there were also individuals devoted to refilling our wine and water glasses at least once every minute. Thus the next three quarters of an hour passed: Bite, bite, scoop, flourish, guys along wall snicker, bite, sip, eat a peanut while wine is topped off. Andrew, who embraces awkward moments, enjoyed himself thoroughly. I tried to focus on earthy flavors.

Oh, but it wasn't over. After the broth went away and our dessert of fresh pineapple was gone, the bill came. And not only was the bill breathtakingly high by Vietnamese standards, but we didn't have the cash to pay it. The restaurant did not accept credit cards. I start to imagine what it would be like to spend some time washing dishes for this place. Once again we summoned the manager and explained our predicament. Ten minutes later, Andrew, I, our backpacks, and the manager were all cozy together in a taxi, combing the city center for an ATM. One that would take an American bank card.

We arrived at the airport with time to spare, thank heavens, and as I hobbled onto the Hanoi-bound plane, I could almost hear South Vietnam breath a collective sigh of relief that my bumbling self was headed out.