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It stands in sharp contrast to the hurly-burly of travel, with its daily shifting of sights, smells, and places to lay one’s head—an unsettled circumstance which, though conducive to growth (Think: the child who leaves home for the first time and must capture a whole new set of friends and allies) is nevertheless exhausting. (Though exhilarating!)
The daily routine of our lives in Luang Prabang counters said trials, I think, and looks something like this: I wake before Rebecca, usually at six, and pad out to the common area to start my little pot of tea. As it steeps, I gather bread and peanut butter for a snack, turn on the computer to check the news, and read, write, eat, and drink—all while keeping a weather eye to the gathering light of day. Invariably, said day is hot and dry, though we did have a bit of rain the other night.
If Rebecca is scheduled to work, I’ll join her on her commute to the hospital around six-forty five. We take our bicycles, one following the other, along a mostly paved path through streets lined with small shops, noodle stalls, hotels, proper restaurants, the big football stadium (soccer), schools, Wats and, finally, the Regional Hospital, behind which is Rebecca’s Children’s Hospital—appropriately smaller and somewhat cheerier, I think. While she toils at straightening the sometimes crooked path of life’s myriad pains, I go off in search of noodles. An apparently easy task, you might think, given my suggestion of the plethora of noodle shops on our little commute, but to think thus would only shine a brighter light on your own lack of noodle stall schooling, dear reader.
Allow me to elucidate. Mere sustenance is certainly as plentiful as the dust which chokes this fair town’s late-day commute. Most streets find Sausage-a-grillin’, sweet, sticky rice folded into palm fronds, exotic fruits, noodles, pork parts, and even banh mi (Vietnamese sandwiches) in the offing at curbside. Most folk will pull up on their scooters (often while taking the kids to school) and yell to vendors their desires, who promptly bag and wrap said goodies in such a way as make for easy conveyance via scooter to work/school/place of business. And certainly said world of food absolutely rocks. Like the kids say, good shit!
In fact, one such stall is to be found just up our street; I dare say I’ve developed something like a friendship with the proprietress (such as is possible given the yawning chasms of language, culture, religion, and life experience over which we reach.) Hers is a mixed bag of meat products, which I largely pass on, in favor of her spicy orange soup, served with a pile of bean sprouts, lime wedges, peppers, noodles, and greens. For 5000 Kip (roughly 60 cents) I’m a happy camper, and often will start my day there just to sort of prime the pump.
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| My morning noodle stall |
Lots of meat
Typically, my noodle girl (woman? Goddess?—no matter how I phrase her, it seems oddly pornographic in a middle-school kind of way. She’s my noodle girl, if you know what I mean…) will place the various parts of the whole soup ensemble into small plastic bags tied neatly and with surgical precision by small rubber bands. All of which is placed in a larger bag with small handles for ease of conveyance. I could eat right behind the counter if I wished, but typically bring it back to the guesthouse, that I may sit in the shade while I slurp. But all of this is preamble, a mise en scene for the larger composition gastronomic.
My morning search following our ride to hospital involve something of a more full body experience. I slow my pedaling to peer into the relative darkness of noodle shops, especially those larger, somewhat more established places with a range of options—stacks of deep, wide bowls, three or four cauldrons set over wood and charcoal fires, tables alight with customers, kids riding bikes or kicking soccer balls around the place and getting a yelling from mom behind the counter. Action places, local places, places without menus. And if it’s somewhat clean, that’s a bonus—though not a deal breaker in its absence. Typically, I’m invited into the cooking area, where I smell the magic and make my choice. With luck, I have a pretty good idea of what I’m eating.
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| Another stall, with ubiquitous offerings |
Come one-ish I’ll swing back by the hospital to check in with Ashley, a young Australian woman of great warmth and skill who administers English language instruction to the hospital staff. She has gracefully allowed me to take part in her lessons, though I dare say my efforts amount to little more than clown antics and expressions of encouragement to shy nurses, administrators, doctors, and general staff. Sometimes she’ll have me sit for a one-on-one with a staff member who simply wishes to practice their English speaking and listening skills—a task I especially enjoy. We’ll shoot the breeze, typically me peppering them with questions (What is the one thing you never leave home without? If I were an animal, what would I be? What would you say is the best noodle shop in this town, and would you please mark it on my map?)
The molten-lead heat of late afternoon pushes me back to our guesthouse, where I’ll strip off my sweaty clothes and stand under a stream of cold water, turn on the air, and read a bit before nodding off for a ten minute nap.
If I’m feeling my oats, I’ll have a yoga session. Sometimes a workout or a run, though the latter can be pretty tough sledding. Hot, dusty, crowded, and with the added spice of acrid smoke in the back of the throat. The bonus here is the myriad possibilities of small, snake-like streets. I’ll simply run, turning here and there, until I’m not sure where I am, then stop and ask people which way to the Mekong? If I can find the river, I can find my way home.
Rebecca is not done until well after dark. Again, I’ll work my way to the hospital, sometimes stopping off at a little shop just outside the hospital gates to buy a cold can of Beer Lao, which I’ll sip in the parking lot while waiting for her to come out. The hospital’s far enough from town that one can see the stars in the sky, smell the soft, warm air, hear the bugs. Just across the way are families camped out in the little area provided by the hospital, waiting on their kids to get better—or not.
Early to bed. My understanding is that there’s a disco scene here. I have ridden by karaoke bars, but so far, come night, this dog’s tired. We’ll typically get dinner at one of a hundred little places near our guesthouse—more conventional spots with menus and even western offerings, though my stomach seems more at peace with the native fare.
And that, as they say, is that.
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