In 1968, Sister Gertrude Mary displayed a map on the front wall of my 8th grade classroom at St. Stephen’s in Saginaw, Michigan.

It was a map of Asia, with a large swath of red swooping from north to south. It was designed to show the menacing spread of communism. It was designed to generate support for the war. It was designed to instill fear.

And it did. Scared the bejeezus out of me. Communism was spreading its tentacles across the world and we had to make sure it didn’t cross the Pacific to our country.

::

Fast forward, 44 years – 2012

I’m wide awake at 6 am in my room at the historic Metropole Hotel in the heart of Hanoi’s most beautiful French-colonial neighborhood.

I throw on some clothes and grab the city map from the top of the dresser. I want to go to Hoan Kiem Lake to watch the locals doing their morning Tai Chi exercises. At this hour, there’s very little vehicular traffic but there’s a lot of activity. All along the sidewalks and at every available patch of concrete, people are playing spirited matches of badminton! Nets are stretched between the stately trees lining the broad boulevard.  White shuttlecocks fly back and forth overhead. Every group of players smile and wave as I pass by. Whenever I stop to watch, they hold out a racket and invite me to play. I agree to join in a couple of times, but after repeated whiffs, they’re happy to see me go.

I’m already hot and sweaty, and I haven’t brought a hat or sunglasses or drinking water. Upon reaching the lake, I see a few elderly folks doing Tai Chi in their cotton pajamas, four old guys walking backward and groups of ladies doing some variation of jazzercise – their boom boxes blaring!

Strolling along the shore I notice an elderly lady sitting alone on a bench. Our eyes meet and she pats the bench next to her – inviting me to sit. I smile, trying to remember how to say hello, and finally utter a greeting, “seen chow.”

She smiles and nods.

“Americana,” I say, pointing at myself.

She smiles and nods.

Since she speaks no English and I’ve already used up the only two words of Vietnamese that I know, I sit quietly next to this woman with the smiling eyes. I’m curious about her life story – a story that I will never know. What was her life like during the “American War” (as they rightfully call it)?

I feel guilt and shame for the massive destruction we reigned on these people. I think about the futility of it all. How ironic that this fascinating country is now united under a communist flag, bustling with youth and entrepreneurial energy.

How is it that they don’t look back? Our war machine caused the death of hundreds of thousands of soldiers, civilians, children, and seniors. Millions of tons of deadly dioxin have poisoned their forests, farmland, and waterways, causing disabilities and deformities in generation after generation – to this day. Landmines still maim and kill unsuspecting children – to this day.

If I were Vietnamese, I’m not sure I’d like Americans.

My thoughts turn to gratitude. Thankful that I personally never suffered any consequences from that senseless war. Thankful to have this opportunity to be here now.

And then, interrupting my moment of reverie, the lady with the smiling eyes begins to gently fan me with her rice paper fan!

::

Fast forward – 2016

It’s four years later and I’m back in Vietnam once again. This time in Hoi An – in the central part of the country – near what once was the DMZ.

It’s mid-afternoon, the hottest part of the day, and the streets are nearly deserted. It’s my last day in Vietnam and I’ve got some free time and unspent Dong on my hands. Hoi An was once one of the richest trading ports in the world – influenced by Chinese, Portuguese, Japanese, Dutch and Indian traders – and still bears evidence of its multi-culturalism. It’s now a UNESCO World Heritage Site and popular tourist town. I’ve been here several times over the years and love that Hoi An hasn’t lost its soul.

Wandering past the mustard-colored buildings along the street that borders the Thu Bon River, I’m drawn to a display of dusty, old-looking plates and bowls in front of one tiny shop. I step inside, allowing my eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine to the dim. I hear a rustling and see the shop-owner rise from a rattan chaise where he’d been napping in the back of his shop.

Shuffling toward me in his plastic slippers, he says, “Hello! Where are you from?”

“America.”

He flashes a broad grin, revealing several bad, crooked teeth and a lot of gumline.

“I love America! I have many friends from the days of the American War. I was a Lieutenant!” he exclaims in broken English.

He fishes out a small black and white photo of a stern-faced young man from his well-worn wallet.

“That is me,” he says proudly. He thumps his chest and repeats, “I love America!”

Leading me around his dusty shop, he points out many old items. Carved wooden figures of water buffalo and fishermen from traditional water puppet shows. Crockery rescued from a shipwreck. “Sixteenth century,” he assures me.

He produces an official-looking ledger with photographs and descriptions of items which appear to have been well-researched and documented by a historian of Asian antiquities. He cannot conceal his affection as he points with his aged, crooked fingers to items in the catalog. He seems to have a story about the origin of each piece, as well as a very clear recall as to the final selling price and nationality of each buyer. His English is noticeably better as he speaks of prices. He’d had a lot of practice over the years. “Two-hundred, twenty-five dollars to a lady in America. Eight hundred dollars – now in Australia.”

I ask if I can take his photo, for which he proudly poses. I ask if he will smile for the camera, which he politely refuses.

I’m thoroughly charmed by him. There’s no way I’m leaving without a memento to remind me of this encounter.

After looking around, I settle on a wooden water puppet in the shape of a dragon. “Dragon is the strongest animal,” he assures me. “Normal price, sixty dollars. I sell to you for forty-five. It is old – before 1975.”

He carefully wraps it in newsprint, winding the parcel round and round with packing tape.

I give him three $20 bills which he stashes in his wallet. I don’t ask for change.

And then he hugs me.

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It saddens me that so few Americans venture to this magnificent country. Perhaps there is an expectation of hard feelings or ill-will, but none of that is evident in any of my encounters. We can learn a lot from these forgiving, friendly and forward-looking people. And there is much beauty … in the verdant green rice fields, the colorful markets, the spectacular nature of Halong Bay.

The food in Vietnam is out of this world. One of the best meals of my trip was a Banh Mi sandwich at Mrs. Phuong’s little hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Heralded by Anthony Bourdain, the Banh Mi Deluxe is, “a pork feast consisting of a mouth-meltingly, slow-roasted five-spiced fillet, a rich peppery pate, a handful of herbs, pickled vegetables, and finished off with a generous scoop of mayonnaise, smoked chili sauce and messy fried egg – served in a fresh baguette.” It was divine . . . and cost a grand total of 50,000 Dong – approximately $2.27!

We went to Yaly Tailor shop and had fabulous clothes (suits, dresses, pants – and Scott got black silk pajamas!) made to order within a couple of days – for ridiculously low prices. I ordered two pairs of custom-made shoes for $45/pair. We bargained for amazing souvenirs and felt a bit guilty about paying so little for such high-quality handicrafts.

We laughed and had fun experiences all week long: steering traditional round bamboo boats, squid fishing (I caught one!), throwing fishing nets, learning palm-leaf origami, cooking lessons, bike riding through the rice paddies . . . and setting wishing candles afloat on the Thu Bon River.

My wish? To return to Vietnam on another WOW! Travel Club journey. Care to join me?