At 7:00 p.m., I was awoken by the ever-smiling face of Diem. She hurried me into the bathroom to prepare as she patiently waited in the hallway. In Vietnam, conservatism, tradition, and modernity smashed together like a brightly lit canvas of Dhali or Van Goh. The family friends we were having dinner with happened to own an American-style restaurant. Unbeknownst to me, I was on a collision course with destiny.
We arrived around 8 o’clock at F&B bistro. We were escorted upstairs to an open-air balcony overlooking the streets below. Our hosts soon sat down and were eager to provide us with everything on the menu. It was one of Diem’s Best friends Sương and the proprietors of the establishment, Bào and An Pham. Our waiter hovered over us like a hawk awaiting any command from Bào and his wife. An had gone to university in Saigon and was surprisingly fluent in English. This, at least for me, made the night less standoffish as we settled into a conversation about how different were the two worlds at this small bamboo tabletop.
Some sort of local “wine” was brought out with its deep, almost fluorescent yellow hue, beer, and carafes of water. The table stayed rotated with dishes: duck in sauce, Vietnamese antipasto, steak of an unknown cut, grilled vegetables, and salmon salad. It could have potentially been from any bistro in America if it wasn’t for the details. As a very dear friend back home likes to say, “Don’t hear something I haven’t said.” The duck was absolutely sublime, both cured and smoked. The salmon is nicely done, and the vinaigrette is fresh and bright. The steak was cooked to a nice medium. Its sautéed vegetable side was very tasty. The sautéed vegetables still hold their crunch after being perfectly blanched. I’m not sure why this surprised me, but it quickly hit me how ashamed I should be. After a quarter of a millennia of French occupation, I was surprised that Vietnamese chefs could adequately prepare vegetables in any other way than floating them in a bowl of steaming broth. It was an observational mistake I wouldn’t repeat.
We ate, laughed, and pondered life’s questions late into the night. At one point, I noticed a ring on Bào’s finger, and I asked if I could take a look. It was a high school ring from the class of ‘64. It was from Monument Mountain high school in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. A flood of images returned of the gold shop earlier in the day with display cases of class rings from all over the states. I asked Bào where he purchased it, and he told me of a small town shop south of Saigon a thousand miles away. It hit me like a slap on the face. These weren’t left from vacations gone wrong. They were sold for cash by kids who had been drafted for a cause most didn’t understand and sent halfway around the world to fight. And Vietnam was full of them.
As I explained my revelation to Bào, he too, began to understand the history of his jewelry. We looked up the high school, and I gave an abbreviated account of the Monument Mountain Spartans.
As midnight drew near, talks of the national pass-time began to circulate. We were soon in Bào’s car headed to Karaoke.
The corn wine had gotten to me a bit, and I soon found myself hanging out of Bào’s sunroof as we zigzagged through the beautifully lit city streets. We arrived at the karaoke bar and were escorted to our own private triangle-shaped room. We removed our shoes, climbed up on a stage of sorts, and sat around a similarly shaped table. The waiters brought in more beer, Red Bull, fresh fruit, and baskets filled with salty, crunchy bar snacks. We took turns with the mics and sang like masters of the stage. 
The control pad had everything imaginable to choose from, and I sang some of my favorite dance tunes from home. We sang and laughed until the wee hours of the morning. I bid my hosts farewell, and we all exchanged Facebook pages. I fell into Bào’s car as he raced me back to my hotel. I had to get on a plane to Hanoi in a few hours.
