Bà Lan, 66, sat sideways on her red Honda Lead, one sandal half-off, her hat tilted low to block the midafternoon sun. Her purse hung over one shoulder. She held a men from one of the local restaurants, though she had yet to decide whether she really wanted to eat. The scooter engine had long cooled, but she wasn’t ready to move yet.
She wasn’t from Hội An. She’d come from Huế—four hours on the train, then a dusty ride down the highway on her daughter’s borrowed scooter. Not for work. Just to see the lanterns again, the old tile roofs, the river she remembered from before she married, before the war ended, before she became someone’s mother-in-law. Tour groups passed her, young girls in flowy white dresses taking pictures with Japanese Bridge in the background. A French couple asked if she was a local. She smiled, shook her head, and returned to peeling a boiled egg wrapped in plastic.
She didn’t speak unless spoken to. She just rested. Let the wind blow her sleeves. Let the scent of grilled corn and incense drift past. Let her legs stretch. She’d come alone—not lonely, just alone—and that felt new, and good.
At 4 p.m., she started the scooter again. The engine sputtered, caught. She adjusted her hat, checked the mirror, and smiled faintly at her reflection. Then she rode off—not quickly, but steadily—past the yellow walls, the tailors, the tour buses… and into a golden Hội An afternoon, just for herself.