I spread several sheaves of rice stalks for a bed and lay down next to the fire. In the darkness, away from watchful eyes, I pulled out my tiny pocket flashlight, pad and pen. There was something that I needed to do, something so secret that I didn't want anyone to see. A fantasy had taken shape during the last few days spent hiking across the valley. It was the image of my mother, walking beside me. At first I had dismissed it. I missed her, but that was nothing new. I'd wanted her to share my trip since the Mekong, and had written to her regularly to make up for her absence. She was, after all, the one who had given me my love of travel in the first place; her bedtime stories, her curiosity, her enthusiasm...

Then one afternoon it hit me. Why shouldn't she be here - at least for a visit? I knew the language and the terrain. I could protect her, carry a pack for both of us, make sure she ate well and had a comfortable place to sleep. She certainly was no stranger to this kind of lifestyle.

The idea kept nagging at me until I knew I had to ask. For days I had been looking for a quiet place where I could frame my thoughts and write them carefully, persuasively. Now that the time had come the words spilled out in an eager scrawl. The Alps...babbling brooks and mustard fields...pick you up in Hanoi...a train high into the mountains...bright red headclothes and blue-dyed hands...shiny buffaloes...lazy afternoons...

When I was done I folded it carefully and tucked it into my pack. I would wait to mail it I got back to Hanoi. This letter was too important to get lost along the way.

Six weeks later...
I hurried over to the Hanoi post office, all but oblivious to the sights and sounds around me. I knew that somewhere among the general mail would be the answer to that all-important question - whether Mom was coming.

There were four envelopes this time. I dashed off in search of my favorite soup shop and a quiet place to sit and read. The old man smiled when he saw me and wordlessly swabbed out the wok to prepare my usual dish. I sat in a corner seat and tried to make out the postmarks in the fading light. I had long ago done the numbers; three weeks for my letter to get from Hanoi to Virginia, a likely four-day turnaround, eighteen tedious days before the reply found its way into the slot market "M" at the Hanoi post office.

Somehow I knew exactly which letter it was. I wondered whether I should read the others first, but my fingers were already busy, and before I knew it my eyes were racing across the page. The Hmong sound fascinating...lovely embroideries...hiking hut to hut...I spoke with Dad about coming to see you - oh no -he wouldn't hear of it...he is so afraid of losing me...Nothing I could say would calm his fears. I had to choose.

The last line burned itself into my soul... I guess I'll just have to be an armchair traveler from now on.

Mom, not travel? Mom, who could spend hours poring over a single page in the world atlas? I couldn't name a travel book she hadn't read. Give up traveling? It wasn't possible.

I folded up the letter and put it aside. I leaned back against the wall, wanting desperately to be alone for a while.

When I opened my eyes a sticky sweetcake had appeared in front of me. The old man smiled and turned back to his wok. He must have seen my tears.

City sounds blended together into a background symphony. The bread seller hawked the last of her day's wares before resigning them to the rooftops to dry. The ice-cream man, still honking his two-tone horn to the pitter-patter of small feet. The tofu seller, who managed to stretch his one-word call into a seven-note, trilling melody. It had become strangely familiar - this exotic blend of Asian sounds.

I sat there until midnight, wishing that I could share it with her.