The Return

I have learned that there are three rules for surviving Hanoi traffic: (1) whoever has the biggest horn has the right of way; (2) when in doubt, follow the locals; and (3) don’t get hit. True, these rules seem to apply to pretty-much every place I’ve ever been (well, the horns are pretty specific), but I think they’re especially important in a city like Hanoi where crosswalks are ironic, traffic lights are subjective, and the rush of mopeds about to run you over is a constant threat.

Do I need to tell you that Hanoi is the perfect city for the return of la flâneuse?

I’ve been off of my crutches for a week and a half now, and I’m reveling in the freedom that comes from the simple movement of urban exploration. Every day I allow myself to travel a bit further in Hanoi, often escaping the familiar terrain of the Old Quarter to find tiny pockets where only the locals roam.

Of course, my return wasn’t just one triumphant moment of crossing the finish line but rather a series of smaller moments that have stretched out over the last two months. It’s been a journey of constant ups and downs, often quite literally a two-steps forward, two-steps back kind of thing. From learning how to walk on cobblestones in Siena, to learning how to navigate the uneven dirt roads of Kathmandu, to partial weight bearing in Bhutan (note to self: be careful crossing those tree roots), to scrambling up steep staircases to visit the giant heads at Angkor Watt, to finally leaving behind my CAM boot in Vietnam.

There was a lot of pain, a lot of tears, and a lot of uncertainty, but I knew I had to trust that my body would eventually heal.

Over time, it did. A few weeks ago my friend Caty and I were poking around Siem Reap’s Old Market. I was still using my crutches and still moving slowly, but even so I was moving without thinking of where I was going next, just moving for the sake of moving.

It dawned on me: “Caty, I’m flâneusing!” I said.

It wasn’t like something extraordinary was happening; we were just snaking through the crowded clothing stalls and food stands. But it was the kind of day I love the most when I travel, an aimless quest for nothing in particular that typically leads me down a hidden alley to a dive restaurant serving cheap beers (that day, ours cost fifty cents).

As I delve into Hanoi, trying to get lost, rediscovering muscles in my foot that I never knew existed, I find myself no longer having to analyze every step I take. I’m still being cautious, of course, and I’m not quite back to 100% energy, more like 80%. But given that my 80% is like most people’s 170%, I’d say that I’m doing pretty darn well.

Now that I’ve reclaimed control of both feet, I can more fully absorb the sounds and textures and colors of Vietnam’s capital. I can read the streets of Hanoi with my feet, letting my instincts be my guide. And in doing this I find myself able to contemplate life’s important questions: Where am I going to find my daily Pho? How the heck am I ever going to cross this street? (Don’t worry. You will.) How are these people able to text their friends while simultaneously blaring their horns without falling off their mopeds? And most important: How is that girl on the back of that moped wearing a denim jacket without perspiring a bead of sweat while I’ve already soaked through my t-shirt in thirteen minutes?

Yesterday morning I happily got rid of my crutches. I was tired of hauling them around, and I wanted to find a place to donate them rather than just dumping them on a street somewhere. I found a charity organization for Vietnamese orphans that needed a pair for a young woman. The organization’s office is across town, so I took a taxi there, but I decided to walk back, casually weaving my way from West Lake past Ho Chi Minh’s Mausoleum, stopping to visit multiple Buddhist Pagodas, in theory heading toward my hotel in the Old Quarter.

Overwhelmed with tourists crowded around souvenir stands, I decided to cut off the main road to venture onto a maze of side streets. Zigzagging a jagged line from sidewalk to gutter to sidewalk to gutter, I dodged vegetable vendors, parked mopeds, and women carrying baskets of fried dumplings. I immersed myself in everyday life.

I passed through the block that sells secondhand sewing machines. I passed through the block that sells multi-colored strands of lights and desk lamps. I passed through the block that sells buttons and ribbons. I passed a street barbershop: a man sitting on a pink plastic stool under an awning, a mirror hanging on the side of a building, a barber clipping the man’s hair with precision. I passed a man trimming a woman’s toenails in a doorway. I passed a street with row after row of tiny restaurants serving steaming bowls of noodles to the locals. I made a mental note to return, knowing that I’d probably never find the street again, but knowing that it didn’t matter, that if I kept walking I’d soon find another.

That is the way of la flâneuse.

I’m not going to lie. More than once these past two months I’ve been consumed with disappointment. But this feeling usually passes pretty quickly. What I’ve realized — what I’ve probably known all along — is that I am a person who rolls along pretty easily when things go wrong. I am a person who finds amusement in the ironies of life. I am a person who breaks her foot in a foreign country and just keeps going. 

The more I think about it, the more I realize that I’ve been la flâneuse all along. La flâneuse didn’t need a return because she was never really gone. As I’ve realized more than once this year, flânerie is a journey of the mind and of the heart more than one of the body. And while these last few weeks have definitely challenged my body, more than anything they’ve challenged my spirit.

It feels great to be rediscovering my street legs, but I’ve realized that breaking my foot was a lucky accident. It taught me to wander in ways I could never have predicted. It didn’t diminish my experiences at all but rather gave me opportunities and experiences I never would have had were I moving through the world at my regular pace, in my regular way. 

In the end, you see, I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

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