On June 2nd I woke up post-surgery in a hospital bed in north Philly, my foot held together by pins and staples and my left arm hooked up to an IV. And that very morning I opened the email telling me that I would be living in Tra Vinh for the year. It was the first time I had ever heard of the place. As I lay there in a morphiny haze with my leg all swathed up I wondered if I would even make it to Vietnam.
Three months later I am sitting in an eye-searingly yellow university guesthouse in the deepest darkest depths of the Mekong delta. I found a toad bigger than my fist in the hallway. There is a giant blistery burn on my leg from a motorbike exhaust pipe that may or may not have exploded puss in my meeting with the vice-rector yesterday (It did. I’m sorry I’m so gross yall). At any given point in the day I can see at least two cows from my window. And I sat on my washing machine and ate about half a durian this afternoon.
So I guess what I’m saying is that I’m happy to be here.