In Vietnam, Bob's Your Uncle

"American? Huh." The immigration official had snatched my passport and not returned my smile. He glowered from beneath an ornately militaristic hat. "American. POET?"

Dear God, I've been googled.

I'm not the first American to come under fire in Hanoi, but I thought the flight was going to be the worst of it. AirAsia is cheap, but the economy's at the cost of an aging fleet. We'd hit the storm half an hour from Hanoi. I've shuddered through my share of turbulence and been pronounced "puke-proof" on more than one boat, but this was one for the books. I had the window seat next to an equally nervous young Thai couple. When things got particularly hairy, we linked hands and whimpered like children during the scary parts of "The Wizard of Oz." Now, a Vietnamese Barney Fife was outing me as a journalist. I'd lived only to face deportation and disgrace.

"Yes. A poet." I straightened my shoulders and tried to look sensitive.

The official leaned close, breath fogging the glass. He lowered his voice and I realized that I really, really needed to pee. "Tell me a poem."

I took a deep breath and ripped off Robert Frost. "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...."

It worked. "That," he whispered, "is beautiful."



I managed a blush. "Thank you. It's my favorite." And now I'm at a rooftop cafe sipping a Bia Ha Noi, happier than any plagiarist has a right to be. Thanks, Bob. You're the best.