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Excerpt from The House on Dream Street: Memoir of an American Woman in Vietnam Dana Sachs I had been inVietnam almost two months, and during that time I learned how to ride a bike through the city, how to bargain in the market, and how to say what I needed in order to get by. I had not, however, learned much about the war. Most days, my continuing ignorance didn't bother me. My new friends rarely talked about those dark days and so, consequendy I rarely had reason to think about them. Perhaps my faüure to confront the past more actively might not have mattered, had I not, on occasion, decided I'd been lax in my duty here. One of the reasons I had come toVietnam was to find out more about the war. I was Uke an explorer to Antarctica who got sidetracked in Buenos Aires along the way. And Buenos Aires was pretty nice. I might never have learned more about the war, had Carolyn not arrived at my house in Hanoi and pushed me forward. It wasn't that Carolyn herselfwas so fascinated by the past. Rather, ifyou set any two Americans down together in Vietnam, they'U inevitably end up discussing history. For Carolyn and me, the war became a ghost that haunted our conversations. We couldn't stop remarking on how strange it was, reaUy for two Americans to be wandering so comfortably through the streets of Hanoi. The kinds ofquestions I never forced myselfto ask when I was living here alone suddenly became more pressing now that the two of us were considering them together. With Carolyn around, the war became present in my life again. And if it weren't for her, I would never have foUowed a one-legged veteran up the side of a mountain, just to ask him about the war. Carolyn and I had gone with Linh, her husband Son, and their nine-yearold son Giang to the Perfume Pagoda, a Buddhist holy place a few hours outside of Hanoi. It was festival season for the Buddhists of Vietnam and thousands ofpilgrims were making the trek to the Perfume Pagoda in order to leave offerings to the Buddha and his female incarnation, the Goddess of Mercy. After months in Hanoi, I was deUghted to finaUy get a chance to see the countryside, even though the trip was a long one. In order to make it there and 166 Dana Sachs167 back in one day, we left before dawn, drove in a hired car for two hours, then took a two-hour boat trip along narrow canals before finaUy reaching the base of the Mountain of the Fragrant Traces. From there we hiked, foUowing a trau that wound its way Uke a rough staircase up the forest-covered mountain. Although the path was difficult, it showed signs of years, perhaps centuries, of human passage.When the trau was dirt, it remained as bare ofvegetation as stone. When it was stone, it had been worn as smooth as paper. Trees surrounded us Uke lush green waUs and through the leaves I could see a sky so white it seemed that the sun itself had a shade around it. The air was heavy, soaked with moisture , smeUing ripe, and the mud that sat in patches on the dirt path and on the great slabs ofstone had a deep sheen to it, as if, once wet, it had managed to get wetter. The trail was as crowded as any sidewalk in Hanoi, but, because ofthe hundreds ofBuddhist pilgrims making the trip to the top, it was much more convivial . Famflies stopped for snapshots at every shrine and scenic view. Groups of old women sat sipping tea in refreshment stalls crammed between the side of the trau and the edge ofthe mountain. Teenaged boys made daredevü leaps from rock to rock, and young lovers held hands as iftheir romantic futures depended on their remaining physicaUy attached throughout the trip. The scene was some combination of natural wonder, amusement park, and holy shrine, Uke a Vietnamese version of Yosemite VaUey mixed with Great America and the Vatican City. Through aU ofthis trudged...

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