the rain in Hué

The dismally wet weather in Hué, Vietnam, was not what I had in mind for the month of February. The late winter season, quickly encroaching on spring, should have been relatively dry. But it wasn’t. Not for one day.

I wasn’t exactly raining. The air was heavy with mist, more than enough to drench you to the core but not enough to warrant an umbrella. It was annoying and demoralizing. I had expected to spend all day out of doors getting lost in the Citadel, exploring old pagodas, stopping in an eatery for a ca phe sua dac here, a new tasty treat to discover over there. I wanted the perfect balance of history and gastronomy that leaves me sated on several levels. It wasn’t like that at all. It was wet. Even my bones were wet.

Inside the Citadel, Hué, Vietnam

I bought a $1 poncho and headed out, pursued by a couple of cyclo drivers who chatted me up and wouldn’t take “no way, Jose” for an answer. I wanted to walk. I wanted to get lost. I wanted to discover something outside the tourist trail. We played the game for at least 20 minutes, maybe longer: me walking in widening circles inside the Citadel and going nowhere, my sneakers brown with mud, the insoles so saturated they squeaked like a sponge; they following slowly on their pedicabs, making small chitchat and offering me a one-hour ride for $4. They had one advantage: I was miserable; they were used to this. I hopped into the one with the man who spoke fairly good English, and we rode around the north and east side of the Citadel. He pointed out brand new pagodas and decaying French Colonial houses, streaked with green moss like every building in Hué. He took me to a hidden garden with carp ponds, with a clean bathroom and a respite from the rain. Nearby, a busy locals-only market, all covered in blue tarps, was abuzz with activity and bursting with fruits, vegetables, plastic ware, and live poultry. There was the ramshackle old palace that was now being lived in, though it was in disrepair. In a distant window, a woman and her baby looked my way, and we smiled and waved at each other. The pavilion where the emperor wrote poetry was destroyed in the American War, but the platform, accessible by a small bridge, was still there. He pointed out spirit houses and shrines, some small enough to rest between the roots of a banyan tree. In the end, my shoes were still wet, but my perception of the rain–and Hué–had softened.

When I got back to my room, to my damp bed and mildewed balcony, I took off my shoes and never put them back on. I rolled up my pants above my ankles and lived in flipflops. I wore a poncho over a tshirt, and studied how the women maneuvered their way on the broken sidewalks and slick slate walkways without slipping. I upgraded to a better $3 poncho with a built-in visor and extra strong plastic snaps. It had a clear plastic window in the front for draping over a moto’s handlebars while leaving the speedometer visible. It was the color of baby shit and hid mud splats marvelously. I was ready for Hué.

The next day, it stopped raining.