Turns Out, I'm a Summer Roll!
Existential Revelations from a Vietnamese Cooking Class
December 22nd, 2024
Hoi An, Vietnam
The lanterns descended like earthbound stars upon the dark water, each one carrying a silent wish into the night. I watched from the ancient bridge, a solitary figure among hundreds, as my own lantern joined the procession—another luminous spirit adrift in the world. Earlier that day, I had ventured forty-five minutes down the coast from Da Nang to this place where weathered streets meet swampy delta, where time seems suspended between centuries. The old town of Hoi An dazzled with its kaleidoscope of traditional culture, but nothing captured its essence—or perhaps my own transient existence—quite like this nightly ritual of release and remembrance.
I hadn't expected companionship here. My arrival post on social media—that digital breadcrumb trail modern wanderers leave behind—had sparked something unexpected: a message from Doro, the thoughtful German chemistry student I'd encountered on the misty slopes of Mount Fuji last October. Life has a strange geometry to it, the way paths diverge only to reconverge in the most unlikely coordinates.
"I saw you're in Hoi An," her message read. "So am I."
Our paths had already crossed twice in Japan—first at Fuji where we'd huddled against the pre-dawn chill, delving into discussions about science and spirituality as the sun transformed the mountain's shadow into a perfect triangle against the clouds. Then again in Kyoto, where we'd shared adventures in borrowed kimonos and bamboo forests that whispered ancient secrets. Now here she was in Vietnam, sporting newly cropped hair from her time in Seoul—a physical manifestation of her continued evolution.
We met at dusk near the canal, her figure appearing through the crowds with that same unrushed grace I remembered. As twilight deepened to indigo, we traded travel tales over dinner, our separate journeys unspooling like tributary streams with different landscapes but the same inevitable ocean. She'd explored Hiroshima where history hangs heavy in the air, ventured through Kyushu's volcanic landscapes, and wandered South Korea's vibrant cities before working her way up from the chaotic energy of Ho Chi Minh City. Meanwhile, I'd carved my own route through Kyushu to Okinawa's turquoise waters, then island-hopped through Taiwan's night markets and the Philippines' emerald archipelagos before motorcycling through northern Vietnam's terraced mountains to reach this central meeting point.
Watching Doro across the table, I was struck anew by her unassuming radiance. This brilliant chemistry student existed in pure presence, her attention focused entirely on each moment without the anxious sidelong glance into invisible mirrors that haunts so many of us. She was utterly unburdened by self-consciousness—free from the disease of perception-anxiety that afflicts me and countless others as we navigate foreign lands. I wondered: was this freedom inherent to her nature, or had she learned it somewhere between laboratory experiments and mountain trails?
We shared a meal at a vegan restaurant where I discovered pumpkin soup served in its own shell—a delightful alternative to the sourdough bread bowls of my New York home. The pumpkin, baked to perfect tenderness, transformed the very concept of a serving vessel into part of the meal itself. Container becoming content—a metaphor made edible
The meal led to my favorite travel ritual: initiating another friend into what I playfully call the cult of durian. At the Hoi An market, animated now with evening commerce, we donned plastic gloves like amateur surgeons preparing for a delicate operation. Following the German tradition she taught me, we made solemn eye contact while tapping our durian seeds together—"Prost!"—a formal toast to an informal experience.
Her response to the first bite embodied that beautiful liminal space of culinary discovery: "I'm not quite sure if I like this..." she said, her brow furrowed in concentration as she navigated the complex terrain of flavor. When I suggested it tasted like banana pudding with rosy overtones, she laughed and acknowledged that it was definitely funkier than roses, but couldn't stop herself from taking another bite, then another. Though she politely declined seconds, I caught that gleam of curiosity in her eyes—I suspected she would have devoured another piece had I offered, her resistance softening with each taste of the forbidden fruit.
The price of durian here may be eight times that of other fruits, but I indulge freely, suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the purchasing power that lets me embrace life's peculiar pleasures while others must pass them by. This awareness sits with me, a small stone in my shoe as I walk these ancient streets.
After bidding Doro farewell as she boarded her overnight bus north to continue her journey, I followed her recommendation to an art museum showcasing portraits and traditional dress of Vietnam's fifty-four recognized tribes. The exhibition struck me deeply—one photographer's passionate homage to his country's cultural diversity, each image a window into lives simultaneously ancient and contemporary.
I lingered over a documentary about traditional dress-making, mesmerized by the natural dyes—turmeric yellow, indigo blue, flower pink—that permanently stained the weavers' fingers. Those dyed fingertips seemed like inadvertent fashion statements, beautiful markers of authentic craft in a world increasingly separated from the origins of what we consume and wear.
My cultural immersion deepened the next day. After an aerial yoga session where I hung suspended like a chrysalis, I joined a cooking class that began with a rainy market tour. We navigated the controlled chaos of stalls selling everything from glistening pork belly to fresh rice milk, gathering ingredients for our culinary education. Then came an unexpected transport—half-sphere basket boats that carried us through the swampy delta where water and land exist in constant negotiation. Some drivers showed off by spinning their vessels like amusement park teacup rides, while dragonflies darted like living jewels and locals cast their fishing nets in perfect circles around us—their daily sustenance an unintentional performance for foreign eyes
In the kitchen, wearing chef's hat and apron that transformed me from observer to participant, I learned to craft summer rolls with translucent rice paper revealing their colorful contents, rice milk pancakes folded around fragrant herbs, beef salad laden with more green than meat, and the crown jewel—pho ba with its complex broth that tells the story of Vietnam's history in a single spoonful
Using mortar and pestle instead of food processors connected me to generations of Vietnamese grandmothers, the rhythmic grinding creating not just paste but continuity across time. Even facing my fear of flames to achieve that perfect smoky beef flavor became a lesson in growth—sometimes we must approach what frightens us to create something authentic.
Food transcends language as the ultimate medium of cultural understanding. Each dish tells a story of identity and origin, of adaptation and resilience. I look forward to sharing these recipes at home, performing this small act of cultural translation, and collecting more culinary knowledge as my journey continues.
As twilight gathers again over Hoi An and new lanterns prepare for their water journey, I reflect on my own passage through this place. Perhaps I'm learning to embody the summer roll: diverse ingredients from varied sources, wrapped in a structure both firm and flexible. Every day offers chances to face fears and challenge assumptions—or as I discovered today, to set a pan ablaze and savor the complex flavors that only courage can create.
Tomorrow I'll move on, but carry with me fragments of this place—market sounds, boat rhythms, flame-kissed flavors—each one a lantern illuminating my path forward into the waiting world.
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