The concierge asks my mom why we’ve returned. My mom says, “I have a nephew I want to see. He’s a special baby.” She’s using her I have something to brag about but I’m going to be humble and not disclose it voice. I can tell she wishes the woman would guess that the Buddha Baby Boy of Sàigòn is her nephew. My mom smiles coyly but the concierge doesn’t react. My mom says, “We live in San Francisco now but I haven’t been back for seventeen years. I don’t know if my own brother will recognize me.”

Uncle Two is my mom’s favorite big brother. She describes him as “handsome.” She pauses and rolls her eyes as if in disbelief that a man can be so hot and related to her. “He was fair-skinned. And he was tall and he had this tall Roman looking nose. Everyone thought he was part French.” She adds, “We’re going to surprise him.”

Celebration must follow surprises otherwise it’s just jumping out of the dark and scaring the crap out of someone. Before we leave for the countryside, we haggle in the bustling market. My mom says that Uncle Two likes the slightly burnt crispy skin of roasted pig, so we buy a left torso. I can’t decide between the boiled chicken hanging from its ankle or the roasted duck hanging from its beak. My mom says that my deceased grandfather may he rest in peace loved duck, so we can get that as an offering. On the other hand, my deceased grandmother may she rest in peace raised chickens all her life. We want her to be comfortable in her resting place and buy the chicken too.

As a tribute to our acclimation to Western levels of comfort, my mom and I charter a Mercedes minivan to take us to our destination. We sit with the air conditioning blasting our faces. The AC is up so high the pink plastic bags overflowing with food make a fluttering noise the entire drive. I think if mom had brought her flute and I had an ounce of rhythm, we could be the next big sensation in the niche of world music.

The riverbank is lined with homes high on stilts. We have to cross two provinces, two bridges, and then board a ferry to cross the Perfume River. I watch an old timer in blue trunks with tree-bark skin wade in while clutching a bar of soap in his hand. Soda cans gleam beneath the noonday sun and drift before him. Beside him, a group of women are washing leafy greens until one breaks from the bunch to swat a child for pissing in public over the pier.