The most harrowing experience I've had so far - besides being dragged by my parents to what must be every rural Catholic church in Vietnam - is crossing the street. You figure out real quick who your daddy is. If it isn't the Vespa barreling straight at you, it's the Honda bearing a small family that's still heading straight at you. I no longer snidely think, "The pedestrian has the right of way." Thousands of motorcycles beg to differ.
But after much practice, I can now cross the street about 90 percent of the time without screaming. Jackie, my sister, offered some advice from a guidebook: walk at a steady pace. No sudden movements, and by God, don't ever stop or run! They'll go around you, even if that swerve comes at the last minute.
So I keep faith, mutter "don't-look-don't-look-don't-look," and haven't died yet. This might be partly because my method includes using septuagenarians as human shields. I figure if there has to be a casualty, then by all means, age before beauty.

A pretty bad example of how tough it is to cross a Hanoi street (I swear, it really IS scary), but hey, I managed to put up a picture!

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