Children of Dreams, An Adoption Memoir (21 page)

The hotel clerk looked at Joy and remarked, “Is that Joy? She seems so different today.”

Another adoptive parent made the same comment. “It’s almost like she’s a different child. What happened?”

I didn’t tell them we had prayed, although I did wonder why we hadn’t prayed five days earlier. Now that my new daughter was more pleasant to be around, I thought Jenni would enjoy spending time with us.

Eventually each day we developed a routine. After we got dressed, Joy would gather her shoes, cap and most importantly, my keys. Usually I had tossed them somewhere in the room and she’d find them for me. After the morning scavenger hunt, she would wait at the door as if to say, “Okay, I am ready to go. Hurry up.”

I would grab my purse as she pulled the knitted cap over her ears, bend down to help with her poinky shoes, lock the door, and head down the hall to the elevator. If I was too slow with makeup or deciding what I wanted to wear, she would let me know. One day before we left our hotel room, I handed Joy bottled water, an orange, and a stuffed animal. I said to her, “Which one do you want to take with you?”

She grabbed the orange. An American child would have taken the toy, but Joy had known what it was like to go hungry. Food was more valuable to her than toys. Once I realized her insecurity about food, I always gave her an orange or something to carry with her when we would leave the hotel. When she realized food was always available, her episodes of crying almost stopped.

Compared to Nepal, Vietnam wasn’t much different from America. I didn’t have to discuss with chickens where the toilet was, go behind a bush to use the facility, or beg for toilet paper. I didn’t have to carry with me my own bottled water, and I didn’t return to the hotel every afternoon smelling like dirt. There were no motorcycle rides in dresses or propositions from men that stared at me. I didn’t have to explain what “caste” Joy belonged to or worry as much about getting sick.

There were things that made it hard. It was not unusual to be accosted by beggars. The most heart-breaking were those that had missing arms or legs or both. The first one that approached me had no arms or legs and I was horrified at the grotesqueness of getting around without any limbs. Hundreds of Vietnamese have been maimed by long-forgotten land mines hidden in the killing fields, many of them children.

I always lost whatever munchies I had if one of the maimed ones crossed my path as I was headed back to the hotel. My heart melted at the kind of life they had been dealt and how fortunate I was to have two arms to carry my baby and two legs to take me wherever I needed to go. After a month of giving away chips, candy, and crackers, however, I realized if I wanted that chocolate bar when I returned, I better hide it from the maimed beggars.

In so many of the countries I had traveled, I had seen a dog that looked like Gypsy. On this day, it was no different. As we walked out of a store, a little brown and white long-haired stray was scrounging along the curb where someone had discarded a plastic bag. Looking for a meal, she appeared to have been quite successful in her endeavors, as she had a few too many pounds around the waist. I snapped a picture to add to my collection of “Gypsies from around the world.”

My dog Gypsy from childhood was what God had used to teach me at an early age that there was a God who loved me. Wherever I traveled, God would always bring a dog across my path that looked like her. Why, I am not sure—perhaps to remind me of His presence no matter where I traveled, or that the neediness of God’s redemptive love transcended every tribe and nation.

It was the Gypsy from Israel that haunted me the most. The frightened dog couldn’t quit shaking as she followed us along the streets of Jerusalem. Gypsy from Italy had a litter of puppies she was trying to raise in the island of a gas station. The one from Nepal was emaciated and covered with fleas. My dog Gypsy from childhood will come to me occasionally in dreams, completely white, as if she is waiting for me.

A few hundred feet from the Lillie Hotel was a little store akin to a 7-Eleven. Each day before turning in for the evening, we would stop in to purchase my chocolate. On the candy rack were two kinds of bars—cheap and expensive. I always bought the cheap one and dreamed about how decadent the expensive one would taste. The cheap one tasted awful, but it satisfied my chocolate addiction by leaving a horrible aftertaste. In some tortuous way, I looked forward to my chocolate every night following dinner.

Although we were routinely awakened every morning, at least it wasn’t because of people throwing up as in Kathmandu. The hotel had its own resident rooster that staked its territory at the front entrance. He was faithful not to let anyone sleep past 6:00 a.m. in the morning.

After a few days of adjustment and wanting a change in scenery, Jenni, Joy, and I took a couple of afternoons and visited some of the local tourist attractions. One temple we visited was the Temple of Literature. It was built in 1070 by King Thanh Tong and
later became Hanoi’s first university. We experienced a flavor of ancient Vietnamese architecture as the buildings were beautifully adorned in colorful relief depicting dragons, tigers, and ancient inscriptions. There were many pagodas connected to the temple with Buddha statues out front, and the burning incense created a mystical experience. From one of the buildings, the sounds of chanting monks could be heard. I stood outside the door curiously listening, but resisted the temptation to go inside.

Outside the temple by the lake, Western-style music played via loud speakers. Several Vietnamese women had a stand set up to sell souvenirs to tourists and I bought Joy and myself a shirt. A blend of the old and the new: It was a little oasis in the midst of honking horns and city life, a charming spot to spend a few quiet moments before heading back to the hotel.

On another day, Jenni and I were invited to eat lunch at the Sofitel Metropole with the two adoptive mothers we had originally met at the airport. It was a beautiful five star hotel a short distance from the Lillie Hotel. Out front a platform had been erected to display Santa and his snowmen, dressed in hats and scarves. The platform was decorated by a large sign with letters written in red cursive, “Season’s Greetings.” Santa Claus was seated on a bike with a carriage holding all the gifts. Bikes were the most common mode of transportation in Vietnam, and without snow, a bike worked better than a sleigh.

The entrance to the hotel was adorned in rows of Poinsettias, and red and yellow flowers beneath the platform framed a beautiful Christmas display. The Christmas music and decorations helped to transport me back to the familiar. At last, halfway around the world, I found myself in the Christmas spirit.

We were escorted inside and seated in a lovely Western-style restaurant. In contrast to Nepal, it was nice to share the adoption experience with other mothers and the camaraderie helped to alleviate stress. As we sat and waited, I took off my gold and silver Guess watch and allowed Joy to play with it. When my brother and sister were young, my dad would give them his watch while we waited to be served. I thought I would continue the family tradition.

A buffet lunch was served and the chef stir-fried pasta in herbs and oil. I can still taste the perfectly seasoned, spicy pasta, my favorite meal while in Vietnam. I have since learned the Sofitel Metropole has a world-renowned reputation for Vietnamese and French cuisine, even offering high-end cooking classes.

With our taste buds whetted in anticipation, we chatted and shared our adoption stories, admiring each others’ new babies. The two families were from Canada, one country I hadn’t visited, and I learned a little about what life was like in the far reaches of the north. Sometimes I forget, living in the Deep South, that the world’s second largest country of thirty-four million people occupies a vast area of land north of the United States.

One mother showed me pictures of her home covered in snow. My mind got stuck on how cold it would be during the winter. Being born in Tampa and having lived most of my life in Florida, my thin blood would do me in for eight months out of the year.

After lunch, we took a tour of the lobby of the Sofitel Metropole. It reminded me of the Everest Hotel in Kathmandu with its stately gold columns and chandeliers gracing a high-domed ceiling. Too expensive for my pocketbook to stay overnight, it was a nice place to indulge our appetites for lunch. I hoped Joy and I could come back later for a swim. I took a peek at the Olympic-size pool and couldn’t wait to dip my toes in the cool blue water.

When we returned to our hotel after lunch, I discovered my watch was missing and assumed I left it on the restaurant table. I made a quick trip back to find it, but it was gone. It was the first and last expensive watch I ever owned. I replaced it with a cheap one in Vietnam for ten dollars that lasted until I returned home.

I thought it would be fun to take a tour of the countryside surrounding Hanoi. I preferred trees, mountains and scenic vistas to the hustle and bustle of city life even though I grew up in Atlanta. I asked the young woman who worked at the front desk if she had any recommendations for a half-day excursion.

“You might like touring Bat Trang. It’s a pottery village just outside Hanoi,” she suggested.

That sounded like something enjoyable. I hired a taxi to take the three of us on a tour, hoping to see a little countryside along the way.

In some ways, the Hanoi scenery reminded me of Florida—flat and wet. Rice grew well in the waterlogged soil that is a food staple throughout Southeast Asia. A hard life for the field workers, it requires long hours bent over in the flooded land to tend and harvest the crop. Luu worked in the rice paddies north of us and I reflected on the future Joy would have faced had I not adopted her.

Frequently we passed bikers wearing a hat called a Non La. I was struck at how life moved at a snail’s pace in third-world countries, especially away from the city. It was almost like stepping back in time. I wondered, in my fast-paced, hurried environment back home in Gainesville, what I was missing. If only I had time to stop and “smell the flowers.” I vowed to spend more time in my back yard working on my half-baked nature garden when I returned home.

Bat Trang was an interesting place to visit. Established in the mid-1400s, the pottery village had a history of selling exquisite ceramics that were exported to other Asian countries. The village sits on the Red River and produces its own unique style with crackle glaze and fine glaze finishes. The pottery from Bat Trang was also distinctive in design, decorative patterns, and colored enamels.

As I write today pondering Joy’s ethnicity, I wonder how much Vietnamese creativity is hidden in her genes. Joy’s artistry and proclivity for creating beauty out of the absurd is mind-boggling. I wished I could have brought some of the Bat Trang pottery back, but I was too concerned it would get broken.

Later in the week we returned to the Sofitel Metropole to swim. The pool was on the top floor of the hotel enclosed in a room similar to a fancy greenhouse with sides and a top that would open when it was warm. On this day the top was open and inviting sunshine beat down on the pool’s surface. I wanted to run and jump in but Joy would not go near it, crying every time I tried. I had to be content to sit with her and admire the blue, inviting water.

I reflected back to Kathmandu with Manisha at the Everest Hotel when she had found it more fun to play with my makeup than swim. On another day perhaps I might come back without her. Jenni had offered to babysit for me if I felt I needed a “mommy” break.

With camera in hand, we walked outside to a veranda that overlooked the capital. The Sofitel Metropole was situated on a high hill like a citadel. From this scenic view,
Hanoi was dotted with numerous small lakes and miniature skyscrapers. As gusts of wind whipped hair in my eyes, I tried to hold the camera still long enough to snap a few quick photos. Joy was preoccupied with the long row of flower pots in front of the railing. As she looked for the last remaining vestiges of red flowers and I admired the view, one overwhelming feeling superseded everything—how God had brought so much good out of so much adversity.

I snapped several pictures of my new daughter in a pink bathing suit that I had unearthed the day before in a local shop. In her hunt for flowers, Joy had managed to find one lone red flower still clinging to the otherwise bare branches. As I held up my camera, I captured my first picture of her with a charming smile. All the others to that point showed a sad little girl with tears, a scowl or a frown. The smile for the camera, though, would continue to be rather elusive. After a quiet, restful afternoon atop one of the highest points in Hanoi, we headed back to our more modest abode on Hue Street.

Each evening before bedtime, I would fill the bathtub with water. Sitting in the warm, bubbly suds, Joy would have spent the whole evening splashing in them had I let her. I bought a couple of plastic ducks and she excitedly squeezed the little critters filling them with soapy water. Later I would have to extract the cold, soapy water trapped in their belly so the little ducks could survive another day without mildewing. Joy would have been too disappointed to lose her new bathtub friends.

One of the most frustrating things about traveling to foreign countries is when one can’t speak the language. Once when I was in Mexico, I asked for towels and the maid brought me coat hangers. I tipped her for something I didn’t want because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I am also not very patient. Add into the mix an impatient little girl who easily becomes frustrated and international adoption becomes even harder.