When I stepped outside yesterday morning, the air was heavy and warm, like a washcloth recently wrung. I hesitated on my stoop. I was, firmly, in Brooklyn, brownstoned and magnolia’ed, rust-painted steps beneath my feet, and across the street sprawled Lafayette Avenue Presbytarian, that giant ochre pile. In Brooklyn and then, without straining, I caught a whiff of Saigon, those languorous early mornings drinking ‘fe da in the small road off the alley that lead to our hotel. The whiff wafted, borne away by my dog straining to trample flowerbeds, my mother snapping photos of the sky between two clapboard row houses, the guttural thrum of racing motorcycles.

Instead of a ‘fe da, I bought a cold brew, $4.25, and slurped it down before we crossed Atlantic.