After a couple of miles, I see a woman sitting on the side of the road, between her legs a tray of brightly colored rice cakes, the size and shape of charcoal briquettes—I know what they are but have forgotten the name. For practice, I haggle with her awhile and at last, as I make the prospective buyer’s exit, she calls me back and we agree on a price—thirty cents—though she seems fairly bitter about it: “You Viet-kieu are even stingier than poor students. Even they pay me fifty cents.” I grin at her, but I’m thinking: Darn, I just want one of those cakes to nibble for old time’s sake. Fifty
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