July 21: Too far from home

I am eleven thousand miles away from Leo
And last night he broke his clavicle
Climbing a goal post with three friends.
I found out by email
And am sitting in my hotel making phone calls to an answering machine
And hoping he’ll get our messages and call us here.
Now.
While he was being taken to the emergency room
And treated
And put on Vicodin,
We were pedaling through Hue
Exhaust fumes, fish sauce, manure, gorgeous countryside
To the opulent tombs of the last imperial rulers of this country
Who were already on their way out
And spent their days fucking their concubines and writing poetry (lucky them)
And contemplating their deaths by designing grand memorials to themselves
Palaces for their remains
Full of treasures
Surrounded by gardens and ponds
And now magnets for tourists
Lots of French today, a few Spaniards, some northern Europeans, Japanese, Aussies
And us.
The kings and queens of the globe in the Nguyen royalty’s final resting places.
The traveling is boiling hot, dirty, but fun.
Cooled off in the big pool of a fancy-dancey hotel we quietly walked into
Where guests ask the hotel staff to open the umbrellas over their lounge chairs
And where any sense of Vietnam is left outside the complex walls.
Nice swim, but hard to see the appeal of staying there.
Why doesn’t Leo call?