I was trying to make my way through the roaring motorcycles to get to the gate of the market when the smell of coriander came to my nostrils, stronger than the exhaust gas. Like Vietnam’s green mountains, herbs covered the smiling vendor’s table. I sat next to him and a fresh, steaming bowl of pho was handed to me. I found myself in the fog again, like during my morning trek, but it was a warm and tasty fog this time.
