![]() Sometimes, my prepared invention slips out before I realize it: I'm Japanese-Korean-Chinese-mixed-race Asian. I hide my distaste because it is un-American. I have always hated this question and resent him for asking. ![]() They grinned - Si, si, Senor - and grilled me a slab of beef. But I'm American, Vietnamese American, I shouted at them. A crew of Mexican ranchers said they liked me because I was a bueno hermano-good brother-a Vietnamito, and my little Vietnam had golpea big America back in '75. All the extras, they confided, were because I wasn't a gringo. Taking money from a poor and crazy man brings bad luck. You are in the desert going nowhere, so you are crazy. Senor, they explained in the patient tone reserved for those convalescing, you are riding a bicycle, so you are poor. Every place gave me nourishment men and women plucked grapefruits and tangerines from their family gardens, bagged food from their pantries, and accepted not one peso in return. When I was hungry or thirsty, I stopped at ranches and farms and begged the owners for water from their wells and tried to buy tortillas, eggs, goat cheese, and fruit. I had been pedaling and pushing through the forlorn land, roaming the foreign coast on disused roads and dirt tracks. ![]() "How you got here on that bike is amazing." He smiles, suddenly very charismatic, and shakes his head of long matty blond hair. ![]()
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