When Pancakes Are Not Enough

View From Living Room 

I came downstairs expecting a Hmong breakfast but found pancakes instead.

“Interesting,” I thought looking around the living room. I could have sworn I smelled the nutty scent of cooked rice creeping up the staircase earlier this morning. Turning into the kitchen, I realized I was correct. The homestay family had prepared rice with an assortment of colorful side dishes. Except, it wasn’t for the guests.

“The pancakes are for you,” my tour guide said, motioning to the living room door.

“Thank you, but can I eat here?” I asked, pointing to the mosaic of prepared meats and vegetables on the kitchen table.

She smiled but shook her head, gesturing me to leave the kitchen and join my friend outside.

Disappointed, I trudged to the dining table that held our morning feast. The pancakes weren't the fluffy monstrosities you see in the states. They were thinner and denser, like Russian blini. Accompanying the pancakes were a plate of Thai bananas and cups of sugar and honey.

I gingerly pealed off a sheet of pancake, sliced a banana on top, and drizzled some honey to cut the fruit's unique tartness. My friend’s was simple: sprinkled with sugar and then folded into quarters. I washed my bite down with a gulp of the thick instant coffee, feeling the caffeine jolt through my tired body. 

I had to admit. These were some of the best pancakes I ever had. Unlike the American version, which was often grotesquely inflated with baking soda, these were chewy and eggy. Hungrily, I bit into another one, enjoying the pancake’s slight tug of resistance. After yesterday’s 12K trek, my body was screaming for carbs.

Yet, despite the comfort of the meal, I couldn't help but listen to the sounds from the kitchen. I imagined the scene behind the door. Chopsticks flew over dishes as they picked up strands of lean pork, cubes of fried tofu, and tuffs of gingery cabbage. Their sauces dripped onto chunks of white rice, the perfect vehicle for soaking up and transporting leftover juices.

I looked down at my fork and knife. As delicious as the pancakes were, they felt uncomfortably Western. They belonged more at a beachfront resort than in Sapa’s rice terrace mountains. Maybe the homestay family thought travelers wanted food that was familiar. Maybe they thought a Brit and a Chinese-American were not prepared for a breakfast that seemed more like lunch. 

But I was prepared. I wanted to eat what they ate, sit where they sat, and share stories across the same table. One of the most frustrating parts about traveling was trying to communicate my desire to learn about another culture. As thrilling as the trekking experience was, I came here for the people. What were their lives like, where did they see their futures, and how did they view current societal changes? Maybe I was asking too many questions. After all, how can I assume that they wanted to share their views? Maybe I was like every other curious foreigner, wide-eyed and persistent, believing that I was somehow different from others.

"I guess it's us versus them again," my friend sighed, glancing at the closed kitchen door.

"Yes, I guess it is."