#mornings

The woman has been awake since four. I can tell by the way she moves — unhurried, deliberate, every gesture carrying the quiet confidence of someone who has done this ten thousand mornings before. She anchors her wooden boat against the riverbank with one bare foot, then arranges bundles of morning glory and water spinach in rows so precise they look placed by a florist.

This is Thu Bon River before the tourists wake. Before the lanterns are lit. Before Hoi An becomes a postcard.

I'd followed the smell of wood smoke down a dirt path behind my guesthouse at five-thirty, half-awake and running mostly on instinct. The river sat low in the August heat, its surface the color of milky tea. A dozen boats clustered at the bend — women selling bundles of herbs, fresh fish packed in crushed ice, pyramids of dragonfruit still cool from the night fields. The air smelled of mud and green things.

The smell hits you before the alley comes into view — charcoal smoke and fermented black beans and something sweet underneath, like overripe mango left in the sun. Chengdu's morning market in the Shaocheng district doesn't open for tourists. It opens for grandmothers in floral aprons who know exactly which vendor's doubanjiang has the right depth of heat.

I'd woken early after a sleepless night, jet lag pulling at my joints, and wandered out without a plan. The best mornings always begin that way.

A woman no taller than my shoulder was arguing with a tofu seller, gesturing at a block of silken white as though negotiating something sacred. I watched from a respectful distance, pretending to examine a basket of dried chilies the color of rust. The seller laughed — a short, conceding laugh — and wrapped her purchase in old newspaper. She noticed me then, curious but not unwelcoming, and pointed at the tofu. Good, she mimed, pressing her fingers to her lips.