On a trip to Vietnam, I met an Italian guy in Nha Trang—actually, two of them. They’d rented a few bikes, planned on traveling the whole country. We hit it off right away, spent the night drinking, laughing, the kind of easy camaraderie that comes once in a while.
The next night, as they were getting ready to leave, I asked one of them, “You’re gonna be riding this thing for months—did you name it yet?” “Of course,” he said without hesitation, like it was obvious. “I named her Croatie.” “Who?” “My first girlfriend,” he grinned, “She taught me how to love and how to fuck. The next one? Gonna be Alyssa, Romari, Alyssa again.” He said it so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and it threw me off for a second. The way he looked back at his past, like it was something warm, something you hold gently in your hands.
“Do you miss her?” “Of course, I love her—that’s why I’m naming my bike.” “You still do?” “Yeah, I have lots of love in me.” He said it like it made perfect sense, but he couldn’t understand the weight of my question. How could he? He doesn’t strangle his past like I did for a long time. He didn’t drag it behind him like I used to, like a dead weight, he didn’t make picking at his scars a habit. And I wondered, Could I do that? Could I look at the past with that kind of lightness? Would it make me happy to name it after who taught me love, or how to fuck, or whatever else I’ve buried?
I watched him pack his bags onto Croatie. His hands were gentle, like he was touching both the bike and the memory at once. “You know what’s funny?” he said, zipping up his jacket. “She hated motorcycles. Wouldn’t even get on one.” He laughed, and there was something beautiful about that. Later that night, I sat at the same bar we did, when the bartender asked if I was waiting for my friends to come back. “No,” I said smiling, “no it’s just me.”
Sometimes when I’m stuck in traffic or walking past a parked motorcycle of similar kind, I think about Croatie. About how somewhere in Vietnam, she’s carrying a laughing Italian through mountain passes and coastal roads. There’s something to learn from him, who carries his past like a song rather than a burden.
Which brings me to today (months later), I found this new chai place near home. I sat on a broken chair staring at the bike showroom right across the street. Funny how memories work—I was hoping they’d hurt. I have no enemies. I found myself humming to old songs without realizing and with distorted lyrics. The faces are blurry now, and voices lost. I have decided to name my bike after him; Yapo, I call it Yapo. And when I ride it, I try not to look at who is driving behind me.