When plans A, B and C fail.

A blank space, with Vietnam looming in the background. A metaphor for my life.

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Before I had ever traveled to Vietnam, I was already planning my return trip. That’s how the game works: you go to a place once to see it, to hear, to smell it. Then you go back again to try and understand it.

My main sustenance the past couple of evenings.

I am now on the trip where I am supposed to understand things. The trip I’ve been planning since October 2014. But things seldom go as planned, and this trip has been no exception.

My final four days in the United States upset the previous 400 days of planning. I received an email from my primary Vietnamese contact informing me that he couldn’t work with me once I arrived. He said did not have the proper permission; and proper permission is everything in Vietnam.

That email came on Christmas Eve. Instantly all thoughts of celebrating were replaced by thoughts formulating plans B and C. I sent emails to everyone I could think of who might be able to help. Two phenomenal women from the University of Montana started pulling all of the strings they could think to pull—trying to get me on a research trip to the center of Vietnam, trying to figure out what was going on with my original contact, updating me every few hours on their progress.

A downward spiral captioned "Happy New Year."

Three days passed as I struggled to figure out what to do. Finally, three hours before my flight departed, another email arrived. A new round of approval had just been granted by Vietnamese officials and my contact said he would proceed with the original plan.

I canceled plans B and C and hoped for the best.

After days of traveling, I finally met my contact in person on January 2^nd, over a glass of lukewarm tea. The schedule he’d drafted for me in November sat on the table between us. He read it as if he’d never seen it.

“Why do you want to go to the watermelon farm?” (Short answer: you suggested it.)

 “If you are interested in farming and education, you should just go with the Montana students on their field trip.” (No, that won’t work.)

“I don’t know if you will get permission to do that, but I will send a letter.” (I thought this was all approved two months ago.)

 “I will not be going to the farm with you. Wait, why did you schedule the visit on these days? I will actually be at the farm these days.” (That’s when you told me to go.)

I was baffled. I hadn’t wanted to eat since Christmas ever, and my distaste for food only deepened, along with the bags underneath my eyes.

January 3^rd, I called my mom and did not cry. We discussed plans D and E.

These ladies have helped keep me sane.

That afternoon, during an exchange between local students and UM students, my contact announced that I would be visiting the farm the next weekend. As everyone turned to look at me, I plastered a smile on my face, knowing there was no way my request for permission had even been submitted yet.

During that same exchange, I finally met my translator—a 21-year-old savior in a blue button-down plaid shirt, sporting thinly-framed glasses. He beamed and told me that he would be free for anything I needed, any scheduling changes, any meetings.

He talked about how excited he was to learn with me. And the knot I my stomach loosened ever so slightly and I wondered if I was hungry for the first time since landing.

Over the next two days, emails flew between my contact, my translator and local officials. I was granted a meeting with the chairman of the local climate change office. And my attitude toward my contact softened. Perhaps he was just too busy to work with me, but did not want to tell me that, as it would be rude? Without him I certainly would not have been able to set up that meeting. 

So I tried to focus on gratitude, rather than anxiety.

But it is becoming increasingly clear that my original project will not happen. And that’s okay.

The power that idea once held has expired and I am ready to let it go. It’s not the story anymore. And I have precious little time to waste chasing it.

I am still not hungry, but I am working on rekindling that fire in my stomach. Each new door that opens adds a little bit of fodder, a puff of air to fan the flames. I may only come back with a slice of the bigger picture, and it’s a very real fear that what I produce will not be deep enough to earn me a master’s degree. But I will come back with something.

Until then, I’m going to eat. I am going to sleep. And I am going to learn every darn thing I can. 

But maybe I won't eat this...