On the way home

I grew up with public transportation. No scratch that. To start from the beginning, I would have to say, the first method of transportation I remember are bicycles. Not the pretty pink barbie for little girls, not the cool BMX for restless teenage boys, not the tall ones for professionals that cost a lot of money to buy and to fix - you know the ones the cool environmentalists ride to save the world, or to save themselves from the boredom of a car. No, the bicycle I remember is so old it has no color other than the color of rust, and the wheels have been fixed so many times the bicycle guy would shake his head if we bring it over one more time. With that bicycle my mom took us to school, everyday, my sister in the back, me in the front. With that bicycle we go every other week to the countryside where my grandparents lived to carry back rice, and vegetable and occasionally a chicken or some meat (all stack up behind my sister on the seat). The town and the countryside are divided by a large river. So to cross over, we, a woman and 2 little girls, and other people, men and women and children would wait by the side of the river for a small boat, which is also so old its has no color other than the color of mud. All of us, adults and children and bicycles would get on board scrambling to find a spot to stand. And we  cross the river, while my mom tries to hang on to both her children and the only other valuable thing she owns.
When I got a bit older we moved a bit further away from the countryside. My sister would still be sitting in the back of (a slightly newer) bicycle for the 3 hours ride from Hanoi to my grandparents house 4 times a year, but I was still too small for such a trip. The road after all is more dangerous than the river, and it was difficult to fit four people on a bicycle, no matter how small and skinny they are. So while my sister enjoys her rides with my father, I get onto a coach car with my mother and many many other people, goods and oftentimes animals, chicken, ducks, cats and dogs, and piglets. I don't remember much from those trips, because I am usually so sick throughout the trip I would vomit and pass out, then wake up only to repeat the circle.But I do remember the moment I get to get off the coach car. At the side of the river, from where we will continue with the bicycle like the old days. My mom has learned to not give me anything to eat before the trip, so when we get off the car, I would get a treat, sometimes a piece of rice cake, sometimes, if my mom has enough money, a bowl of porridge the ladies sell at the station. I remember those moments fondly, just like the ice cream I used to get only after loosing a tooth. They are my rewards after suffering.