Noooo. Where is it?! I left it right here, among hundreds of other scooters. Was it stolen?! No. That’s not possible, is it? How could someone steal that many scooters?

Trying to mask my rising panic, I march to the nearest restaurant and ask, “Do you know where those scooters went? I parked mine right there this morning, and now it’s gone.” The Vietnamese employee shakes her head. I can’t tell if she doesn’t understand what I’ve asked or if she just doesn’t know where they are. 

With forced patience, I pull out my smartphone and open Google translate. I ask again; this time showing her a Vietnamese translation of my question. She looks at the phone, then at me, back to the phone, and shakes her head again. Her body language suggests that I should take my question elsewhere. As an afterthought, she gestures towards a nearby tourist attraction.

Sweating from the intense midday heat and high humidity of Hoi An, I regret that I am dressed professionally in thick black slacks and a long sleeved blouse. “It will turn up, Marissa. It has to turn up,” I tell myself as I approach the man overseeing the beautifully crafted Japanese Bridge. Speakly slowly and pointing at the empty sidewalk, I ask, “Do you know where the scooters were moved to?”

He looks at me with absolutely no empathy and motions towards a parking area almost a kilometer away, across a different bridge. Seriously? I’m backtracking, now? He is directing me beyond the restaurant I had just come from.  “Ok, thank you,” I say, “I will try.” I wipe the sweat from my forehead and soldier across the hot asphalt, with no protection from the glaring sun. Why is the sun so aggressive today? It is melting me and these slacks and long sleeves are doing an excellent job of locking in the heat.

I stuff down angry thoughts about my own stupidity. Why did I leave it there?! I arrive at the parking area and see two Vietnamese men who appear to be the managers of this riverside lot for motorbikes. “Hello. Is my scooter here?” I ask as I try to smile pleasantly and act calm. The men look at each other and begin to laugh. I sense some kind of inside joke about how dumb these Western tourists are. They shake their heads at me. They don’t know where my scooter is. 

“Ok, thank you,” I say. WHERE IS IT?! I cannot bring myself to call the expat that I had rented it from. When I picked it up yesterday, he had casually mentioned the ignorance of another woman who couldn’t figure out how to use his scooter. I can’t be that woman. His condescending attitude had bothered me; I certainly can’t ask for his help now. But, not knowing what to do, I decide to drop him a causal message through Facebook messenger. “Do you happen to know where they move the motorbikes parked in front of the Japanese Bridge?” I wait a few minutes, but there is no response. No help there.

Sweat continues to gather in every crevice of my body; I want out of this situation. But I can’t give up. I quite literally cannot go anywhere without this scooter. With the sun beating down on me, I trek back to the tourist attraction and venture into a small stuffy office where a woman is selling admission tickets. 

“No thank you, I don’t need a ticket,” I say to the woman at the desk. “But please, where do they move the motorbikes?” She looks at me, confused and without a trace of sympathy for a sweaty, frustrated foreigner. “Maybe that way,” she says as she motions down the road. MAYBE THAT WAY?! What does that even mean?! She leaves me to ponder her response as she sells a ticket to the next person in line.

Where is my bike?! I am thirsty. And hungry. I am hot and so freaking sweaty. My hair is one big frizz ball. However, quitting is not an option.  I will not pay that arrogant man full price for a scooter that has vanished. It is obviously his fault that I am even in this situation. Had he not convinced me to rent this ridiculous electric scooter, I wouldn’t be here, dripping sweat, desperately trying to find it.

Fred didn’t have any scooters with engines (commonly referred to as “motorbikes” in Southeast Asia) and had persuaded me to take an electric one. He had said, “This one is legal for you to drive here. You’re lucky the police haven’t caught you driving a regular motorbike yet.” The guilt got me. I prefer to avoid the police. I took the electric scooter, but after months of using motorbikes with 135cc of engine power, I didn’t warm to it right away. It didn’t accelerate very well and unlike any other scooters I’d rented, it had a security system. That security system was precisely the reason for my current predicament. 

I came to this area earlier this morning because I had some time to kill before my 8am class. I hadn’t yet explored the Old City in the early morning and I decided to use the time to relax and find a cup of coffee. There were a lot of people around and the crowded sidewalks in front of local cafes reflected the street’s popularity in the early morning hours. However, after I’d parked, I couldn’t find a place to sit so I returned to my scooter, unsuccessful in my mission to find coffee, but impatient to get to class.

This is when I encountered trouble. As I turned the key in the ignition, the bike started beeping aggressively and jerked violently. My blood pressure skyrocketed and my heart rate shot up. I was scared this thing was going to buck me off or injure a passerby. My face burned with embarrassment and I had to make a quick decision. I could not afford to be late on my first day of teaching. I decided to leave the bike, walk the fifteen minutes to school, and deal with it after class.

So, here I am. Dealing with it after class. I’ve now spoken to a nearby restaurant employee, a worker at the Japanese Bridge, two men overseeing a questionable parking lot, and a woman selling tickets. No luck. And no one is concerned. Except for me; I am very concerned. And very hot. I follow the extremely vague tip I’d received from the ticket seller, and walk down the road she had suggested. I see coffee shops, tailors, eateries, and souvenir stores, but I  do not see anything resembling an impound lot for the scooters of dumb foreigners. Another layer of sweat seeps through my clothing as I turn to go back towards the scene of the crime, the sidewalk in front of the infamous Japanese Bridge. 

I venture down a perpendicular road, thinking maybe I misunderstood the last woman’s suggestion. Nope. Nothing. However, there is a man sitting on a bench outside a restaurant, close to a sign advertising its lunch specials. He has white skin and blue eyes, obviously a foreigner too. Desperate for someone to care about the emotional roller coaster I am on, I tell him, “I have been looking for my scooter for over two hours. Do you happen to know where they are moved to?!” Taking in the sight of a disheveled, sweaty woman with a book bag slung over her shoulder, he gives me what no one else has. Pity. I sense it. It makes me so happy. Someone cares! Someone will help me!

“I am pretty sure they move them to some place on that street over there,” he says and gestures towards the street I had just combed through. 

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been told, but I was just there. I didn’t see anywhere that motorbikes are kept.” 

His reply deflates my hope. “Hmmm… I’m not sure then.” Fuck. He has no idea. My short lived excitement dissipates.

I want to cry, but instead I say, “Maybe I missed something. Do you mind showing me where you think it might be?”

He looks a bit flustered, but answers, “Sure thing. Let’s go.” We walk about five minutes and he comes to the same conclusion I had. There is nothing on this street resembling an impound lot. I begin to feel a little guilty that I have enlisted this man to help me. His face is bright red and he is perspiring heavily; the sun has not let up.

Wanting to alleviate the discomfort of walking on pavement in the day’s peak heat, I decide to propose a new idea to this kind stranger. “Hey, do you think we could use your motorbike to find my scooter? I’ve covered a lot of ground by foot; maybe we could retrace my steps on a bike. I must have missed something.” 

“Oh,” he says, “I am actually working… so I can’t take you.” Oy. I had given absolutely no consideration as to what he was doing when I approached him. It did make more sense though; why else would he be sitting in the sun outside a restaurant? It is too fucking hot to be doing that for free.

Determined to capitalize on the only person that has cared about my predicament, I ask a question that surprises and confuses both of us. “Could I maybe use your motorbike to find my scooter? I promise I am a good driver. I will bring it back to you once I find mine.” I was desperate. And so so uncomfortably hot.

I can say with near certainty that he’s never had a perfect stranger ask to borrow his motorbike before. Yet, he answers, “Sure, let me get the key for you…This bike is a piece of junk though. I basically got it for free so yea, you can borrow it.” Really?! He’s going to let me use his bike? Thank you, God.

I hop on his motorbike and take a quick inventory of its functions. It accelerates and the brakes work. I’ve acquired a new tool on this ridiculous journey! A glimmer of hope emerges as I begin to retrace each place I had been on foot. Surely, I’d missed something. As I drive through the streets of Hoi An’s Old City, I’m comforted by the air moving through my hair and across my face. This search is much more bearable on a motorbike. Much less sweat.

Less sweat, but not more success. I can’t find that stupid white electric scooter anywhere. It should stick out like a sore thumb with the words “RENT ME” decaled between its front headlights. Why the hell had I rented it?! It sent on a strong signal to anybody in sight… Hello! Look at me! I’m a foreigner and I am lost.

After about forty five minutes, I worry my new friend might be feeling concerned that I made off with his motorbike. I don’t want him to think I’m a thief, so I make my way back to the restaurant, baffled at my continued failure.

“Any luck?” he asks as I try to figure out how to park his bike. Fumbling to make a smooth entrance, I ask for assistance. He must think I’m a complete idiot. 

“Thank you so much for letting me use it. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Unfortunately, no luck. I’m at a loss.”

“Really? Gosh, I’ve worked here over six months and have never known anyone to have their scooter moved. Somehow, everyone just knows not to park there after 8am.”

Everyone does not include me. It includes the local people, who all adhere to some unposted parking restrictions. There were no signs! Or were there? It is a possibility that the parking restrictions were posted in Vietnamese. I had been so flustered this morning by the scooter’s erratic behaviour and the prospect of being late to my new job. I suppose it’s possible I overlooked something.

“I think I’m just going to have to pay for it,” I admit to Max. “It’s shitty because I really don’t like the bike or the guy I rented it from.” I am also thinking about my finances. How much is Fred going to charge me for losing his scooter?! Oy. Big mistake renting this. BIG mistake.

 Max interrupts my judgemental thoughts; I am not finished reprimanding myself for this. To my surprise, he says, “Hang on a sec. Maybe Duyen can help you. She’s upstairs.” New hope! Who is Duyen and how can she help me?!

I wait nervously for what seems like an eternity, but in reality, is only five minutes. Duyen is the owner of this restaurant. I breathe a sigh of relief. I know the game has changed. I have a local on my side!

She tells me to hop on the back of her motorbike and I readily oblige. I am so relieved to have the support of someone who speaks the language and is willing to help me. I let optimism wash over me as Duyen drives down the same street I’d been by myself and again with her Irish employee. Unlike us though, she actually knows what she’s doing and promptly pulls up to a place that looks like someone’s home. We pop off the bike and I follow her inside. She talks to two Vietnamese office staff, and we are directed to an area down a hallway, filled with about twenty five scooters. We are close.

“No, I don’t see it,” I tell Duyen, making little effort to hide my disappointment. She displays no emotion, and I follow her as we return to the entrance. More words are exchanged between her and the officials, but I can’t understand any of it. The extent of my Vietnamese language knowledge is “hello” and “thank you”. 

They seem to have a lengthy conversation, but my fatigue is skewing my perception. In actuality, they talk for two minutes and then Duyen turns to me, “There’s another place it could be. I will take you there.”

“Ok, thank you very much,” I say. Thank God! She hasn’t given up. We get back on her motorbike and she drives me to the two men at the riverside parking lot. This place again.

I almost tell Duyen I’ve already visited this spot and that my scooter is not here, but I decide to wait and see. Maybe she will get a better answer when she asks in their native language. Sure enough, the men respond very differently to her. They smile and laugh as they exchange words. I have no idea what’s being said, but I wait patiently as I ponder what to do with my hands and what facial expression I should be making.

And then. There is confirmation. The scooter is here! Duyen and I follow the two men down a small alleyway about 50 meters from the makeshift parking lot. The silly, bright white electric scooter is locked to a fence. “RENT ME,” it advertises. I most certainly WILL NOT be renting this thing for any longer. I am so relieved to see it, but quickly start to panic. How much will these men charge to give it back to me? One hundred dollars? Two hundred? I have no idea, but my travel budget does not include an enormous impound fee. 

“What is the price?” I ask nervously. 

“Oh,” the louder one says with a mischievous smile. “One US dollar is fine.” All three locals chuckle as he unlocks the lame prize of this treasure hunt. Did I hear him correctly? Seriously? Just one dollar?!

“Thank you,” I say, handing him the money and climbing on the scooter before any other demands can be made. I am careful to use the unlock button this time. No beeping and or jerking. I am on my way. Well, that was simple. 

I cannot wait to change my clothes.