Yellow Car. Lobby - E-5. 30 minute. Driver is coming.

Emily Grim
Feb 3, 2021
9 min read

-00821. Yellow Car. Lobby E-5. U can wait. 30 minute. Driver is coming.

Picture me, a terrified and exhausted American hustling through a bus parking lot shouting “Sapa, Yes? Sapa, No?” to every horrified Vietnamese driver that would dare look at me. I had on ripped jeans, three layers of tops, and was dripping in sweat. I can only look back on this moment in freeze frames. Me, shouting while still walking, not stopping to waste another second on a no answer, searching for the one person who would say, “Yes, this is the bus to Sapa.”

Allow me to explain.

Almost a year ago today, one of my closest friends, Mahala, and I were traveling from Southern Vietnam to the most Northern tip, Sapa. We had booked a three day trekking trip through the mountains of Sapa with a local brother and sister duo. It was an opportunity to learn more deeply about smaller cultures of the people who lived there, see gorgeous scenery, and hike away all of the food we had been inhaling the past few days.

We had booked a flight into Hanoi, and the plan was to take a bus from the Hanoi airport up to Sapa where they would meet us and begin our trek the next morning. The plan was firm, and we were ready for the next leg of the trip. That was until Mahala realized that we never received our bus tickets from our guide, and we didn’t actually know how we were supposed to be getting there. After three days of relentless messaging, our guide still didn’t respond, and we realized we would have to buy the tickets ourselves. After a stressful morning of getting to the airport, trouble with our bags, and almost missing our flight, we arrived in Hanoi with the idea of buying bus tickets there on our phones.

We looked everywhere online, and there was not a single bus ticket to be found. Apparently, buying bus tickets day of, was an absolute non-starter in Vietnam. We searched everywhere we could think to look, called every bus company and was hung up on many times because of our Vietnamese. We began to panic. We knew it was getting later in the day, and feared we wouldn’t make it up to Sapa that night, and therefore miss our early morning trek the next day.

After a few hours of failure, I decided to approach an airport attendant who had helped me earlier when looking for bus tickets. She had been remarkably kind and had a gentle disposition - the exact kind I had come to deeply trust when traveling. I asked her if she would be willing to call a bus company I had found and attempt to get us bus tickets. I pleaded with her, conceding that I knew it was beyond her job duties, but that I would be most grateful. I am not sure if she did it because she was simply a goodhearted person, if she had been front row on Mahala and I’s anxiety party, or if she saw the distress in my eyes and pitied me, but she agreed. A 10 minute phone call, lots of clear laughing on both ends of the phone, more than likely at my expense, and we had a lead.

She wrote on the back side of an airplane lobby catalog

“ -00821. Yellow Car. Lobby E-5. U can wait. 30 minute. Driver is coming. “

She explained that a driver would be arriving in 30 minutes and we were to report to the Lobby of E - 5 and wait for the driver with the yellow car. It was not a lot to go on, but we were desperate and optimistic. We grab our bags, hit up a sandwich shop because we hadn’t eaten all day, and ran to find E-5.

We did not find E-5.

We searched and searched, and we found E, but nothing denoting numbers. We asked around and were told we were in the right place. We sat on our bags outside of Gate E, ate our ketchup and bread sandwiches, and with renewed vigor, began discussing our next adventure. But 30 minutes past quickly, and another 30 minutes past, and still no sign of a single yellow car. My optimism was waning quickly, but I could watch it drain from Mahala’s eyes as she scrolled through social media, dissociating from the situation. I began to pace. We had made it so far, too far for this to be where we get stuck. I was hell bent on getting us to Sapa. I told Mahala to stay and wait while I did a loop of the airport bus parking. I looked for any sign that pointed us on the way to Sapa.

Absolutely nothing.

As I walked back to our cement team base, Mahala with tears in her eyes, looked up from her phone, and said, “Kobe Bryant just died in a helicopter accident.” Yes, that was the day we were having. I wasn’t devastated over the news, I barely knew who he was, but something in my exhausted body broke, and I started sobbing. Not perilous river of tears from sadness, but hot fiery tears, the same tears that erupted out of me as a child when I couldn’t do something I wanted to. It was an inner frustration that began to rattle me so quickly I had to sit.

So there I sat for another 30 minutes for the driver that still hadn’t come. Cheeks inflamed from days of too much sun and salty tears. We sat in silence, the two of us, on that cement sidewalk outside Lobby E feeling betrayed by our lovely airport attendant, who had been a double agent of disappointed hopes all along.

I look at the crumpled piece of paper in my hands, with practically no information to go on, and felt something in me shift. I had made it here. A early morning, over FaceTime decision months ago to come to Vietnam had gotten me here. A failed Visa, an accidental layover in Chicago, and many, many flights had gotten me here. I was not going to be thwarted by the likes of a delayed yellow driver, or an unresponsive tour guide. As though a bald eagle itself had possessed by body, I felt overcome with all the traits foreigners rightfully disliked about Americans. I grew loud, aggressive, and entitled.

I abandoned Mahala, my bags, and the last bite of ketchup bread, and hauled my ass to the parking lot of busses, again. I hurled myself at every driver yelling, “Sapa, yes? Sapa, No?” with more aggression than was warranted. I knew someone had to be going to Sapa, and if I had to spend double, one of these men was going to get me to Sapa. I strutted through that parking lot like it was the final runway of America’s Next Top Model. If Tyra had seen me, I would be on a runway in Milan right now, and not writing this from Ohio. I was certainly not proud of the behavior, and I am positive I looked insane to the drivers, who I am sure had a good chuckle out of it. However, I had to do whatever I could to make it happen, I had just enough optimistic delusion to keep me moving towards a goal with no other plan in the way.

After a long journey through the lot, not a single bus was going to Sapa. I returned to Mahala to strategize another plan. As we talked, a small yellow van approached Lobby E - Mahala and I snapped our heads, and in perfect unison exclaimed, “YELLOW CAR.” We were renewed beyond words, if they evangelists were ever to get me then that was the time, because baby I believed in miracles. A man hopped out and looked right at us, and said “Sapa?” We clearly were the two white ladies he had been asked to pick up. We threw our bags in the back and hopped in like we were asking to be taken. At that point, I was ready and willing, and hoping that Liam Neeson would be on standby if we needed him. We settled in, put on our seatbelts, and prepared for the long drive through the mountains.

The driver had other plans… He began to stop more and more times, picking up more and more passengers. Soon our tiny yellow car haven was beginning to feel like a fraudulent clown car.

As a woman set her child between my lap and hers, I thought to myself, “Well, this is going to be the worse four hours of my life, but at least we are on our way.” Turns out, this was not the car to Sapa after all.

Before you panic, remember I’m alive and well, and I look back on this with fond memories. Apparently, the yellow car only drives you to the bus stop on the outskirts of Hanoi. It was from that bus stop we would buy our tickets and take the real bus to Sapa.

The bus stop itself was an old, kind of dirty building, and if it were in the US, we would more than likely assume it was part of some shady money laundering activity. However, there were families waiting for busses and two very chatty ladies selling tickets. I waited patiently to buy tickets, finally secured the last two seats available on the bus, and Mahala and I could finally take deep breaths. We sat and waited for over two hours at the bus station. Many buses came and passed in our time there. Every time a new bus would arrive, I would look back at the ticket woman, and with a glimmer of hope in my eyes utter, “Sapa?” Everytime she would say no and shake her head. She became so used to me asking that she would say no in my direction before I had the chance to rotate my head. Mahala and I unpacked the news of Kobe Bryant, and she wept a lot. We made faces at a cute baby, and giggled when a chicken tried to make its way inside. I knew I was in a state of zen by all the free range chicken jokes I made, that true to form, Mahala politely laughed at.

Eventually, late into the afternoon, a bus pulled up, and I got a feeling in my gut. Time for Sapa. The ticket woman waited for us to turn around, and with a sly smile said, “Sapa.”

We loaded up our bags, got into our seats. Which, I can’t really even call them seats, because they were really beds. They were seats that were entirely reclined, so you were basically stored vertically, tempting you at all points to rest your eyes. I was physically and emotionally exhausted from the day, and was grateful to be able to nap while we wound through the mountains to finally arrive in Sapa, well into the night. We check into a hotel, and began our trek early in the morning. Our guide was incredibly sweet, and apologized for the delayed response on our bus tickets. Her brother normally handles them, and was tending to his wife who had their first baby while we sat at the airport. It’s a little hard to stay angry with a new father after all, and all the heartache and recline of my hairline was worth it for the next three days we would spend in Sapa.

I find my mind drifting to this memory often, and with great fondness. It serves many reminders to me and I find more lessons in it every time I recall it or share it with a friend.

So, I made a list, and I am sharing it with you.

Sometimes the worst memories are really the best.
Be bold, even when it feels inappropriate.
Be tenacious - keep going with as much vigor as you can muster, let nothing deter you from your goal. If you fault, try again.
Get the top window seat on all sleeper buses, no one can puke on you from the top bunk.
Trust in the kindness of others.
Enjoy the ride, even when it gets uncomfortable.
Never eat ketchup and bread sandwiches.
Be forgiving, you don’t know anything of the life you aren’t living.
Always buy your bus tickets in advance.
Trust the delusional optimism you feel in your gut. Those who don’t believe in the improbable, seldom accomplish the impossible.

I am sure with time and further reflection I will derive more to add to this list, and you may find something yourself within it. I have found shelter in my reveries that replay through this memory when I need to remind myself of my strength, intuition, and tenacity. Many moments in the past year have made me question my character, and I am certain that it will be tested again. When I fear myself weak, petrified, meek, and limited, I remember I am the same woman who was handed a ripped off piece of paper with nothing but, “-00821. Yellow Car. Lobby E-5. U can wait. 30 minute. Driver is coming, “ and still made it to Sapa. It currently hangs about my desk in a frame with other post cards from Vietnam. After all, its the kind of memento you can’t find in an airport souvenir shop.

Do you have a memory you turn to for strength, or you are simply fond of? Let me know in the comments below. I would love to read them.