It was a sunny afternoon when I stepped into an internet café in the Vietnamese city of Hue.  The day, which so far had included coffee and conversation with the owner of my guesthouse and then a walk along the Pearl River, was going well.

But now, leaning back in my chair and clicking open a much anticipated email, I encountered words that had an effect comparable to being walloped in the head by a two-by-four.  “Although there is clearly a narrative,” my prospective agent had written, “there is no real story.  And without a clearer story, there is no book.”

Having had my queries and book proposals rejected nearly 50 times in the previous year, I was accustomed to being turned down.  But this agent had seemed different.  She was promising, even excited about the manuscript, which is why I hadn’t queried other agents during the previous ten weeks.

I had been awaiting her verdict with cautious optimism, knowing it would arrive during this six week visit to Vietnam.  But as I stared into the screen I saw not only that she had rejected the manuscript, she had even compared it—“it” being two years of hard labor—to a “travel journal one writes for oneself.”  This instantly caused something inside me, namely my identity, to crumple to the ground.

The day had taken an ugly turn.

Hue, Vietnam

Hue, Vietnam

Given that Hue had seen worse things than a traveler crushed by the contents of an email—for example, the city was ravaged by the 1968 Tet Offensive—I told myself to keep perspective.  Still, I felt numb as I stepped out of the cafe to commence a long and now desperately needed walk.  I really did feel lost, even abandoned.  And I asked anew that question which plagues many aspiring writers:  were the past few years of my life a complete waste?

After walking maybe a mile, I arrived at the You and Me Cafe, a modest establishment with tables set up along the sidewalk.  I had eaten here twice before, and the waitress knew my name.  And this afternoon I wanted to be at a place where somebody knew my name.

I ordered a rice and pork dish as well as a Huda Beer.  The locally produced drink—“brewed by Danish technology,” according to the label—is the most popular beer in Hue.  Seeing me investigate the label between sips, the waitress came over to tell me its history, which then led to a conversation about other things—the origin of Vietnamese names, our favorite movies, and so on.

Just before I began to eat, the waitress looked directly into my eyes and said, “You look sad today, Joel.  What is wrong?” I thought I had been hiding my disappointment well, and her having noticed brought a sheepish smile to my face.

“I am trying to publish a book about Asia,” I told her.  “I thought I was getting close, but today an agent said it wasn’t good enough.  I’ll probably feel better later, but right now I feel old, and I feel that I might have wasted the past few years.”

As I spoke, the waitress—her name was Oanh, and she was 19 years old—kept her eyes on mine even after mine had turned away from hers.  When I finished speaking a silence settled upon us for just a moment, then she softly replied, “Something we have after a long time of waiting is very wonderful.  And something we have easily I think that we may forget it.”

It was a sentiment I had heard often before, but not in the way I was hearing it now. The woman who spoke to me about the value of “waiting” was no stranger to hard work, long hours, and delayed gratification, and she knew the value of perseverance. There was a depth of character about Oanh, a quiet wisdom. In humbly offering me a gentle challenge, she offered me a glimpse of beauty, too.

As I ate my pork and rice, I wondered again how it was that a land so ravaged by war in decades past could still produce such refined beauty today.  I may never know the answer to this, but my exchange with Oanh reminded me why I had set out to write a book in the first place, as well as why I love to travel still.

The reason?  It is not to gaze upon vast landscapes or to accumulate amazing adventures, though I enjoy these things as much as the next traveler.  The reason, I think, is people like Oanh.

Myself at the cafe (Hue, Vietnam)

Perfume River (Hue, Vietnam)

  * An adaptation of this story appears in my book 30 Reasons to Travel: Photographs and Reflections from Southeast Asia.  "Waitresses" is one of the "30 Reasons."

Joel Carillet, chief editor of Wandering Educators, is a freelance writer and photographer based in Tennessee. He is the author of 30 Reasons to Travel: Photographs and Reflections from Southeast Asia. To learn more about him, follow his weekly photoblog, or purchase prints, visit www.joelcarillet.com.