When I sit here at another airport, my mind focuses singularly on the first bowl of pho that I will consume when I arrive at one of my favorite cities on earth: Hanoi. If I close my eyes and ignore the man who snores heavily beside me, and the boy loosening his lungs in the far corner of this sterile airport, I can almost smell the streets, hear the sound of the horn and feel the frenzied energy of the city. I can easily remember an image: me, sitting on a plastic stool, face down in a smoky bowl of pho as I take the first ceremonial inhalation. The bouquet of cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, garlic, green onion and history inflates my tired traveling soul with joy, comfort and something similar to a strong hug from an old friend. After the passage of one more flight that image will be a reality. As you may catch up, I love Hanoi: I love your food, I love its dynamic busy streets, its hidden cafes, its cycle drivers who ask me to take a walk around every corner. I love plastic stools an...