Weasel shit coffee

There is a quite renowned kind of Vietnamese coffee that we have yet to try, but we have made a point to taste at some point. The beans are fed to a certain species of weasels, and the undigested beans are collected from the excrement are roasted and served in reputable cafes all over the country. If there is something to be said that the Vietnamese drink weasel-shit coffee, I'm not sure what it is yet.
All I need now is a palm frond and peeled grapes I can see Jon thinking. Jon's back and shoulders mushroomed up under the tiny glass pots. Actually the process is slightly uncomfortable, and since he is hungry and fears that movements would dislodge the cups, Julie feeds him spring rolls and shrimp omlettes. The masseur, signaled over while passing by indicating his services by ringing a small bell attached to his bicycle, opened his briefcase full of glass pots sizing from small to shockingly large. After Jon was coaxed out of his T-shirt in the small restaurant in Saigon-turned-Ho Chi Minh City, the masseur lit a flame into the inverted pots and screwed them on to specific locations on Jon's skin, which immediatly turn various shades of scarlet and violet.
Our bus that left the next day stopped midway between HCMC and Mui Ne for lunch at a run of the mill roadstop cafe, my first view of rural Vietnam, which means no English. Although SE Asian countries vary almost imperceptibly at times, each group of citizens interactions are remarkably different. Cambodians are quite childlike, laughing with you as easily as they laugh at you, but the Vietnamese that I attempted to interact with reacted as if they all had secret adolscent crushes on me. Upon seeing me, they would all look away, giggling furiously. Trying to buy fruit that was harvested on Venus, all of the market owners would whisper furtively to each other, everyone both wanting desperatly to interact with me, but terrified to comunicate. Arriving in Mui Ne, we can see lithe young women weave their bicycles through traffic in their white floor-length long-sleeved dresses that shine like beacons through the grey oceans fog. They only betrayal of their ethereal nature is their rhythmic movement noticable through hip-high slits, their white pants peeking out at regular intervals as they pedal. Delicate orchids and dragonflies of their dresses catch the headlights, front panals tucked between fingers resting on the handlebars, back panals flapping in their wake. Mui Ne can be seen in the background, sleepy fishing boats bouncing off of one another in the port, a promise of fish so fresh it has no smell, which is precisely what we need, and have, after our six hour bus ride. Though Mui Ne appears to cater more to travelers wealthier than to travelers of our meager means, we locate an abandoned lot sandwhiched between multi-starred resorts-this and michelin restaurant-that. The passing hurricane rains drips through tears in the tarp pitched over low metal tables and kiddie tables plastic stools. We crunch on BBQ crabs and dirt cheap grilled mussels that has been out of the ocean for moments, then lumber out into the waves for a night swim, lights of dormant boats on the horizon flickering silently, the theme of the sea emcompassing all aspects of life in Mui Ne.