Dear Noodle Lady,

It’s 96 degrees with humidity nearing 100 percent. The smell of fermented fish paste and raw meat wage a war against my gag reflexes. I’m worlds away from the nearest metropolitan farmer’s market — no mommies with strollers here. And then I see you. I want to know everything about you. I want to know about your clothes, your noodles, your family, your culture. I have so many questions, but I only ask one. I point to my camera, “May I take your picture?” The rest of your story I’ll have to imagine on my own.

-Kristen