Hello Again, Vietnam
Oh Chaos, How I've Missed You So
Exiting the elevator, I made for the door, dropped down the front steps and turned right to head down to the market. A half-minute to half-stroll, half-walk a half-block. That’s all it took to know exactly where I’d arrived.
A steady cascade of leaves, grit, and other bits of urban detritus tumbled down the street from up-block having escaped more than a few sets of weary hands. A warm humid summery breeze slowly wafted over, around, and through an urban maze of disjointed streets and alleyways that separated the scramble of the inner city from the more predictable blockier outlying districts. An aging yet solid matriarch crouched down on a little red plastic stool snugged up against the close edge of a steaming wok and chatted loudly with regulars who sat on matching stools dragging off smokes as they anxiously awaited the moment when their taste buds would catch up with their noses. A tired foot flung itself over the top of the handlebars of an equally tired motorcycle as some nearby fingers continued to work away at a phone. Impatient horns bleeped and blurted and bounced off warming walls of concrete in every direction. The absolutely unmistakeable pungent and acrid smell of two cycle engine exhaust permeated the air from a never ending parade of scooters and motorcycles that wove its way along a route that endlessly split, merged, divided, and recombined as it snaked its way through a thick urban jungle packed with places, people, and things but with little bits of careless abandon, loving care, benign neglect, and hopeful gentrification sprinkled in between.
All these disparate elements rustled up together with ten thousand more details big and small to form a clear message that I was all too happy to receive, all suggesting that everything in this life was going to turn out okay no matter what turn of events ended up taking place. I had found my way back to a country that had stolen my heart so many years ago. Hello again, Vietnam.
With such signature stimuli, there was no mistaking as to exactly where I’d landed. Up to that point, I hadn’t been one hundred percent certain.
Stumbling my way over the immigration hurdles in the wee hours of the night, there had been some obvious hints. A bleary-eyed, foggy-headed, and draggy-assed humanoid-like creature that looked sort of looked like me had been spotted shuffling down the airport corridors in a state of full disarray. It was readily apparent to most that he really didn’t know which end was up or what exactly lay right before him. His ticket said he’d just arrived in Ho Chi Minh City. Perhaps in body but not quite in spirit. His head was still enroute.
If he’d only been a bit more astute, he would have taken note of the telltale lingual tones and inflections emanating from the overhead speakers, the waves of returning citizens that looked altogether unlike him surging down the hallways, signs boldly displaying a vaguely familiar yet still very foreign tongue, and the constant reminders that he’d need to present his carefully guarded tourist visa up ahead that he’d applied for back in the States and that would eventually grant him entry into a country called Vietnam.
But when had such a sleepless and confused creature ever been a keen observer of the finer points even at the best of times?
Hitting the snooze button more than once as I fumbled around through all the zombie wake up calls, I suddenly found myself at curbside waiting for my semi-prearranged, half-official, half-scattershot ride to the little boutique hotel that I’d booked just a few days prior. Having been recently bombarded with a slew of email reminders that I’d need to pay for my ride immediately on arrival at the hotel using only cash in the local currency, some vague recollections were beginning to emerge from the mists.
Waking up to some of the new realities on this other side of the wormhole, I suddenly found myself standing at a front desk checking in with a night clerk who’d seemingly been slumbering away sprawled across a couch in a hotel lobby sporting a few well curated pieces that unmistakably placed my arrival at a fixed spot on the still spinning globe. “Yes…OK…pay later.” Why, of course. No problem. Never mind all those emails. No need to dig out my buried stash of cash. Naturally, I could pay for my ride when I checked out in a few days using my credit card. Any shadows of a doubt as to exactly where I’d arrived instantly vaporized.
Finally, once I’d made it up to my room after riding up a syrupy slow elevator and opening up a door secured with nothing other than a janky old school lock, I received my final clue sitting in a basket on the nightstand. “Wifi password: 12345678.” Hello again, Vietnam.
Despite having the good fortune of being able to collapse onto a comfortable bed in full body with all limbs and appendages seemingly intact, my mind had been long declared lost luggage and wouldn’t be fully found and delivered til morning. Bah. Not to worry.
It was my nose that woke me up a scant few hours later in full excitement. Wonderful aromas billowed up through the stairwell and seeped into the room through a wide crack at the bottom of my door. Instantly awake, I knew some of my favorite earthly delights were waiting for me only an elevator ride down and a few steps away at the breakfast buffet.
On my way out the door, another note on the table reminded me of what I must have learned very late the night before. The full breakfast spread came complimentary and would be served in a beautiful courtyard out the back end of the lobby.
I’ll forever remember the moment that morning when I nibbled the first of what would be a long string of heavenly bites of the world’s freshest produce. Scooping out dark seeds that’d been swimming in a tangy tarty pool of orange pulp informed me I was eating passion fruit. The mildly sweet flavor and stiffer chewiness of a sliced white fruit embedded with tiny black crunch bombs and edged with a waxy pinkish rind suggested there was dragonfruit on my plate. The bold slices of a bright red, juicy, crispy and flavorful fruit precariously perched on the edge of my overflowing plate smacked of the presence of watermelon far better than any of us could find stateside. Green veggies fresher and snappier than found anywhere in the heart of California’s most verdant farmlands spoke volumes. I’d finally arrived in one piece to Saigon, perfectly perched an arm’s reach away from the Mekong Delta, the world’s most fertile land, in full body, mind, spirit, and tongue. Hello again, Vietnam.
The warm, delicate, and flaky croissants that had somehow leapt off the tray and landed onto my plate reminded me that the French had their expert hands at work in influencing the cuisine of this great culture. As I drained my third cup of Vietnamese coffee infused with only the boldest, strongest, and darkest of strokes, I was fully stoked and couldn’t be more ready for the day to begin.
Having finished up all the usual morning rituals and with petty cash in hand, I made my way down to the front desk. Now that I was myself again, I decided it might be a nice gesture to settle up my airport transfer. The attendant who’d greeted me last night was nowhere to be found but had been tag-teamed by a much cheerier replacement. Must I pay in cash or would it still possible to pay with credit card? Of course, a credit card would be just fine, especially if paying in cash would mean that I’d be troubled with running down to the nearest ATM to replenish my reserves. No problem.
Asking where I was heading that morning, she was delighted to remind me that the biggest market in this biggest city of Vietnam was only a half block down and one block over. Perfect! Nothing like haggling right off the bat charged with the buzz of coffee so strong that it’d jolt awake a tranquilized bull.
After an exhausting hour of picking my way through the thick jungle of stimulus that is the Ben Thanh Market, overloaded with pushy vendors popping out of narrow aisles trying to sell me things that I neither wanted nor needed, I was mentally pooped. Could I call it a day? That’d be about par for Day 1.
With nothing more important on the agenda that morning, I decided my best move would be to find that small quiet cafe my daughter had recommended. Obscurely occupying the corner of an intersection a few blocks away, it had seemingly escaped the attention of Instagram. Perfect. I needed some downtime.
Sitting there alone for most of that first morning, incredibly the sole patron of a beautiful cafe, perched on the edge of a nicely chill balcony almost within reach of the streets of chaos but a mile away in spirit, I instinctively knew that there really didn’t need to be anything else on the agenda that day. Though only hours old, the trip had already been a resounding success. I had found my way back to one of my happy places. Hello again, Vietnam.
Several weeks of a long, empty, gorgeously blank canvas lay between me and my return flight home. What was to come? Where would I go? Who would I meet? What would I see? Who knew? Certainly not me. I didn’t want to know. As usual, I took great comfort in all the unknowns. Too much structure would painfully detract from the whole experience.
Clacking away on a keyboard perched atop a sagging wooden shelf leaning off the edge of a cracked semi-painted railing supporting a lovely hanging garden, I took another delightful drag from a mug of beautifully prepared coffee, eased out a long-awaited contented sigh, leaned a bit further back in my comfortable chair, kicked out some happy feet, and graciously welcomed back all things Vietnamese. Hello again, Vietnam.
