Art and motorbikes

Stained glass next to the oldest lift in HCMC.

Getting up at 5:30 am is like being gifted an extra day. Yesterday I slept through breakfast; today I was one of the first ones in the dining room.

The buffet that greeted me offered an amazing variety: beef sandwich wedges, pho (pronounced like “fun” without the “n”; it’s a brothy soup with a selection of meat, noodles and fresh herbs), spaghetti, steamed green beans, sticky rice, roasted chicken, meat balls, veggie egg scramble, fried bananas, fried shrimp rolls, a variety of breads, quartered pancakes, cereal, tomato slices and fruit.

I sat down with a plate of steamed veggies, shrimp and egg and a cup of steaming Vietnamese coffee. The black liquid that comes out of coffee urns here is unlike anything else—thick, spiced and wicked strong. It’s traditionally served with condensed milk, making the consistency like syrup.

Around the breakfast room were people from all different backgrounds. I heard French from a table of retirees across the room; heavy British accents from a young couple with backpacks on who said they were in a hurry; Vietnamese flowed between two mothers and two young sons; and contented slurping came from the table next to me, where two men sat with two steaming bowls of pho.

Where I was slow and sluggish yesterday, today I felt like lightning. Before the clock struck 8 am, I had eaten, checked my email, listened to the news and headed out onto the streets in a new direction. The strong caffeine coursed through my veins and propelled me past dress shops, food stands, nail salons and endless motorbikes.

Smells hit me from all directions: the reek of garbage and sewage from the night before mixed with pungent incense and roasting chicken. Exhaust from the passing motorbikes perpetually made breathing unpleasant. And horns sounded all around me as drivers signaled they wanted to pass.

I saw a sign for a travel agent and veered inside. A plump man with thick-rimmed glasses and a big smile helped me book a bus for Can Tho tomorrow. He told his friend will pick me up on his motor bike in the morning to bring me to the station. I told I have two backpacks. He smiled and said it will be easy, no problem, and I realized my concern seemed ridiculous. Everything fits on a motor bike.

   

"Hong Sau, a war correspondent," by Bay Tra.

I left the beaming travel agent, receipt in hand, and decided to hit up a Hindu temple a few blocks away. I don’t like pulling out maps when I’m walking around by myself…so I just sort of wandered in the general direction I thought it was supposed to be. I happened to glance across the street as I was scurrying past a soup stand, and there it was, barely noticeable with construction almost obscuring the front.

It was practically empty, with two worshipers praying in an inner ring of wooden fence surrounding the deities. All of the signs were in Vietnamese and I wasn’t sure where I was allowed to go and where I was supposed to take off my shoes. Rather than risk offending, I stayed only a few minutes, then headed back to the street.

Next on my list was the art museum. It was the highlight of my day.

Last year, I spent several hours in the War Remnants Museum, where gruesome pictures of battle, Agent Orange victims and torture instruments decorate level after level of the building. Visiting helped fill in the gaps I’d had about the war, especially as viewed from the Vietnamese side. But the museum is very journalistic in its coverage, very factual. There are personal stories, yes, but very timeline driven.

"Ba Son Shipyard's Defense," by Nguyen Sien.

The art museum, for me, filled in all the war museum could not—the feelings of the people who were there. Art is a way to understand thoughts, emotions and internal processes. Paintings, sculpture, theater—all give us a window into mind of the creator at the time the piece was produced.

In addition to more classical pieces, there was modern art pre- and post-1975. It was amazing. I spent over two hours just looking at the modern pieces; then I couldn’t absorb anymore and had to leave.

As I turned the corner away from the past, I looked up to see skyscrapers with “Citi Group” and “California Yoga” in big letters on the side. I passed a man selling used, metal forks sitting outside of Highland Coffee, with a Starbucks just a few blocks up. Then the old market came into view.

The city is a blend of developing and developed on every block.

"An emergency operation," Huynh Thi Kim Tien.

The rest of the day I spent getting things in order to leave tomorrow, writing and drinking more strong coffee. I was able to meet up with the University of Montana students at their hotel in the evening, and joined two of my classmates for a dinner of yummy stir fried veggies and rice in an open air restaurant with bright yellow walls, white shutters and flowing curtains.

Eating with them was the most I’ve talked in three days.

Outside the restaurant more and more motorbikes began to appear. The traffic exponentially increased each hour today, with New Year’s Eve patrons congregating for a night of celebration. If I had been here for a few more days, or if I hadn’t been up so early, perhaps I would have ventured to pursue midnight. Even with a mild effort to stay awake, I was out before 10 pm. I will embrace the New Year first thing in the morning.

With gratitude for an amazing journey in 2015:

Thank you for the new friends and families who have entered my life—in the lab, in school, as babysitting clients, as friends from countries all over Asia.

Thank you for a wonderful place to live, surrounded by hilarious and supportive people, with fresh chicken eggs every morning.

Thank you for my health and safety, for dance classes and singing.

Thank you for the challenges that make me cry and make me want to quit.

Thank you for clean water and climate control.

Thank you for a mother who always says “okay” when I tell her my next idea, my next destination.

Thank you for a life of so much opportunity.

May the new year bring us all more peace, more compassion and more love.

With affection,

Shanti