The Plunge

Exploring the city is like easing into a scalding bath.

First, the big toe—the walk to the next block to buy a jug of water and sim card. Then both feet tentatively submerge; a stroll to a coffee shop almost half a mile away. Finally, the entire body sinks in, slowly adjusting to the heat; I enter the Independence Palace for a self-guided tour.

The architect intended to mix tradition with
modernity. Shadows are cast from the outside decor
meant to look like bamboo.

And so day one begins. The palace housed the South Vietnamese government when the country was divided into the communist north and American-backed south. When communist troops finally seized the building in April 1975, it marked the fall of Saigon, (now called Ho Chi Minh City), and the reunification of the country. The communist party has ruled ever since, though business was eventually privatized in 1986.

The palace with North Vietnamese troops out front.
More photos from the fall of Saigon at http://www.vintag.es/2015/04/vietnam-war-40-years-ago-75-beathtaking.html. 

Wandering the halls of the palace 50 years later is like stepping back in time. There are plush red carpets and 1970s velvet chairs; pictures of President Nixon and McNamara adorn informative signs. The old war room touts faded maps and retro, green chairs.   

The roof of the palace with
a commemorative helicopter.

The painting behind the chair
is lacquer, a traditional Vietnamese
art form.

Years ago, I took several classes with a Vietnam Veteran turned professor, Dr. Byron Dare. He is a Marxist expert, political scientist and the most intense professor I’ve ever had. All of his lectures somehow found their way back to the Vietnam War. Even lectures on Plato and St. Augustine. Being here, I can't help but miss him.  

After an hour of wandering the halls, I finally begin to relax. Just like adjusting to the heat from the bath, what was first uncomfortable now starts to feel good.

I leave the manicured lawns of the palace behind and find myself on a familiar street, one traveled a year ago. My feet remember the path to the grocery store and I end up strolling familiar isles of unfamiliar foods; the place smells of fish and fruit. I buy yogurt, then leave.

A lot has happened since I last walked these sidewalks, but somehow my body remembers. I remember how to cross the street, becoming a tiny boat moving across a rushing river. I stay calm and steady as the current of motorbikes passes around me, never stopping.

On the way back to the hotel I am approached by a group of six students. They are in matching white shirts and navy slacks. They ask to interview me for an exercise in their English class. Of course I say yes. The main interviewer has large, thick glasses that almost obscure the top of her face.

We chat about the weather, the traffic, the city. Out of the corner of my eye I see a woman photographing me on one side and a man on the other. For 15 minutes, I am a celebrity. One student films the interview head-on, another records it on her phone. Photographs come from behind, capturing the bags I feel collecting under my eyes. I'm exhausted. We pose for a group photo. Then the students are gone and I am once again weaving my way through traffic.

Park surrounding the palace; also where
I met the students.

I need to get out of the bath; I’m beginning to overheat.

Back in my room I eat a blessedly cold kiwi and guava yogurt cup and drink copious amounts of water.  It's 90 degrees out and humid. Friday’s high is projected to be 97. I feel the heat and the pull of Mountain Standard Time weighing down my body.

I need to eat real food. At 6 pm I head out. There is a café less than a block away and it’s a traveler’s paradise: cool, quiet and practically empty. Smooth jazz plays as I look around at retired cameras, rotary phones and records glued to the wall. Dried flowers decorate teal-painted window seals and the outlines of crows are stitched onto the pillows. I have yet to see a crow in Vietnam. This place was built for Westerners.

I devour tofu and mushroom curry with rice. A slice of pepper leaves me silently crying for several minutes and I’m embarrassed by my lack of spice tolerance. I'm eating alone, and too fast, the pepper harshly reminds me to slow down. It’s okay to be alone.

Dinner of rice (that looks like a waffle) and tofu, mushroom curry.

It's time to pull the plug and make my way back to my room. I change into shorts and dump my dirty clothes into the bathroom sink to wash them. I will draw myself another bath tomorrow.