This is Vietnam

Scenes from Saigon

Dec 14, 2023

I untie my hair and ease my weary body onto the backseat of the car I had hired to take me home. My driver—ever courteous and punctual—puts the car into drive and connects his phone to the music system—a gentle, classical tune soon washes over me, soothing my nerves, frayed from a day of marching around airports, waiting on uncomfortable chairs, and obsessively checking my watch to make sure I don’t miss my flight.

After two weeks in Seoul and close to a month in Bangkok, I find myself pleased to be back in Ho Chi Minh City, formerly Saigon, home for the past two and a half years. I take out my phone and snap a quick photo of the façades whizzing by—nothing artistic, just good enough for an Instagram story to proclaim my happy return.

I love this place. The thought came unbidden. It surprised me. I like my life here well enough, but I usually don’t have many kind words for the place itself. It lacks most of the qualities that endear a city to me. Not safe, no convenient public transport, a death trap for anyone who enjoys getting around on foot as much I do.

Yet, I love it. I love it for the chaos, the way the sea of motorbikes flows around you as if by magic when you dare to cross the street, the endless energy, the cheeky salesgirl confidently peddling her chilled bottled water for ten times the normal price and looking indignant when I walk away, the sheer life of it all.

I love this city—and didn’t even know it until this moment gazing out at the eclectic crowd of commuters on two wheels rushing to get home before the evening traffic—office workers sporting neat backpacks and shiny shoes, sellers back from an uneventful day at the market with bags of unsold goods hanging from every inch of their bike, frail retirees who look like they might fall off any second, schoolchildren surely too young to be driving, especially with no helmets.

This post is my ode to Saigon. It’s about time.

The woman in the white dress

She was already there when I arrived at the restaurant. Seeing me, she beams and gets up to give me a hug. I wrap my arms carefully around her tiny frame, but not before taking in her beautiful white dress of intricate lace that stops just short of her small knees. A delicate dress, perfect for its dainty wearer.

What a pretty dress, I gush. She smiles shily and we head inside.

Once seated at our table, she takes charge. She opens the menu, turns it around so I can read, and points to the lunch sets—this is a great deal, you get a decent plate of meat, rice, and side dishes. Plus desserts and drinks. I nod my approval. Should we get two lunch sets, then we can share the meat? She doesn’t wait for me to respond. How about this and this?

It’s my first time at this barbecue restaurant, I can’t tell a top blade from a chuck, and I have no idea what’s good. Sure, I agree, grateful to have my choice deftly made for me.

Our food arrives and she gets to work grilling the thin slices of beef. It doesn’t take long before my plate is adorned with a neat pile of perfectly-grilled top blade. With the tongs, she expertly picks up another piece from the grill and deposits it on my plate.

I’m not sure if she’s in the habit of grilling meat for her lunch companions, or if she’s doing it out of duty. But I’m quite happy to have my food cooked for me, and so I raise no objection.

How’s your business doing? She asks. Fine, thanks, I reply politely. I don’t elaborate. I have no idea how open a business owner should be with their bank manager, so I share nothing at all. What does your husband do? I change the subject. In our first meeting at the bank, she’d told me about her Korean husband, and so I took this to be an appropriate conversation topic.

I assumed correctly, and conversation flows uninterrupted for the next hour without drifting into the murky territories of business and banking: her husband, my partner, life in Ho Chi Minh City,… shall we get the bill?

The bill arrives. I hesitate. Is my bank manager supposed to pay for me? Am I supposed to pay for her? As she checks the items on the bill, I volunteer: how much? She divides the total in half and tells me my share. Smooth, I praised myself.

We pay and exit the restaurant. The parking attendant wheels out my bank manager’s scooter—white, just like her dress. You live near here? She asks. Yes, not too far. She pops open the seat of her bike, takes out a helmet, a jumper, a long skirt, gloves. I look on, amazed at the surprising amount of storage space underneath. She puts the seat back down, clicks it into place, then starts putting on the various items of clothing—typical riding gear to prevent suntan in a society that prizes pearl-white skin. In under a minute, the dainty woman in the short white dress is covered head to toe, down to the tips of her fingers. Add a pair of black sunglasses and you might think she’s the bank robber, not the manager.

I stare in amazement at her transformation, but she doesn’t seem to notice. With one graceful leg sweep, she mounts her bike, then turns to me and smiles. Hop on, I’ll give you a ride home.

The man with the puppies

It was the fairy lights that did it. All through lockdown, the place shone bright, an explosion of white against the blackness of our neighbourhood. That’s a café, my partner said. I’ve been once, nothing special.

I was intrigued. But when lockdown ended, we were keen to return to our favourite haunts and the café with the fairy lights, though it still sparkled every night, was quickly forgotten.

Weeks, maybe months, went by before we finally dropped in. This place looks much nicer, my partner remarked, surprised. The café was nestled in a small but lush garden. The inside was cosy and inviting. Pop music played gently in the background.

We’re new, the owner introduced himself. We got this place just before lockdown so we’re only starting up now. He handed us the menu with a flourish: a nice variety of coffee drinks, with bean options—a rarity for a local place. We saw your lights. He laughed. That’s what we were hoping for.

Who’s this? A puppy was sniffing my foot. Gin, like the drink. The owner ruffled the pup’s head affectionately. Hope to see you guys again soon, he said as we turned to leave.

You will! I waved goodbye. Bye Gin!

The café with the fairy lights would become my second office over the next two and a half years. Their coffee was good, the staff welcoming—everyone knew who I was and always greeted me by name—and in the evening the place turned into an Italian pizza joint and smokehouse, deliciously rolled into one.

Gin grew quickly in size and energy and, somewhat unfortunately, territoriality. It wasn’t uncommon to see him bark relentlessly at the dogs some of the patrons had brought to the pet-friendly café. Cats he seemed more accepting of. Whether he’d eventually warm to other dogs, we never got to find out. Gin died shortly after his first birthday, on a beach vacation with his owner. Apparently, he was the happiest he’d ever been the day before he died. The owner’s voice trembled as he shared the tragic news, the shock plain on his face. We thought it best not to probe, and so the manner of Gin’s passing remains a mystery.

A painting of Gin still hung on the wall, and for a few weeks the café’s regulars all felt a Gin-shaped void. Then one day, I turned up to find an exact replica of young Gin snuffling about. This is Leo, the owner beamed.

I offered my hand for Leo to sniff. Hi Leo. Silently, I added, I hope you live a long life.

My ode to Saigon

Saigon to me is a collection of memories: my bank manager in her beautiful white dress instantly transformed into an anonymous motorcyclist, the café owner grinning as he introduces his canine babies.

Thinking of my bank manager in her white dress, I recall our very first meeting at the bank when she waited with me for hours as the clerk attempted to rush through my currency conversion request so I could withdraw the cash that would cover my first month in the country. She could have left—her work was done—but I spoke no Vietnamese and the clerk spoke no English, so she stayed to translate.

I recall countless remittance orders that needed to be written down on physical forms and couriered to the bank, which could have been a pain but never were because she was always quick to reply—yes, you can send the form now—and execute—the transfer has been made, I’ll confirm when it goes through—even routinely filling in my company details so I didn’t have to.

I recall the one time I received an undecipherable email from the bank with a bunch of undecipherable forms—in Vietnamese—I needed to complete and return for legal purposes, and panicked. Don’t worry. You come to the branch, we fill it in together. That potential ordeal turned into a wonderful day out: swift and painless visit to the bank, delicious lunch in a nearby district after.

When I think of the café owner with his puppies, I think of the warm greetings that welcome me every time I turn up with my laptop, order one drink, and stay for four hours working. I remember conversations where he told me and my partner the story of how his café/Italian pizza joint/smokehouse came to be, what kind of establishment he hoped to see it become. I recall the one time he fostered a dog that had been abandoned and, while hosing her down in the driveway, railed at irresponsible pet owners who bought fancy puppies only to abandon them once grown. I remember our favourite waitress who never forgets my partner’s dairy allergy and is always happy to substitute a different pizza ingredient for the cheese he can’t eat.

When I think of Saigon, I think of all the wonderful people I’ve gotten to know, the people whose stories fill me with hope, the people who make this city—however lacking—one of the finest places on earth.

What do you think?

Wherever you are in the world, ask yourself:

What do you love about your city?

If your list is long, congratulations—you’re living the dream, literally. If you’re struggling to come up with something, keep trying—there must be at least one thing you love about your city. A friend you made there, your gym, that restaurant you stumbled upon one day… Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this with someone who lives in your city so you can compare notes.