A Not so Lonely 21st
I turned 21 on the 20th of July and fully intended on spending it tucked in bed at home watching a Netflix documentary on who-knows-what. My friend, Amanda, dragged me out and made sure I spent my 21st as any newly-legal young adult should: purchasing alcohol legally.
As much as Vietnam is home, it's been lonely. As much as I'm Vietnamese, I'm seen as foreign here. To many of the locals I've met throughout my time traveling here, I don't even look Vietnamese. My partner, my friends, and my family are (mostly) across the Pacific Ocean and I felt like a stranger in what's supposed to be my home, but sort of is and sort of isn't.
I spent my 21st with someone I love and have known for many years, tasting a bunch of fruity cocktails that I've never tried before and accidentally ordering a bit too much (an entire cocktail tower) just for two people to finish. "The motherland somehow has a way of bringing people together," and for that I am grateful: both to Vietnam and to Amanda.
Branches and Roots
I was on a sleeper train en route to Da Nang when my supervisor texted me to take a Work From Home week for my birthday because I didn't take the actual day of off. I once again felt that call to just... do something and go for it. I booked tickets to Hanoi from the top bunk of my 4-person cabin, and promptly fell asleep right after.
I stepped off the train into in an entirely new city of Vietnam that I'd never had the opportunity to explore before. I had approximately 36 hours and three things to check of my list: go to the beach, go to Ba Na Hills, and eat as much food here as I can. I walked from my hotel to the beach, had some of the best my quang I've had ever, and returned home to nap before my food tour the same night. Jenny and Viet, the tour guides, walked us around Da Nang having us sample local foods: banh xeo, banh mi, my quang, coconut flan, and Viet coffee (my favorite).
The food, like Vietnam itself for me, was both familiar and completely new. Banh xeo, banh mi - all of these dishes are what I grew up eating. Eating them in Vietnam, in a city and region I've never been to before, felt like an entirely new experience. I'd never felt like more of a tourist, but it felt like I was (re?)discovering my homeland. I had finally gotten outside of the familiar bubble of Saigon-Phuoc Hai/Vung Tau, and found myself making my own memories. Yet, all the while, I still was tied to my roots. The banh xeo reminded me of home, of family festivities and aunts on stools serving them crispy, fresh, and stuffed to the brim "so [I] can grow up strong and healthy." The black coffee I had in had reminded me of my partner, of the aroma of warm coffee wafting into our bedroom from the kitchen in our apartment. I found that all these novel experiences, even 20 hours by train from the nearest place I could call home, were incontrovertibly connected to my roots, spanning both time and geographic distance.
In Da Nang, I found myself extending branches out as well. On the tour, I met Julia and Michelle, two Floridian English teachers currently living in Korea. I would see them again in Hanoi, and hopefully will be seeing them when I land in Korea in August. In the midst of it all, I grew new branches of friendship and memories that extend into Da Nang and beyond.
I'm Home, BÃ
Less than 24 hours after arriving back in Saigon from Da Nang, I was on a plane flying to Hanoi. I grew up with stories of Hanoi, and oftentimes with Hanoi as an explanation.
"Mom, why does grandma's pho taste so different?"
"Oh, she's just from Hanoi."
I was raised in my grandmother's loving arms. I was her golden (grand)child, and she was my best friend. After my mom's maternity leave was up, I was left in my grandmother's care at home. I learned my Vietnamese from her. I watched Studio Ghibli movies (in Vietnamese dub) sitting by her side, holding her hand, picking at her wrinkly skin until I got swatted at (lovingly of course). She'd tell me stories of home, but unlike all of her children, her home was Hanoi, and not Saigon where they all grew up. I heard stories of the Old Quarter, of the French Quarter, of how "Southern pho just doesn't taste right" and how she wished she'd be able to take me back one day.
She was there for me every day of my life, even as she grew older and weaker. Seeing her was a routine - the safest, most normal, and in retrospect, one of the most treasured parts of my day. I'd walk down to her room before school "Chà o, Bà ." I'd come home from school and walk to her room before even putting my stuff down. "Chà o, Bà ." The last time I bade her goodbye was filled with tears and heartache, as I sat by her bedside at 12 years old, begging her not to leave me when the world outside was just so scary. I sat by her holding her hand, making her promises I knew I had to keep. I'd get into the school she'd always dreamed I'd go to (and I did, Go Bruins), I'd make her as proud as I could, and one day, I would bring her back to Vietnam with me, and I'd walk down the streets of Hanoi with her by my side. I'd take her to see where the dragon laid to rest in Ha Long Bay. I would sit and eat Northern style chicken pho with her, just the way she liked it.
When she passed, I lost my dearest friend, my role model, and a piece of my heart that I'll never get back. I grieved and grieved over the loss. But I had to carry on, I told her I would.
I promised her I would, and I did.
As I rode in the back of a cab into Hanoi, I watched the sun set over the Red River. As the sky darkened, I asked myself, "Do you think bà knows you're here?"
My Airbnb was in the middle of the Old Quarter, and as it meandered through all the avenues I continued to think to myself, "Grandma walked these streets. This is where she wanted me to be."
I had never step foot in Hanoi, but the first step I took on the ground in the Old Quarter enveloped me in a warmth that crept out of my chest (and no, it wasn't just the tropical heat).
I made it, BÃ .
I'm home, BÃ .
Chà o, Bà .
Everything reminded me of her, of her roots here, and of how from those roots she became the tree trunk that supported me to have grown to where I am now.
I walked around the Old Quarter the next few days, taking in all the sights. I got lunch with another person I'm honored to call a role model. We sat and ate chicken pho, Northern style, just the way BÃ would've liked it. I held back all the emotions I felt at the time. I hoped she was in heaven enjoying a bowl right next to me.
I went to Ha Long Bay and saw where the legendary dragons that defended the Vietnam of old laid down to rest. I visited Ninh Bình and climbed a peak and saw all of the North that my grandma wanted me to see. I stopped by the St. Joseph's Cathedral and sent a silent prayer of thanks to her, at the church she used to attend mass at before all of the unrest.
Dao Thi An, my rock, my best friend, my grandmother, passed away in February of 2013. I grieved and I grew, and I fulfilled the promises I made her. Although she wasn't physically there with me as I walked the same streets she did nearly a century before, I'd like to think that she was there in whatever capacity she could be. Side by side, holding my hand like she used to as a child, whispering in my ear stories of her life lost to time
