Untitled 1: Saigon



YOU ARE IN SAIGON. IT IS THE PRESENT. YOU ARE ON DONG KHOI STREET, SITTING AT A SMALL TABLE UNDER A PARASOL ON THE LAWN OF THE CAFE CHI LANG, DRINKING A TALL GLASS OF SWEET COFFEE ON ICE. THE AIR IS WARM AND MOIST, IT SMELLS LIKE FLOWERS AND GRASS AND VIBRATES WITH THE BUMBLEBEE BUZZ OF MOTORBIKES, ALL AROUND. FROM A LOUDSPEAKER HANGING ON A POLE NEARBY, AN OLD FRENCH LOVE SONG IS CRYING IN SOMEONE'S ARMS; AND A WOMAN WEARING A WIDE, POINTED HAT IS GOING FROM TABLE TO TABLE SELLING SOUVENIR POSTCARDS IN SETS OF TEN FOR ONE AMERICAN DOLLAR. DOWN ON THE SIDEWALK, LIMBLESS WAR VETERANS AND CHILDREN ARE BEGGING FOR MONEY FROM PASSING FOREIGNERS LIKE YOURSELF. ON THE STREET IN FRONT OF THEM, A YOUNG WOMAN DRESSED IN A SOFT, SILK AO DAI WITH THE COLORS OF BUTTERFLIES FLOATS PAST ON A BICYCLE, HER LONG HAIR LIFTING IN THE BREEZE BEHIND HER; AND FROM A BILLBOARD HIGH OVER THE PAVEMENT, BAC HO SMILES DOWN ONTO HIS CHILDREN – DOC LAP, TU DO, HANH PHUC: INDEPENDENCE, FREEDOM, HAPPINESS.


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