The masochism of the early flight. A 7 am departure dictated a 5 am exodus from our Clementi flat. A dutiful Comfort taxi driver, bless him, arrived preposterously early, shattering the last vestiges of sleep. By the time our Scoot, a vessel named with unfortunate levity, touched down in Ho Chi Minh City, the city then known by its more evocative former name, we were resigned to an extended layover. Our onward flight to Nha Trang, a coastal idyll we yearned for, had been cast adrift to 5 pm.
Thus, we found ourselves adrift as well, cast upon the bustling streets of Ho Chi Minh City in the humid embrace of a Vietnamese morning. A taxi, hailed with the practiced ease that comes with years of foreign travel, deposited us at the city’s central post office, a grand, colonial relic that whispered of a bygone era. Inside, a sense of forgotten pleasures. We indulged in the simple joy of buying postcards, their glossy surfaces adorned with images of Vietnam’s captivating architecture.
Then, drawn by an invisible thread, we drifted towards Ho Chi Minh Book Street. Row upon row of shops, crammed with an enticing jumble of volumes, unfolded before us. Tourists, many of them young and armed with selfie sticks, posed with books, their faces a mixture of amusement and, I dared to hope, genuine curiosity. Did they read, these fleeting visitors? A pang of doubt, a flicker of concern for the fate of the written word in this age of fleeting attention spans. Perhaps a visit to a local library was in order, a quiet observation of the Vietnamese relationship with the written word. A silent communion, a search for solace in the solace of stories. Hmm?
We ambled further down the street, the city a kaleidoscope of sights and smells. Ho Chi Minh City held a certain familiarity for Yit Peng and me; a prior visit, hosted by a dear friend who toiled away in the city's underbelly of PwC consulting, flickered in the recesses of memory. But years had passed, and the city had undoubtedly morphed and shifted.
Suddenly, a vibrant splash of colour caught our eye. A seafood restaurant, Royal Seafood, its facade adorned with glistening tiles, announced itself with an almost obscene freshness. Live fish pirouetted in tanks, their scales catching the sunlight, while lobsters writhed in a macabre ballet. Hunger, a primal urge sharpened by the unfamiliar, propelled us forward. Inside, the air hummed with the clamor of conversation and the rhythmic clatter of cutlery. Our feast, a symphony of simply prepared seafood, was a revelation. The flesh of seafood, caught and air flown, practically melted on the tongue, each bite a testament to the ocean's bounty.
Sated, we ambled next door, drawn by the promise of strong coffee and a respite from the sudden downpour that had turned the streets slick and treacherous. Nestled in a cozy nook, the aroma of roasted beans a comforting balm, I sipped my egg coffee while Yit Peng and Shiqin delved into well-worn paperbacks.
The rain pounded a relentless rhythm on the corrugated roof, a counterpoint to the quiet murmur of conversation. Here, in this haven of warmth and caffeine, time seemed to lose its mooring. Time stretched before us, pregnant with possibility, a welcome pause before the relentless march towards Nha Trang.
Fortified by caffeine and a fresh notebook (purchased in the mall, a haven of air-conditioned consumerism), I surrendered to the allure of travel journaling. The flimsy paper became a canvas for my mementos – boarding passes adorned with nonsensical airport codes, crumpled receipts whispering tales of culinary adventures, and postcards promising a glimpse into Vietnam's soul. I even attempted a haiku or two, the brevity of the form a stark contrast to the cacophony of the city outside. More of this later…
Meanwhile, Yit Peng and Shiqin, ever the fashion explorers, embarked on a Zara odyssey. Left to my own devices, I tapped away on my phone, a self-proclaimed blogger amidst the mall's sterile hum. This, I mused, was the Vincom Center, a microcosm of aspirational modernity nestled in the heart of a history-laden city.
Emerging from the cool embrace of the mall, we embarked on a leisurely stroll towards Ben Thanh Market. A gentle drizzle painted the streets slick, yet did little to dampen our spirits. As we walked, a familiar face emerged – Uncle Ho Chi Minh, his stoic gaze fixed on the ever-evolving city.
The opera house, once a solitary grand dame, now seemed hemmed in by a phalanx of modern structures. Perhaps my memory, a fickle companion at best, had betrayed me. Or perhaps, as with all cities, Ho Chi Minh City was a living, breathing entity, constantly shedding its skin.
Thirty minutes of navigating the labyrinthine alleys of Ben Thanh Market proved sufficient. The potent brew of coffee still lingered on our tongues, and the relentless symphony of honking horns began to grate on our nerves. A Grab, summoned with the ease born of familiarity, whisked us away, marking the end of our whirlwind Saigon escapade. The city, a kaleidoscope of sights, smells, and sounds, receded into the distance, leaving behind a lingering sense of wonder and anticipation for what awaited us in Nha Trang.
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