Anything can happen on the streets of Saigon. I've been propositioned for sex, drugs and rock & roll among other things. I've seen people playing soccer on the street, women doing aerobics on the street, anything you can think of. But the other day, the most unexpected thing happened to me while walking down the street in Saigon. I changed.
Finding a place to live has been more of a challenge than I expected. Dreams of landlords throwing themselves at my feet to get at my American dollars have largely vanished, swept away by the reality that I'm only the one hundred thousandth Viet Kieu to come up with the brilliant idea of moving home to take over Vietnam. Just as I was ready to give up and settle on a place I wasn't really excited about, I got an unexpected phone call the other day and looked at a great house.
Today, walking back to the building to meet the landlady, my mind was full of doubts. What if I was being scammed? Should I give them the deposit money? A preoccupied mind falls easily into cruise control - that state of mind where your ego abandons your id and your id says "Oh yeah? Is that how it's gonna be? Well fine, I can get by without you. I never really liked you anyway and frankly, you have terrible body odor."
With id behind the wheel, taking care of basic functions, my ego was free to wonder and worry. I was told that they needed a license to rent a house out to foreigners, how could I be sure what they showed me was real? I pull out a stack of money to count the deposit I was due to give her. I read some horror story on the web about how police would come to your house in the middle of the night to check your papers. $200 in Vietnamese money is a whole lot of bills, so I start counting. They want me to sign a 1-year lease, which is more than I wanted to commit to. What if I hated Vietnam and want to break my lease? Một, hai, ba. I only saw the apartment for ten minutes. What if turns out to be a roach-infested rat's nest? Bốn, năm, sáu. They promised to fix the bathtub or buy me a new one. What if they refuse after I move in? Bảy, tám, chín.
Whoah, wait just one second. What the hell is chín? I could swear that's the Vietnamese word for nine, but why the hell is my id counting in Vietnamese? That's not the Boston Tai, who wears green on St. Patrick's Day. That's not the L.A. Tai, who drives two blocks to the supermarket. That's not the San Francisco Tai, who celebrates Earth Day with glow sticks. I think I know this guy, though. That's Saigon Tai, who squats on the sidewalk. Saigon Tai, who only wears flip-flops. Saigon Tai, who counts in Vietnamese. I just met the guy recently - don't really know him too well - but I'm pretty sure that's him.
I was born 100% Vietnamese. Over the last thirty odd years, I have become something like 90% American. Is this finally the turning point, where the rock starts to fall down again? How Vietnamese will I become when I finish this journey? Who knows, the answer could surprise me. Who knows, the answer could be... hai mươi lăm phần trăm.
Finding a place to live has been more of a challenge than I expected. Dreams of landlords throwing themselves at my feet to get at my American dollars have largely vanished, swept away by the reality that I'm only the one hundred thousandth Viet Kieu to come up with the brilliant idea of moving home to take over Vietnam. Just as I was ready to give up and settle on a place I wasn't really excited about, I got an unexpected phone call the other day and looked at a great house.
Today, walking back to the building to meet the landlady, my mind was full of doubts. What if I was being scammed? Should I give them the deposit money? A preoccupied mind falls easily into cruise control - that state of mind where your ego abandons your id and your id says "Oh yeah? Is that how it's gonna be? Well fine, I can get by without you. I never really liked you anyway and frankly, you have terrible body odor."
With id behind the wheel, taking care of basic functions, my ego was free to wonder and worry. I was told that they needed a license to rent a house out to foreigners, how could I be sure what they showed me was real? I pull out a stack of money to count the deposit I was due to give her. I read some horror story on the web about how police would come to your house in the middle of the night to check your papers. $200 in Vietnamese money is a whole lot of bills, so I start counting. They want me to sign a 1-year lease, which is more than I wanted to commit to. What if I hated Vietnam and want to break my lease? Một, hai, ba. I only saw the apartment for ten minutes. What if turns out to be a roach-infested rat's nest? Bốn, năm, sáu. They promised to fix the bathtub or buy me a new one. What if they refuse after I move in? Bảy, tám, chín.
Whoah, wait just one second. What the hell is chín? I could swear that's the Vietnamese word for nine, but why the hell is my id counting in Vietnamese? That's not the Boston Tai, who wears green on St. Patrick's Day. That's not the L.A. Tai, who drives two blocks to the supermarket. That's not the San Francisco Tai, who celebrates Earth Day with glow sticks. I think I know this guy, though. That's Saigon Tai, who squats on the sidewalk. Saigon Tai, who only wears flip-flops. Saigon Tai, who counts in Vietnamese. I just met the guy recently - don't really know him too well - but I'm pretty sure that's him.
I was born 100% Vietnamese. Over the last thirty odd years, I have become something like 90% American. Is this finally the turning point, where the rock starts to fall down again? How Vietnamese will I become when I finish this journey? Who knows, the answer could surprise me. Who knows, the answer could be... hai mươi lăm phần trăm.
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