Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam
Its quiet here in the AirBnb— the only sounds are the occasional whir of the elevator, and a distant bleat of scooters passing. I can almost forget that I’m in the city.
I wish I had written while we were in Japan because its hard now to describe the feeling of being there. The places I loved were tranquil riverbanks, hugged by oranges and reds. I loved the sardine-packed streets, and alleys adorned by dimly lit lanterns or screaming neons. The confusion and excitement of loud and soft; fried foods and fresh fish; somber prayer rooms and the rambunctious and contagious Blarney Stone Pub. This irony creates a country with corners always unknown and untouched— a character full of surprise. And somehow, with all of its juxtaposing details, it never came close to touching the air of Saigon.
I wish we were here longer, and I wish we would see more of this country. Outside of our air-conditioned and bright French Colonial oasis is a dewy collision of life. I can feel the robusta bean caffeine in the rhythm of the city. It seems like everything is constantly moving and grinding like complex machinery, and yet, people lie on the floor of their shoe shops, surrounded by plastics. Others lounge lazily in the shade on the seats of their motorbikes.
