I remember whenever we were outside, Ho Chi Minh City had this particular atmosphere which I can’t really describe. I was too young to really understand how much this place meant to my father, my family and me.
It was familiar, people’s faces not too different from mine, an intertwined mix of city life and history, the skyline twinkling from the hotel room, cars bustling, people moving at that same frantic place that they do here. It reminded me of being at home.
It was different too, very different. The buildings were a lot smaller, and “boxier”, each one sporting a unique color and shape, but standing together as a colourful unit, well defined and bold. There seemed to be a severe traffic problem wherever we went, with motor bikes plaguing the roads, cars jammed for what felt like days to me.
I heard a language that sounded familiar, words that my brain thought it had recognised. It looked familiar too, sporting similar letters, but beautifully stretching new limbs. Yet I couldn’t understand a single thing.
I remember seeings lots of French, and being me I don’t speak a word of it. Passing restaurants and boutiques, distinctly European with their own little twists, yet blending in so seamlessly with the surrounding cultural environment.
I remember the food, it was really good. I developed a taste for fish sauce and basil, decorating my bowls of Pho with little chilis that I knew would be too much for me. The restaurants oddly divided, ones that served local cuisine incased within white walls, long benches that sat parties of 10 and staff that acted like family. Others, with that same French flair, windows opening the space and an awning shading a few outside tables.
I remember meeting my family, speaking fluent Cantonese with a slight accent. There were too many, at least a dozen who my father smiled widely with and hugged warmly when they saw each other for the first time in what I can only guess is more time than I’ve been alive.
I remember walking into my father’s old home. A room with a tall ceiling, the floor cement. A large wooden archway the only thing dividing inside and out. It seemed surreal that my father grew up here, a place so distant, yet strangely familiar to a kid visiting for the first time. I remember seeing a picture, black and white with pigment fading. I remember my father pointing a boy, younger than me. “估唔估到係邊個嚟嫁？” he asked, and even though I knew who it was, it didn’t look anything like him.
I remember feeling at home, a long lost sense of nostalgia, as if I shared these memories with my father.
Now, I wish to go back sometime.
The Big Duck 