I recently came back from Vietnam, Saigon in particular. It was at the end of a brief solo trip throughout Southeast Asia, one I had began with idealistic expectations and finally ended with tons of other things entirely. In a sense, those expectations were materialized: I landed a hemisphere away with only the essentials and a mind pleasantly sick with what I imagined everything to be like, with no time for whatever mental uncertainties with which I was dealing. By the third day in Bangkok, my pace didn’t afford me much reflection anyway.
To shorten a long story, I ultimately missed home and was glad to be back. Missed in the sense that when you fall into a pseudo-comatose sleep, stuck in exhausting and utterly deep dreams, you may miss being awake when lucidity throbs. I sat in September 23 Park in Saigon, going on nearly a week, aware of how soon I’d be back and yet it never went fast. Outscaled by a world I was getting by in alone, outstripped of bearing on time or obligation. In my anticipation of going there, I thought of all the fantastic experiences and culture I would get myself into, fearful I would be overburdened by every touristy distraction I wanted. Structural daydreams, that I would complete on arrival. Sitting in September 23 by the end, I reflected a lot on all the silly expectations I created.
I ended up with far more than them. One steady stream of mental clarity, occasionally ebbed by feral dogs or other strange, encounters that threatened this deep, subconscious, preoccupation. Overwhelmed on every sensory level, with little to no frame of reference. The East reclaimed from the West, inhabiting gloomy French vestiges above its own deep but lively roots. Roots that are impossible to ignore, alien to anything I’ve seen but feel more natural to me than most things now. It’s unfortunate to have to wake up, no matter how much you want a return to familiarity. Chalk it up to just being enamored but it’s a shade deeper.
I’m not one to advocate the pursuit of perfection but when you find it, enjoy it. Think I found it with all the hissing bugs, rising to a melancholy static and fuzz near the middle of the night near Bui Vien. When everything around (and on) me was fit to droop and slump from the heat and being tired from it all. Knotted up with all sorts of bittersweet mental meanderings, too aware that no matter how long it felt, I’d have to return to everything else. Home, I suppose.
More about: Galatée, Hjördis-Britt Åström
