Casa Mia

[Ninh Phước, 8/1/26]

At 6:04PM, I begin today’s article. I’ve been back to Vũng Tàu less than 24 hours. Arriving in Long Khánh yesterday after an 8 ½ hour train ride, I had to guess where downtown was. Halfway, I recognized a huge monastery from my only other visit, so kept walking. Finally, I could flop onto the ground to wait for the 22 bus. Sweaty and exhausted, I was finally on my last leg home. What a dubious yet essential concept! Vũng Tàu’s bus station was still 50 miles away. From there, it was another 1.3 mile until I could finally enter my room.

Saint Augustine said, and I’m only paraphrasing, a child, not necessarily retarded, is one who thinks he has a home. Much more mature is one who’s at home everywhere. You’re still a “tender beginner,” though, if you don’t realize you ain’t got a home nowhere. To be born a man is to be homeless, in short, but Aurelius, my man, you, too, had to feel much more at home in Thagaste than you’d have had in, say, Antioch, Jiankang, Guam, Vũng Tàu or South Philly. At the very least, you were at home in Latin. Since language is home, no one can be at home everywhere. Despite my vagabond nature, as destined by my very name, I’ve returned to my native land and, here’s the kicker, write like a Philly motherfucker.

This notion of home as illusive or even impossible had me remembering a 1944 Roald Dahl story, “Beware of the Dog,” read perhaps four decades earlier. Before finding a copy online, I could recall a pilot shot down in enemy territory. Since the nurse spoke perfectly his language, he thought he was home, however.