Civility, Still, in this Serene Spot

My room at DC Homestay is the best I’ve had since mid 2018. I have air conditioning, a fridge, a TV I don’t watch, a two-burner stove, an electric kettle, a good sized table and a smaller one just outside my door, where I’m sitting. At least three types of birds are chirping among the trees, plants and flowers right behind me. That seemingly unchanging ocean is a five minute walk away. For all this, I’m paying just six million dongs [$246.20] a month, plus electricity. Twice a week, a cleaning lady comes in.

I had tried to get out just before 6AM, but the gate was uncharacteristically locked. Guests arriving with motorbikes can be paranoid. Thus trapped in this garden of eden, I must check my longing for all those thrills and sufferings percolating just outside.

I have access to a swimming pool, at the end of which there’s Michelangelo’s David. Behind him is a mural of the Italian coast. It’s not quite Cinque Terre, but picturesque enough. Since I can’t return to Tuscany, it has come to me.

Vung Tau wine shops carry chianti, prosecco and pinot grigio, etc. At Lan Phương, I’ve bought the domestic VangDalat, which is good enough. El Cheapo es mi nombre. I’ve often walked by Amy’s Winehouse. The more totalitarian you become, the less humorous and playful, with only a tolerance or appetite for sick, sadistic jokes remaining.

Three hours have elapsed. Serendipitously, I was interrupted by my next-door neighbor, a 65-year-old man named Dzuy. Seeing me typing, he poked his head out. Since it was clear he wanted to be introduced, I closed my laptop, asked Dzuy to sit down then went inside to make him a glass of Jakarta-bought java.

Quickly, it was established our fathers had come from the same province up north, Nam Định. By accent or admission, Vietnamese are particularly keen on pinning each other down geographically. Observing his modest size, compact posture, sun baked complexion and leathery, worn out and rather pinched face, I could safely concluded he had spent his entire life inside Vietnam. Those particularly harsh years from 1975 to 1995 stained and scarred everyone.

So where was he living, I asked. To my surprise, he said Vung Tau! This wasn’t quite a staycation, however. Dzuy had booked his room primarily for a nephew. Though German born and barely speaking Vietnamese, this man in his 30’s comes back often to Vietnam. Dzuy has another nephew who has visited with his German wife. She loved this city too.

Northerners in Vung Tau tend to be Catholic. Bến Đá [Rocky Dock] is their neighborhood. Going there this afternoon, you’ll see all these nativity scenes not just at the festively decorated churches, but homes and businesses. At a downtown church two days ago, I stumbled upon a 4:30AM service just finishing. Only Muslims pray earlier. During that church’s recent renovation, there was this message outside, “IF GOD DIDN’T BUILD IT, ALL OF OUR LABOR IS IN VAIN.” Each day of her long life, my grandma prayed more than she did anything else. She lived through three wars, a famine and hardcore Communism. Two of her sons died as soldiers. My uncle Hiep’s body was never found. I’m sure my grandma’s fingering her rosary right now.

Not just Italy, but Germany has come to me in Vung Tau! Yesterday at the Friendly Library, I overheard Deutsch spoken by four retirees, here on their fifth visit. Once, they stayed in Vung Tau for six months straight. Sitting with them was the barista. Though I had talked to her several times, only yesterday did I find out she had spent 4 1/2 years in Germany, including a stint in Leipzig. I taught there for a semester. Angela Merkel graduated from my university.

Arriving in Bavaria at just 20-years-old, she made fruit salads in Weißenfeld, “My day started at 4AM. I worked for a Vietnamese. After a while, I thought, ‘If I’m going to work this hard that many hours, I might as well make more money,’ so I decided to move to a bigger city.”

“That’s amazing,” I responded. “Here you were, overseas for the first time. Most 20-year-olds are very timid. Just think about it, many tourists just arrived in Saigon are afraid to cross the street!” I laughed.

“I helped out at my family’s restaurant when I was just 14-years-old, so I wasn’t afraid of strangers.”

“Still… How good was your German?”

“I didn’t have time to study. I took classes, but these were filled with all sorts of immigrants,” including those who were illiterate even in their native language. To accommodate them, instruction had to be retarded. Still, our barista became conversational enough to have German friends.

In Leipzig, she worked at Dong Xuan Markt. It’s named after one in Hanoi founded in 1804, although the current structure dates only to 1889. Every brick, blade of grass or firefly has an encyclopedic history and back story you’ll only decipher, at best, most glancingly. Most people never begin.

Moving from Viet businesses, she got a job at an Italian restaurant. Since she even lived with the owner’s family, she was further immersed in Italian culture. She ate with them each night. At this ristorante, she almost got murdered, however.

Patting an Afghan coworker on the shoulder, she provoked him into grabbing a knife, which he pointed at her neck, “You do that again, I’ll kill you!”

Only days later did she receive an apology, “In my culture, a woman isn’t supposed to do that. It’s not respectful.”

When this man was about to marry his cousin, to bring her to Germany, each worker contributed 50 Euros. It was the owner’s idea. With a staff of 15, it wasn’t too small a sum.

“I almost got killed another time. Walking around all day to find work, I was so cold, I couldn’t feel anything, but there was nowhere I could walk into. Finally, I passed a Vietnamese store. Seeing me, the owner ran out. She used a hairdryer to warm me, then gave me a glass of hot tea. I had never tasted anything better.”

Thirty eight years old, she has seen and weathered quite a bit. While in Europe, she visited Berlin, Dresden, Munich, Prague and a few other places. She won’t likely see Europe again, “I never talk to anyone about my experiences there, uncle. There’s nothing for them to relate to.”

Naturally curious, she’s gone to Phnom Penh, Bangkok, Pattaya, Kuala Lumpur and Bali, quite an accomplishment for someone with her tiny salary.

She’s from Thái Bình, a province I have never visited. Its Keo Pagoda is among Vietnam’s oldest. Built in 1061, its extant buildings only date from perhaps five centuries ago. In the 1130’s, a monk there cured emperor Lý Thần Tông (1116-1138) of leprosy, but he still died young. During his ten-year reign, both the Khmers and Chams attacked, but were repelled. This boy king also ordered his generals to put down Nung tribesmen. Vietnamese know only too well how war, thus death, is essential to life.

DC Homestay is on Thủ Khoa Huân, a short street named after a minor 19th century rebel against the French. Though Thủ Khoa Huân won not a single battle, he’s still honored for being a fearless nationalist. Captured in 1864, he was exiled to Cayenne. It’s still a French possession in South America. Released in 1869 after 4 1/2 years, Thủ Khoa Huân went back to organizing the resistance, so was finally executed in 1875.

There is a country, I hear, that would rather name its streets after numbers and trees, and not those who have built or defended it. It has even torn down statues of some of its greatest heroes. Its boldest men only dare to be brave online pseudonymously. Others proudly wear bouffant dresses and high heels. So brainless, its citizens keep voting for their sneering destroyers. As their cities become lawless shitholes, many insist everything is still fine, because Wall Street is doing OK, and their rigged inflation and unemployment rates are manageable. Most importantly, Madonna’s Celebration Tour is triumphantly hobbling from city to city across what’s left of the West. Until that ageless whore breaks her neck from a fall mid song, there’s nothing to worry about.

Really, America should name its streets after Madonna, Albert Bourla, George Floyd, Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg, Noam Chomsky, Hillary Clinton, Ben Bernanke, Barack Obama, Jeffrey Epstein and, of course, Joe Biden. These era defining giants must be remembered by future generations, should there be any. American, that is.

Meanwhile, I’m tucked away in a serene city of a country enjoying an unusually long respite from war. Each morning, I walk into a cheerful garden. Though here, too, there are growing signs of economic distress, civility is still maintained.

[Vung Tau, 1/2/24]

[Vung Tau, 10/29/22]

[Vung Tau, 12/11/23]

[Vung Tau, 1/2/24]