In Vietnam, I shower two times a day. Rinsing the grime, the pollution, the city off before going to dinner. Hot water is not a luxury, it is a staple. Always there when we want it with just a turn of a handle. In Vietnam, huge metal drums sit on top of houses, warming themselves in the day’s sun. Hot water.

My trip started seven days ago. Twenty some hours on three planes deposited me wide-eyed in this city beyond my wildest dreams. Built up and broken down, my rose-colored glasses have dimmed and I find myself plunged into confusion.

Hard working and eternally optimistic. Words I used to describe these people in my mind. There is another side, one I kept refusing to see but it keeps crawling in. Realism oozing into my idealism. They are trying to make a living, pull themselves up. We are their potential ticket out. Their lucky day if we tip well. Can I blame them for trying to survive?

I try not to be upset. Friendship here, if you’re a foreigner, seems to be only available if it is bought. There are exceptions but the cynical part of me whispers about them too.

We are too different. Too far apart to truly understand each other at a glance. I wander aimlessly through their city, a trespasser in their midst. It is my fault, not theirs. I am the invader who doesn’t understand, doesn’t speak, doesn’t know. Slowly learning the pitfalls, the do’s and don’ts a harder hearted person wouldn’t need to learn.

If I had left Saigon days ago, I would only ever have had half of the story. The pretty side, the side I wanted to see. It is because I am still here that I am beginning to see the depths of this city.

—-

A taxi ride and a mediocre meal looking out at the city street did much to improve my mood and restore my faith in people. The food could have been better, but, in a city where every other shop seems to be a restaurant, every once in awhile you’re bound to have a miss. But the atmosphere was good, especially for a solo diner. I eavesdropped on Australians and people watched while I ate my food, then hailed a taxi back to the hotel.

I love the taxi drivers. I take a lot of taxis. Walking just gets me lost and I don’t trust myself with the motorbike guys anymore. So it’s taxis. (which probably adds to my princess feeling) Before coming here I had ridden solo in a taxi twice, now, it’s too many to count. They are my travel friends, for the five or ten minutes we’re together. Some ask me where I’m from, eager to share details of their friends in California. Few of them know where Minnesota is, stuck in the middle. This morning, my friend played vietnamese music and sang along, quiet at first, then louder when I didn’t object. The perfect soundtrack to our trip to Cho Long, Vietnam’s chinatown.