Hector and Trixie: Letting Saigons be Saigons

The cab from our hotel in Saigon to the Chinatown market stayed on the main streets. Stephanie said, “You see the same stores over and over: cell phones, shoes, motorbikes and wedding dresses.” You could say that this is the good news, signs of economic development and modernization; everything you need for contemporary life.

The cab back to the hotel took the side streets. Brad said “I feel like a GI during the war. These streets are fucking interesting, and each one is different.” You could also say that this is the good news, that the tracts of modern life are still mostly cosmetic. Turn off of the main road, and you can still easily find the old Saigon neighborhoods.

It’s hard not to think of the war here. On the rooftop bar of the Rex Hotel, where Santa and his reindeer flanked the Elephant statue, and where mistletoe hung from bamboo ceiling fans, I wondered if this had been a hangout for foreign correspondents in the sixties. Did this very same lounge singer do this very same act in 1968? Guantanamera, The Lady Is A Tramp, It’s Not Unusual…it all would have worked perfectly.

Vietnam helped to define and galvanize a generation. In college I even complained that our generation didn’t have a Vietnam to give us cultural cover. What was it we stood for exactly? What issue would bring us together, to hold hands, to sing, to sit in, to march…?

For all the talk of the draft and what it did to the children of the sixties, I don’t think I ever gave The War itself much thought. I certainly never gave much thought to what it might have done to the people of Vietnam. My father did everything he could to stay out of Vietnam; Amanda’s father came here as a soldier. Fast forward thirty-some years: we paid top dollar to vacation here.

Our plane landed in Na Trang after sundown. The driver from our hotel was waiting at baggage claim with a sign that read “Mr. Stephanie”. We loaded our luggage into his Mercedes Benz van and started off into the night, not knowing how far or how long the journey would be, and without any real way of communicating with him.

The general level of English in Vietnam is still quite low. Everyone clearly understands the value (or worth) of a dollar, but the most basic conversation (What time? Where? How much?) can lead to misunderstandings.

We reached what I’ll call the Na Trang Strip after about an hour on a modern four-lane highway. The lights of the strip flickered the distance, like elaborate Christmas lights on a suburban front lawn. In fact, Saint Nick and his entourage were ready for us, winking at each hotel entrance and restaurant parking lot.

I crossed my fingers that our hotel would not be one of these new neon covered, engorged maxi structures. Eventually, the Strip receded into the distance behind us, and our four-lane highway turned into a two-lane road that sliced through rice paddies on either side of us. That road eventually gave way to a single lane country road, and finally to a dirt road that traced high sand dunes.

We passed young couples on mopeds, and even more mopeds with nobody claiming them – a sure sign that the beach must be near. Finally we reached our little glowing resort. Nine private bungalows tucked behind a high brick wall, between the road and the shore.

The service and overall vibe of the place was extremely serene and restrained, but somehow it makes me feel like a glutton for wanting a second cup of coffee at breakfast. The kitchen staff had stayed late especially for us, and we were quickly ushered to a long wooden table for a late dinner. Our server, a Frenchman with an almost cliché air of Parisian aloofness mixed with the holier-than-thou half smirk of a wannabe Yogi, reminded me of something out of a Ben Stiller movie.

Amanda and I awoke before dawn and watched the sunrise from our balcony. It was spectacular. I hadn’t seen a sunrise like that in years. I said the only thing that would have been better was if we’d stayed up all night to see it – to really earn it. Amanda said “I’d much rather wake up before dawn than stay up all night for the sunrise.”

On our way down to the beach, we met Linda from Manhattan. In her early 60’s with frizzy gray hair and the confident smile of a mother who successfully raised overachievers, Linda strikes me as someone who spent plenty of time singing “We Shall Overcome” in her day. She told us one of her daughters was priced out of Park Slope and eventually relocated to Utah, and her other daughter – here with her at the hotel- was just out of med school and headed to an Indian reservation in Arizona to volunteer. “I raised do-gooders.” (She also talked about her efforts to curb development on Fire Island, where she has been summering for 30 years.)

Linda warned us that the beach was “pretty gross” with washed up trash. Boy was she was right. The beach was filthy, and not in a way you’d expect. Sure, the odd flip flop or bottle of suntan lotion is to be expected, but this was on another level. For starters, the beach is almost completely virgin – there are two small hotels and one private home in the little bay, and that’s it. So it’s not as if there are many people using the it, other than the young lovers on mopeds we saw driving in the night before and the hotel guests.

Okay so fine, maybe one bra or pair of underwear from the kids. Or maybe a high heeled shoe. But not piles of them. Not jeans and shirts and belts and bags and bras and bras and bras. And human waste. Did I mention that? Human waste!