Goodnight Saigon

About exactly seven years ago, I left Saigon with a cold. Now I am entering again with a cold. Perhaps a consequence of foreign germs, long bus rides, and the two 10-hour tours through the ruins of Angkor. Lying in the sleeper bus, I wedge my inhaler filled with Thai herbal mixture between my mouth and my hat, inhaling the fresh scent. My head is throbbing. I pull the curtain and look out for the first time since crossing the border into Vietnam. Outside, armies of helmeted motorcyclists swarm through the night streets of Saigon. Red flags with a golden star and a communist hammer, as well as large banners depicting the proud working masses, testify to the celebrations of Vietnam's Independence Day two days ago. Everywhere it blinks neon green and red. It's an overwhelming sensory overload for my sluggish brain.
As soon as the cab driver drops me off at the entrance of my hotel, I sense that I've made a booking mistake. The red-yellow neon sign promises cheap rates: '70k VD = 2h'. Apparently, I have landed in an area with hourly hotels, and mine is one of them. Classically saved at the wrong end. I open the fridge in my bare tiled room, and two cockroaches jump out at me. Ah, that's my Vietnam. When I want to go to bed, I notice two tiny insects that suspiciously resemble bedbugs. In Siem Reap, I had talked to a Mongolian at the hostel who shared her woes with me. After switching rooms, she was infested by the bloodsuckers in both rooms. Compassionately, I had lent her my Afterbite.

I don't want to suffer the same fate and ask the reception for another room. I receive a complimentary upgrade to one without bedbugs and cockroaches. At least, presumably. The eagerly friendly boy at the reception lets me check the new room. Since bedbugs usually stay in mattresses and become active only at a convenient time, I casually inspect the bed and comply. The second room is even closer to the inner-city highway. Saigon doesn't sleep; I do eventually.

In the morning, the familiar smell of diesel, phở, and trash fills my nose. 'I'm back here...', I think, watching the masses of 'moto bikes' swarming through the city's road network like schools of fish. I walk across the busy road, and I can still do it. The trick is to confidently maintain the pace while keeping my gaze half ahead and half on the traffic.

Everything in Thailand and Cambodia had a touch of Vietnam. And in both countries, I undoubtedly had great experiences. But true to the Baden-Württemberg local marketing, I wanted to post on the walls: 'Nice here, but have you ever been to Vietnam?'.

The people are direct, rough, and honest, yet most of the time just as friendly and fun. In search of a café, I find a genuine urban oasis with loungers, fans, and a caregiver ratio of 1:1. For 5 customers, there are 5 staff members. I attempt to order my first Vietnamese coffee (with the famous sweet condensed milk) and fail because instead, I am served an Americano. The only English-speaking server teaches me how to emphasize: 'Cà phê sūa.' A waiter at the counter tries to engage me in broken English but keeps slipping back into Chinese. 'He likes Chinese men; he's gay,' comments his colleague, laughing and shrugging. 'I'm gay!' chimes in the openly gay man, and the three of us laugh together. She prefers Americans or Russians because they don't have such flat noses and compliments me on mine. So, are these the much-quoted 'soft powers' of the superpowers in the new cold war? Influence through sexiness. The waitress says she would love to undergo surgery to have a Western nose if it weren't so painful and expensive. 'Ah, you don't need that. You're beautiful as you are,' I try to reciprocate the flirt and talk her out of the surgery idea. 'Oh, thank you!' she enthusiastically replies and bids me farewell as she leaves for the evening.

In the 7/11 supermarket, which haven't quite taken over like in Thailand, groups of chattering students line up at the registers. The white uniforms with red sashes are a tradition, explains Vū, who curiously stands behind me and shyly strikes up a conversation. His English has a typical Vietnamese choppy accent along with an American slang that he must have picked up from US shows. He tells me that he is going home now on his scooter, he says the 7th grader. When is it legal to ride a scooter, I ask him. Practically at any age, I hear from his answer. 'I was 7 when I first drove my scooter,' says Vū. His helmet recently broke in half after he got into an accident with a car. After that, he had to slowly get used to riding again, he says, pointing to his head: 'Trauma.' I see, but I believe the young teenager. In Vietnam, there's nothing that's impossible. And this especially applies to scooters. When two foreign tourists meet in Vietnam, they often play the game: 'Things seen on a scooter.' A family of four or a dog as a passenger only elicits a tired smile. Children riding as drivers are not uncommon either. Certainly, in rural Vietnam, there are kids who have ridden on a scooter with dad as the driving instructor before they could speak their first sentence...

My place of habit becomes a small family-run phở restaurant with two lap dogs that beg beside the customers. Next to the soup bowl, there are chili peppers and garlic cloves, optional to add. Exactly what I need for a cold. On the second evening, the friendly smiling waitress recognizes me again. She brings me the same Vietnamese soda can as the day before. Once as always, please. I increase from two pieces of red chili to three. Living on the edge.