Home Again to Vietnam

The airplane lands. It taxis to a spot on the tarmac. The air is filled with Vietnamese language in excited overlap. It is the first time in many years I recall so deeply the context of my time here. How easy my life and joy. I recall the bus that picks us up and drives us over to the terminal. Hot air strikes on exit.

It is so different from the winter cold of South Carolina. I leave after a full four months of mad rush. I plan classes the day before. Sometimes up til two or three or four in the morning, and then teaching at eight thirty. It is fifteen minutes by bicycle to the college. The wind is so cold it bites my hands sometimes through the cheap, cotton-poly gloves I buy for my students for our first field trip—to do archaeology and play in the soil of a mill that the college now owns. It is a beautiful setting along a narrows with water spilling over a dam and grasses and weeds popping up along the surface of what is the former mill, now burnt down under mysterious circumstances, a blaze that follows negotiations to sell for upscale apartments. We find some small artifacts and shells by the river. I talk with the archaeologist on campus. She is first shocked then laughs as I tell her we’ll be digging for a total of about two hours. She gives a green light. It is an open survey, with students choosing where they work. It introduces my students to one of many angles to look at regional environmental problems.

Clockwork, for four months, and then a week without much, as students pile in their final efforts. My other course on environment and energy is a joy. It builds steadily and feedback at the end of the semester is grand, with numbers a little above the college average. Not so for my environmental problems class. I get hammered in the reviews at the end of the semester. I spend 10 minutes of one class period apologizing to the students. I base my course on the description, but the description needs changes. The course is meant to be case studies of different problems at different places. Not what is written. Not what I plan for—and about a third of the students are vocal and unhappy. It is not their fault. My students are bright. I reflect on my skills and time. On the mad rush of work. The season’s cold and the beauty of the woodlands. The love of the people there for me and of the community, including the synagogue not a mile from my apartment, and the simple joys of riding through town to shop and visit.

I start attending some meetings at a clubhouse near my apartment. I walk to the side to avoid the crowds forming. It is a Christmas parade. The noise is loud and clear even inside the clubhouse. We finish and stand outside in the cold, watching the floats go by. I miss my time in Yap. I shout “Merry Christmas, Everybody” in my loud Santa voice, many times over and over. I remember so fondly my time in Yap. I am Santa Claus to hundreds of children, but now, no.

And again, landing in Vietnam. I rise along with Maria to my left. She is a fashion designer from Samar in the Philippines. I tell her not to worry about finding at hotel. There are many. Ho Chi Minh City will not run out. She is here for business, to set up some suppliers before moving on to Germany to get married. Her dream is to have it all. Like so many. She has four businesses already. I tell her how proud I am of the Philippine people. She shows me pictures of the beauty pageants she wins. She wonders whether she will be able to come to the US once she has German citizenship. I think it will be possible.

My dreams turn to the sound of the language. And to the life I leave behind when my contract ends five years ago. Once again I am able to speak. I find a motorbike taxi to take me to the university. Nguyen Long, a student in my faculty, is waiting to take me upstairs to the dormitory room where I stay. He shows me the room, but the wifi doesn’t work well. I move next door at his insistence. This new room is the very same one that I lived in for a year. It is as if ghosts of the past are here with me, as a moonlit voice of celebration.

It is the New Year, and I let Long and the caretaker know that I am leaving for a few hours. I hail another motorbike taxi. I arrive in District 1 with the other revelers and join in the celebratory air that fills the city.

The night market is not here. I circle back. Now to Nguyen Hue street and revelers. And again back to the backpacker district. There is techno and dance and why am I the only one dancing, then joined by many other people on the street. A Russian tourist starts a kazatzka. I dance and enjoy the night. It is 4 am when I am back once again to my old university in District 7. The curfew is eleven. I am embarrassed to wake the young caretaker to let me in.

I return each night to Nguyen Hue street for free concerts and dance. This time by bicycle. I buy one second-hand from a shop about 3 kilometers away. It costs about $60. Still cheaper than taxis for a few weeks. I ride up the block and buy a shiny new motorbike helmet to wear. And then back to the university.

I ask where to park but do not find the right place. I will be late. My old colleague Vinh is coming to meet me. It is such a wonderful reunion. She sits on the rack and we ride to the parking that she knows about, and then we walk back to the dormitory to pick up Donna. She is in charge of a dozen students arriving tomorrow from Cornell University for a labor relations program. We meet my former Dean at a vegetarian restaurant. Vinh and Dinh Hoa order wonderful things for us all to try—and many, many raw vegetables for my diet.

There is a sweetness to this meeting that breaks my heart in two. Everyone looks so young still, and I learn about the latest news. The next day I visit other friends on the campus, and then strap my suitcase to the bike. It has a split seam from poor workmanship. It is an easy repair if I can find a shoe place. I get lost. I overshoot and people send me the wrong direction. I ask again and use pantomime. And then again, and a new friend rides his own bicycle with me two blocks to where the repair shop is.

I ride home and another colleague is there, searching me out. His faculty meeting is done. We head to a shop for juice and tea, and spend hours talking about family and ideas. I ride back to District 1 and dance like mad. In the morning my feet and legs are rubber. It is the price of such fun.

There is more. I ride to a colleague’s apartment and meet her month-old girl Susu, and have fun with her grandmother as well. All look so healthy and happy. We spend hours laughing and teasing like old times. We tell each other stories and laugh without a care. And today is a free public lecture. I am here for a conference and this is a pre-conference thing. I arrive late because I have the wrong time, and miss about five minutes, but enjoy the dynamic performance. And then back to my faculty office and meet with more colleagues. And laugh like old times.

It is night now. I have a fan blowing as the air outside is still hot. The AC unit works well, but I like to choose a fan instead for climate’s sake. This one I buy on my first day here. I walk it back. Even before I buy the bicycle.

Tomorrow I talk about Aristotle and ideas. Collective bargaining benefits from insight. It is a fun talk. My heart is here again. At least for a time. Sleep comes early so I can rest and relax before the show.