This blog is long overdue. We’ve been back here three weeks now, and I have been avoiding to record our trip to Hanoi. Mainly because there was so much to report, and I don’t know where and how to start. And I was also afraid that once I start, my writing will be digressing and diverted like water streams going into rivers, flowing into the sea. But I am stuck now with my nồi phở gà on the stove. I have to sit here and wait for a couple of hours anyway, so I might as well force myself to relive the recent past.

I think it all started with Huyền visiting us in San Jose in August this year. She’s a big cổ-động-viên for VietNam. The country is lucky to have a công-dân yêu nước like her. At that time, I didn’t think much of visiting VietNam. I went back there in 1998, but there was no great or memorable experience that would prompt me to go back a second time. Granted, it is the country where I grew up. On a sidenote, why is it that when people say “grow up”, they usually mean the first 20 or less years of their life? When in fact, we’re all still growing up as we’re growing old? See what I meant earlier about digressing? I think I either have autism, or the mind of that producer of “English Patient” who likes to use flashbacks in movies …

In 1998, we took the whole family “home”. I still remember the overwhelming feeling when the airplane landed. I felt that finally I am back to my country. Then I walked into the Customs area, facing people in green uniforms and badges with cờ đỏ sao vàng. I became scared. I don’t get scared when I visit other countries because I go there as a welcomed visitor/guest. But in the Customs area, I felt those eyes looking at me as if I were a deserter returning home . I saw people around me sneaking money into their passport to bribe the officers. We did too. I was ashamed for ending up committing the same act. Once outside of the airport, we rode in an air-conditioned van. If you see any van in Vietnam, it’s almost certain that it carries tourists. Locals ride motorcycles. And experienced tourists go for xe-ôm. Everything looked not just new, but different. The streets, the buildings, even the people looked different. I recognized Chợ Bến-Thành, Hotel Continental, and Đền Con Rùa. I was standing right in front of my old house, and couldn’t even recognize it. Everywhere we went, people stared at us. The look that says “Việt-kiều”. We were welcomed everywhere we went, but I didn’t feel “at home”. I was definitely a tourist. I walked around town, visited places I used to hang out, went inside the house where I grew up, stood in the backyard where I used to hong tóc and talk to my father about growing up. I even went to my high-school, ate chè đậu đỏ bánh lọt and bò biá in an attempt to revive the past. No use. There, 21 years have gone by without me witnessing it. The country has grown up and we have grown apart.

So I came “home”. To California. As the saying goes, home is what you make of it. This place is now my home. My father passed away here. My kids were born here. I make a living here. I decided then not to have second thoughts, or have những ray-rức. I’m at peace with who I am, where I am.