It’s my second Wednesday here in this country that was mine. It’s ironic that to be well received, I had to pretend to be non-viet. Actually, I dont need to pretend. I have yet to encounter one who doesn’t think I’m either japanese of korean because of the light skin color.

Hotel Caravelle has changed inside and out. The 9-story building has now a 15-story attachment. I’m glad my father played a major role back then in building what is now viewed as the icon of the Pearl of the FarEast. Caravelle is itself a signature of utter luxury and wealth. No need to mention it’s a hotel. Air France, where I got my first flight ticket, is still here.

On the veranda of Saigon Bar on the 9th floor:

Looking out to the city:

I am getting tipsy. But instead of feeling good, I feel the blues. Not depressed, not sad either. Just a certain je ne sais quoi. Regret of the past. Nostalgy. My 2nd and 3rd drinks are called “Over Dong Khoi”. I love this place; yet hate it with the same intensity. I have yet to see any compassion. Everyone scrambling for the crumbles of the pie. I’m having my 3rd drink now, so my dark side is creeping out. I got the 3rd drink free from the bartender. Yeah! But I still hate this place. Hate Caravelle. Hate weakness in humans for tagging people’s worth with $$.

I guess we all have our demons to fight. I wonder always about changes. When unfortunate, unwanted change happens, can we revert it? Why do we allow changes to happen in the first place?

I need to write. I suddenly feel so lonely.

One needs to take a trip home, alone. Not taking tours to visit places. But come home, stay where you grew up, find the past so you can understand the present.

I wish Chau were here to share this moment with me. Bitch! for leaving me here alone!

I was in a bookstore today, and saw a novel titled: Manh dat cua Nguoi va Ma. Nguoi == people==alive. Ma==spirit==dead. The land of people and spirits. This land.

Reminded me of the creature I saw last night at the night market (Chợ Đêm). Can you call it a human? It has the head, the hands, the feet of a human, everything else in that body is distorted, twisted, and bony in an unbelievably sickening and saddening way. It didn’t look human!

I couldn’t bear to to look at him. Everybody; everybody walked past him as if he was a stray dog lying on the pavement. Tourists probably would have more heart to him were he a dog! I couln’t look at his begging eyes. I couldn’t look at his face. I kept my eyes stared straigth ahead to hide my emotions. I didn’t want any acknowledgment that I saw anything, felt anything. I walked on, as millions of other people had before me.

But I wanted to take a picture of him as evidence of the atrocities of the war and its chemical warfare. So I walked back, with my camera ready. And he looked up. His eyes showed signs of life, of intelligence. It wasn’t pain but desperation that I felt. I placed some money in his extended, larger-than-normal hand, and walked away. Couldn’t strip him of his dignity by taking picture of him in his physical state.

God, listen to me. I treasure and thank you for everything you have given me. I cherish this life. I really do!! But please, bless others too!