Page 32 of A Banh Mi for Two
“Thanks,” I say, the corners of my lips tilting upward again.
She digs into the fried cake with scrambled eggs, serving me first. We both go for the utensils at the same time, our hands brushing again.
“Can I ask you something?”
She nods and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before biting off a piece of fried cake.
“Why Sài Gòn? We could… make up another city to write about—what about somewhere in the States, where you’re from?”
She snorts. “Do you know how many people worship NYC or LA? It’s so overdone.”
I narrow my eyes. “Sài Gòn is overdone, too. What do we have that other people don’t? How are we any different?”
“We’re not,” she says, her eyes locking mine. “I don’t think we can ever come up with something so wild and so different that it’ll blow the judges away.
“But we don’t need to be different.” She points to the houses that surround us, their angular structure shaping the alley we’re walking through. “Everything looks so imperfect here. I know that’s probably not the right word! But people are hanging their laundry on these crisscrossing pipes. There are plants poking out from the walls. I see water bottles being used as plant pots. And the houses! They’re so skinny.”
“You like the messiness of Sài Gòn? So many tourists complain how it’s not clean or—”
“I love it.” She smiles sheepishly. “It makes the city feel alive. Like it has a personality. No two things look the same, and I’m seeing something new every time I walk outside.”
I find myself looking at my city the way Vivi’s looking at it. All this messiness and chaos is mine, my city and my Sài Gòn that I grew up in. She’s right. Things are always changing. The same clothes on the rusty pipes will be brought in tonight. Flowers will soon bloom from single-use plastic cups. Even Vivi will be leaving in a couple months.
But that’s what makes this city so special, it changes. It lives.
Chapter SixteenVIVI
A couple more days pass, and Lan and I settle into a routine: We meet each other at noon to continue tossing ideas back and forth (the norm here, I’ve learned, is for street food stalls and businesses to take a lunch break or nap). Something changed in Lan after our last visit to the street food alleyway. She’s writing a lot more, sharing a lot more, and overall seems… happy. I can see it in how she moves, how her eyebrows have stopped their deep scrunching, and how she lights up when she sees me.
“Random question for research: On a scale of never-visiting-again to must-absolutely-visit, where would you rank Sài Gòn?” I ask Lan, who’s busy slicing baguettes open while I scribble down our brainstorming notes.
She dabs at the sweat on her temple. I swallow, hoping my hair is enough to cover the blush creeping to my ears. “Can’t rank, ’cause it’s the only place I’ve ever known. I’d love to go outside of this city though, try visiting somewhere else. Live abroad for a while.”
“Really? You want to leave Sài Gòn? I could live here forever.” It’s the truth. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of Sài Gòn’s noise, and I’d rather live in it than drown it out.
“You’re only saying that because you’re a tourist. Would you want to live in California for the rest of your life?”
I shrug. “It is a big state. But probably not. There’s a lot to see outside of California, a lot more to experience. I see your point now.”
“But you have beaches… Hollywood, the Golden Gate?”
I snort. “I can’t tell you how many times people think San Francisco and Los Angeles are right next to each other. And Hollywood is kind of grimy. The real treat is the immigrant-owned restaurants in Southern California and the Bay Area. So much good food. Still, there’s something about Sài Gòn that just pulls you in.” And once I was pulled, I let this city’s fervor seep into me—all the electrifying chaos, the sweltering humidity, and this girl next to me.
She nods. “I can’t imagine living without the motorbikes, street food vendors, and Sài Gòn’s energy. But Sài Gòn wasn’t always like this. All those corner shops and neighborhood marts outside the alley? Those weren’t there when I was a kid.”
“No way.” I try to imagine a Sài Gòn from the past, and who knows, maybe the buildings I’ve been looking at didn’t exist when Mom was here. Maybe these skyscrapers would be as new to Mom as they are to me. Maybe the place she used to call home… no longer looks like home.
“See that super-tall building ahead?” Lan continues. “That’s Landmark 81. It’s the highest building in Vi?t Nam. It was built in 2015.”
“That’s so recent.” And definitely way after my parents left. “But to me, Landmark 81 feels like it’s always been part of Sài Gòn. Wherever you stand in this city, you can always see it.”
“It’s crazy to watch the city change.”
“My parents… they’re refugees.” I avoid her gaze, unsure of how to approach the word—the topic. “I really don’t know much about what it was like for them living here—leaving here. We’ve never had a long talk about their lives before California. All I know is that my dad’s father, or my grandpa, left soon after the war ended when my dad was only three. He grew up in Little Saigon like me. My mom immigrated in the nineties, though. I want to know why they left, especially my mom.”
“Sometimes it’s not easy and there aren’t black-and-white answers,” she says, looking at the dangling mess of electrical wires above us, bird nests poking through. There’s a hint of sadness to her tone, and I wonder if Lan ever thinks about leaving this city. “I wasn’t born yet, but everyone told me how hard it was back then.”
“I know, but why run away?” Across an entire ocean, too, no less.
