63: When I really love Saigon

It’s always the same. I get on the bike and make my driver chuckle at something I’ve said in Vietnamese. It is almost always when I’ve said “đúng rồi” when they point at my address to confirm that’s where we’re going. It’s nighttime. It has to be nighttime.

First, because that is when the weather is most comfortable. The sun can shine bright in a crystal blue sky, and the flowers can attract your attention, but it is when the sun goes down that the air feels best. It’s at night when you love that you live in a city that never gets cold, that feels like you’re always in a warm bath. It’s at night when you’re most surprised and appreciative of the breeze it can set forth.

There is traffic at night, and it can be annoying, but it contains less tension than rush hour. We want to get to our destination, but we also aren’t battling the UV or the same volume of fumes as a few hours earlier. Nighttime is when many of us are going somewhere other than work. We are going out or coming home. The permanent, anxious energy of xe ôm drivers and shippers is now something more to accept and less to compete with. The flow of nighttime traffic keeps you engaged as you feel like you’re moving more and stopping less (whether true or not).

At night, I’m less likely to notice the litter and the dust and more likely to notice the skin of those on the bikes next to me. With no sun about, we’re all freer to jump on the bike as-is, with only a helmet and a mask as protection. Sandaled feet have been liberated from socks, hands from gloves, and arms and necks from zipped-up jackets.

As much as I like to gaze with adoring eyes at lovers who seem to take more advantage of their passenger-driver embrace in the cloak of night, neon lights quickly steal my attention. The glow is all around and endless in front as my driver leads us to our destination. My head is always slightly leaning back, taking it all in like a child in a stroller. I remind myself to look at the left side if I’ve been looking at the right for too long. I am dazzled by the fonts and the colours and then excited if I know a word.

I particularly like driving down some of the long boulevards in District 10, like Đường 3 Tháng 2. In addition to it being a long stretch of commercialism, it is home to what I think are called hollong trees. Their trunks reach high above most of the four-ish-story buildings, and they, too, cause me to crane my neck to notice how their tuft of foliage at the top seems to be reaching for heaven.

As much as I can recognize streets or landmarks, at night is when I feel that I am really only familiar with like five percent of this city. It feels denser and deeper in the dark, a labyrinth with unknown endpoints. I love when a driver feels confident enough to go off GPS script and take their own route; it’s like they’ve unlocked a secret level in the game. By doing so, they open up a whole new Saigon level for me, showing me places and things for the first time.

The child in the stroller can’t escape a higher than normal (child-like) tone when the destination is reached and she says “cảm ơn” while dismounting. Sometimes, the driver will kindly reply with a “thank you.” Nine times out of 10, we part with a quick “bye bye.”