语言/Language
Chapter 1: Ho Chi Minh - Landing Shock and Urban Dissection
1.1 Airport: Three Hours Stuck in the System
The plane landed at Tan Son Nhat Airport in Ho Chi Minh City at 7 PM.
Three and a half hours from Tokyo. The flight wasn't long, but enough to take me from an orderly world and drop me into a completely different place.
The flight attendants in the rear cabin kept chatting during the last leg of the flight, voices loud. I wanted earplugs, thought about it, never mind. The journey was just beginning, no need to make a fuss over something so small.
Off the plane, following the crowd into the customs hall—and then, I saw the slowest customs I've ever seen in my life.
Separate Paper Visa Window
There was a dedicated window in the hall with a Chinese sign: "Separate Paper Visa." Twenty or thirty people in front of the window, mostly Chinese faces, the queue moving at a speed approaching complete stillness.
After queuing for an hour and a half, finally my turn.
"Photo."
"What photo?"
"Two-inch photo. Need a two-inch photo for the visa."
I had applied for an e-visa on Taobao in advance, uploaded a photo, and there was no notice anywhere about needing to bring a photo.
"Don't have one."
"Can't process without a photo."
"Then what do I do?"
She pointed to a small counter nearby: "Can take photos there, 50,000 VND."
I took the photo, came back and queued again. Waited another half hour, this time she said the visa needed to be printed out; after printing, she collected ten USD "landing handling fee," no receipt, no change.
Two and a half hours, three hurdles, each hurdle had a fee collection point, each hurdle cut the knife precisely at the amount you'd least want to make a scene about.
Walking out of customs, I had only one thought in my head: I underestimated this system.
In Japan, thorough preparation can avoid almost all risks. But Vietnam's rules are fuzzy, execution is arbitrary. This isn't a question of "good" or "bad," but a completely different survival logic: Don't use your experience to speculate the cost in a strange system.
You think the cost is small, actually the cost is very large.
1.2 First Night at the Hostel
No subway from the airport to the city, I called a Grab car. The driver was a middle-aged man, didn't speak English, we communicated with gestures. Forty-minute drive, outside the window was Ho Chi Minh at night—not many streetlights, but bright car lights, motorbikes weaving through traffic like a school of fish.
The hostel was near Pham Ngu Lao Street, the front desk girl spoke fluent English. She handed me a map, circled the bar street, night market, money exchange, then laid out a few rules: keep quiet after 11 PM, store valuables at the front desk, kitchen free to use, clean up after use.
Six-bed dorm, already three people there: an old German man with white hair, sixty-something; a Korean girl with a huge hiking backpack; an Australian guy working on a laptop, around thirty, doing some project.
Everyone exchanged simple greetings, no small talk. There's a consensus about socializing on the road: friendly, but not deep, because the other person might be gone tomorrow.
I showered, lay in bed, opened Flomo and wrote the first note:
This time I feel like I didn't prepare in advance, because I felt Ho Chi Minh was different from Japan, no matter what happened it didn't matter, the cost was small. But actually it's not like that, the cost is actually very large... Treat any absurd system or national institution seriously, don't underestimate.
Finished writing, 1 AM.
1.3 Grab Motorbike: Order in Chaos
In Ho Chi Minh, there are two types of Grab: cars and motorbikes. I quickly discovered that motorbikes are the soul of this city.
First time on a Grab motorbike, the driver was in his early twenties, wearing a helmet, jacket, a huge green Grab box strapped to the back. As soon as the bike started moving, I understood why everyone chooses it—when cars are stuck, motorbikes drill through the gaps; at red lights, motorbikes slowly inch forward, past the stop line, but don't run the red; when changing lanes, hand signals or horn, drivers communicate with eye contact "you go first" "I'm changing lanes."
At first my hands gripped the handle tightly, after a few rides, I started observing the structure behind this system.
This is a spontaneously evolved order, not a designed order. No rulebook, but decades of game theory formed a tacit understanding—you yield a bit, I yield a bit, nobody loses.
This isn't a matter of high or low compared to Japanese order, but different paths: one top-down, one bottom-up. Evolved order is more fragile, but more flexible, more adaptable.
1.4 First Drip Coffee: Slowed-Down Time
The next day, I decided to walk around aimlessly. No destination, no plan, walk wherever.
Passed a small café, walked in. Black and white photos on the wall, probably Saigon during the Vietnam War. The owner was a middle-aged man, grinding coffee beans.
"Cà phê sữa đá." (Iced milk coffee, looked up the day before)
The drip coffee making process is very slow. A small metal filter cup sits on the cup, hot water poured in, coffee drips down drop by drop, takes about five minutes.
I sat by the window, watching motorbikes come and go on the street. Coffee ready, the owner brought it over: a cup of espresso, a cup of condensed milk, a cup of ice cubes. "Mix yourself."
Pour condensed milk into coffee, stir, pour over ice cubes—very strong, very sweet, very cold.
I sat there, drank coffee for an hour. Didn't look at my phone, didn't work, just sat, watched people come and go.
I suddenly understood why Vietnamese people love coffee so much—this isn't for staying awake, but for slowing down. In this rapidly developing country, coffee is a pause button. Walk into a café, time slows down, no one rushes you.
After that day, I developed a habit: every morning go to the same café, order the same cà phê sữa đá, sit for an hour. That hour was the clearest time of my day. Not because of caffeine, but the clarity after slowing down.
1.5 Pham Ngu Lao Street: Dissection of a Street
Anyone coming to Ho Chi Minh can hardly avoid Pham N Lao Street.
It's not long, five minutes to walk through. But those five minutes pack in the entire backpacker universe: hostels, bars, travel agencies, money exchange points, and non-stop touting—"You! Where you from?" "Massage? Very cheap!" "Tiger Beer, two for one!"
The second night I sat alone at a corner, observed first, didn't rush to participate.
The essence of this street is not a street, but a distribution center for a "departure state."
It gathers those who have just crossed some line—left the daily routine, not yet entered the strange. They're in a state of liminal excitement, nothing has happened yet, but anything could happen. Maps are repeatedly zoomed in and out, "next stop" repeatedly discussed, travel bloggers' faces repeatedly appear on various screens.
The European table next to me was circling the map with a pen: "...take a boat from here, to Tonle Sap Lake... Cambodia visa can be got at the border... how much time do we have... ten days..."
I listened, thought of myself before departure—same state, a full page of planning, "ten must-visit places." Where is that plan now? I don't remember anymore.
Sat for half an hour, I left. Not bored, but wanted to see where Ho Chi Minh truly lives, not the stage it sets up for tourists.
1.6 War Remnants Museum: Who's Narrating, Narrating to Whom
The museum is in the city center, yellow exterior wall, real weapons used in the courtyard—American tanks, planes, and Vietnamese equipment. From the outside, it looks more like a monument.
After entering, the narrative logic is clear: first exhibition hall is French colonial atrocities, second is American crimes during the Vietnam War, third is Vietnamese people's resistance and victory, fourth is post-war reconstruction and peace. Exhibits are real, data has sources, photos are what history left behind.
I stood in front of a photo for a long time.
It's one of the most famous photos of the Vietnam War: a little girl burned by napalm, naked, running on a highway, expression of fear and pain, unadorned. June 8, 1972. The plaque below reads: "American forces dropped napalm, massive civilian casualties."
This is fact.
But standing there, I felt something slowly accumulating. The museum showed the My Lai Massacre, but didn't show the 1968 Hue Massacre—that was the execution of thousands of civilians after North Vietnamese forces took Hue. Both happened during the Vietnam War, but only one entered the framework here.
This isn't to say the museum is lying. Every exhibit is real.
But historical narrative is never neutral. It serves some purpose, some need for "who we are." In Vietnam, the framework of this war is "resisting foreign aggression, striving for national independence"—this framework凝聚 s national identity, and naturally determines what is emphasized, what is put into the shadows.
Walking out of the museum, there were many vendors at the entrance. Selling "War Remnants Museum" T-shirts, selling Vietnam War-themed postcards, selling replica medals.
War memory here has been commodified.
I bought a postcard, it was that photo of the little girl. Not to commemorate, but to remind myself: Remember that photo, but also remember how it was placed. Both things are true, neither can be missing.
1.7 Central Post Office: History Being Used
From the War Museum, it's about a fifteen-minute walk to the Central Post Office.
The two places are not far apart, completely different temperament. The museum is "judgment of the past," the post office is "continued use of the past."
The post office was built in 1886, left from the French colonial period—high dome, yellow exterior wall, floral tile floor, ironwork decoration, said to be designed by Gustave Eiffel's team, the same person who built the Eiffel Tower.
But it's still in use. Hundreds of people come in every day to send mail, pay water and electricity bills, buy phone cards.
When I went in it was morning, in the hall there were Vietnamese grandmothers paying bills, salary workers waiting in line at windows, tourists taking photos everywhere, and children running around inside. No one paid particular attention to the beauty of this building, no one stopped to look at the dome's decoration—because this is where they come to handle affairs, not to sightsee.
Standing in the middle of the hall, I thought of a word: normalization.
The fate of colonial buildings usually has two types: torn down (anger), or enshrined (worship). But this building took a third path: continued use. It wasn't converted into a hotel or shopping mall, nor became a pure tourist attraction, just itself, a hundred-year-old French building with Vietnamese people queuing to pay utility bills inside.
This coexistence requires a very calm historical view—no need to establish the present by denying the past.
I sent a postcard from the post office, to a friend, wrote the address in Vietnamese, not sure if the postman could read it, but it doesn't matter.
What matters is, I sent a present-day postcard from a colonial-era building.
1.8 Rooftop Bar: Two Generations of a City
On the seventh night, the last night before leaving Ho Chi Minh, I went to a rooftop bar in the city center.
Elevator to the top floor, door opens, all of Saigon unfolds below: neon lights are a slowly unfolding canvas, traffic like a river, Saigon River's lights reflected in the water, distant music faintly heard. Evening breeze blows, carrying a bit of heat, very comfortable.
I found a seat by the edge, ordered a beer, sat alone.
Not far away, there was a table of young Vietnamese, probably all twenty-five to thirty years old. They were chatting in English: "...our user growth is very fast..." "...next round of financing, target is five million..." "...have you thought about doing B-side..."
I listened for a while, thought of a statistic: Vietnam's average age is 32. This means Vietnamese people under thirty today were born more than ten years after the Vietnam War ended, their childhood was Vietnam after Đổi Mới (Renovation)—a Vietnam that had already decided to turn to a market economy. Their frame of reference isn't "independence," but "development"; their dream isn't "not being invaded," but "reaching five million users."
I had just seen the War Museum during the day. The history in that museum and what this table of young people were chatting about felt like two different frequencies, existing simultaneously in this same city.
One generation's mission is determined by the historical moment they were born into. No generation is right or wrong.
I opened Flomo, wrote the feeling at the time:
The city's neon is like a slowly unfolding canvas, Saigon's lights flickering, traffic like a river,耳边 is the pop music from the Live Band in the distance, clear sound of ice cubes clinking against beer in the glass, as quiet as a heartbeat.
Sitting alone on a high building, feeling like temporarily detached from the world's gears, time slows down, even the air carries a bit of sweetness. Suddenly understood why Saigon people like to gather outside in the middle of the night—blowing in the night breeze, feeling like this world belongs to you alone.
But at the same time, I also felt a slight, indescribable worry: when a country's young people shift from "why we are free" to "how do I make money," in that transition, what quietly disappears, and what just begins?
I don't have the answer. I finished my drink, went downstairs, walked into the streets, swallowed by the motorbike torrent.
Ho Chi Minh's night, still very young.
Seven days in Ho Chi Minh gave me two types of cognition, at first I thought they were separate, later discovered they're actually the same thing.
First type: Preparation and System
Preparation cannot eliminate accidents, can only create margin. Vietnam's customs, Vietnam's traffic, Vietnam's commerce—they all have their own logic, and that logic isn't something your experience accumulated in Japan or China can predict. The first lesson in a strange system is always: observe first, judge later, don't use the ruler of the familiar world to measure the cost of the strange world.
Second type: Narrative and Presence
The War Museum and Central Post Office gave me another cognition: history isn't neutral, it's always narrated from some standpoint, and the narration itself is a choice. This isn't criticism, but a reminder—when you receive any information about "the past," remember to ask simultaneously: who's narrating, narrating to whom, why narrate this way.
The two voices from the rooftop bar on the last night—that line in my notes "this world belongs to you alone," and the financing-talk voice from that table of young people—made me think of the same thing: the way you're present determines what you see.
During those seven days, I was doing both things: feeling (that line of notes), and observing (that table of young people). Both feeling and observing are "presence," but they touch different layers of the same reality.
During those seven days, I began to learn one thing: to be present, not just pass through.