Life in Vietnam: AA Meetings + A Walk to the Light

So we found a cute little restaurant that had been recommended to us — we had looked for it before in that kind-of, not-too-hard, see-if-it-jumps-out-at-you way, but this time we actually saw a sign pointing down a small lane. Just like a lot of restaurants and shops that we’ve seen in this part of the country, it’s clearly someone’s house that has been re-done to fit a business. The food was good — I had the sizzling steak and egg, which is basically a deconstructed bánh mi (which itself is essentially a sub sandwich, filed with pork or chicken, salad and sauce - it’s very much a traditional staple out here), and a lime juice. There was a shelf of books to browse through — running the entire gamut from a Lee Child page-turner to Rough Guides via spiritual self-help texts — as well as board games, and to access the bathroom you have to essentially walk through someone’s dining room.

As we were leaving, the proprietor bid us farewell and encouraged us to return, not just for the food, but because they hosted various groups there as well.

“We have Mah Jong, Bridge, AA…”

Me: “AA? For alcoholics?”

Big smile: “Yes, we have many alcoholics!”

A Walk to the Light

Two nights ago, we met up with some people from the world-schooling community at a nearby sports bar. Newcastle-Chelsea were playing, but none of our group were particularly interested, so we ensconced ourselves in a corner. The bar was completely open-fronted, facing out onto the pavement, and beyond that the road. After a while I glanced out to my left towards the street and my eye was caught by a bright light. A streetlight; just a streetlight, burning through the darkness an unknown distance away.

I excused myself and walked towards it, to seek it out.

Something shifted inside me, something compelled me to leave my seat, make my excuses and simply walk towards this beacon. It was as if this light that I had noticed whilst sitting in this bar condensed everything I felt about being in this country; the feeling of being an outsider-looking-in, of slowly learning customs and culture but realising that this is very much the tip of the iceberg — but also the manifestation and realisation of an entire other history; not the wars fought or the items that would be displayed in museums, but the everyday. The concrete that was poured to make the pavement an unknown time before I had even heard of this town; the electrical wiring overhead — who had installed it? Who had tested it? —and a million other things that separated me from this place, because it is not my place. I didn’t grow up here, my feet don’t know these roads; the cracks in the tarmac, the weeds pushing through, ever-fighting to reach the light; the mysterious reference letters and numbers semi-neatly stencilled onto street-panels by long-ago workmen. Even the romance of that unknown layer of the world in my own bit of where I grew up can sometimes be intoxicating, but out here it is a whole other universe.

I found the streetlight, gently buzzing.

And I wept.

Actually, no, none of that happened. I glanced over, saw the semi-distant streetlight, reflected on this place being a universe of difference for many millions of reasons, and then turned back to the conversation.

And Chelsea drew 2-2, much to the chagrin of the lone fan at the other end of the bar.

Seeing the light