Thang Nguyen 555

Village, villa and my vali. Tres French. Tres chic: foula, sweater, socks. No traffic, and the lake all empty out. The bottom of the lake is to be refinished.
Dalat without the lake, like an off-season swimming pool. Of course, I sat at Cafe Cali. Near the University, near the romantic oak trees where  youthful dreams often took place.

I started reading again. Orhan Pamuk’s Other Colors. He wrote lines like: every man’s death begins with his father’s death.
When I came to Dalat as a child, I stepped out to the balcony for a quick smoke. I imagined myself Jean Paul Sartre. Now, with fresh eyes, I look at the city not too differently: it still bears French architect, drinks cafe au lait, with beret. Fresh flowers and cabbages.

Saigon depends on DaLat for its supplies of produce. It is also home to many Catholic churches and Buddhist temples. And of course, tons of coffee shops. There was one which displays bikes through the ages. At 5 AM, residents are found running around the lake.

Dalat is healthy and fit. Slower pace of change. Why change when you are having it near perfect? I know I can only bear three days of this inactivity. Then, a hop back to more bustling city, hub of everything fast but not easy.

Last night, the newly crown Beauty Queen here admitted she was in dream like state.
How about me? The whole time I am in Saigon has been dreamlike. New buildings, new street names (sometimes three names for one street), threw me off balance.

Until Dalat cured me, via reflections and pondering. Dalat allows you to take an interior look at yourself. And before you know it, it outgrows you, like all the surrounding oaks. Dalat shouldn’t be a city. It should be a monument that stood the test of time. The early French governess would testify to this even when no longer.