Tag: Alain Delon

Sunday afternoon

If it weren’t for the rain, I wouldn’t have remembered the incident.

Being just a kid, I was home-bound by torrential rain. No matter how hard I tried, the adults in the house would not let me go out and play. My tantrum perhaps lasted for hours with ending compromise: I got taken to see “the Hunchback of Notre Dame” played by Anthony Quinn.

Esmeralda and her plot-twisting escape.

I wish my life had been that of the hunchback i.e. just ring the bell when it’s time and stay in.

Even on rainy Sunday Afternoons.

No Esmeralda. No trouble. But troubles seem to find me out.

I ran out to the street, saw all sorts of things: burning monk in 1963, Tet 68 street battle, 1975 last chopper, 1979 Three Mile Island. A long way from a quiet home-bound Sunday Afternoon.

On one of the family’ trips, I was up in a Dalat villa, sneaking out the balcony for a smoke, cause I saw it on Bonjour Tristesse. I knew then as I know now the face of existential loneliness.

Jean Paul Belmondo, Johnny Holiday and Alain Delon.

Those larger-than-life figures of French cinema.

Than music of the 60’s arrived (the British Invasion caught a ride on the chopper to be in Saigon as well). I had imprints of “He ain’t heavy, he is my brother” piling on top of “Et Pourtant” by Charles Aznavour.

Those Sunday Afternoons. Home-bound. Taking it all in.

By the time I got to the States, I am a mix bag and a mix  package: French, Vietnamese and English all-in-one.

Then I caught on with Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park“, or America’s “Lonely People”.

Finally, the day the music dies. Lennon got shot in the park.

Princess Diana got car crashed (You live your life like a candle in the wind).

Maria Carey went on living “without you” since she “can’t give anymore”.

Later on, more tragedies piling on top of one another, with “tears in heaven” and “wake me when September ends”.

I like Torn. The sound is very contemporary and cool.

We are still eager for that next tune. Next hit.

After all, it’s only a Sunday Afternoon, homebound. In search of something to pass the time.

Kid at heart.

Look not for trouble. But troubles always manage to seek me out. Bonjour Tristesse.

Might as well getting used to the unusual. Whose life is “normal” anyway. It would be boring to tears, ringing the bell when it’s time. Not sure the guy was born that hunch a back, or it’s an occupational hazard.

Cote D’Ivoire as I recall

I set foot on Cote d’Ivoire  summer 86.

Abidjan looked like former Saigon. Both were built on French architecture template.

Next door Ghanians got shinier skin. But hearing French spoken by the people there made me feel at home. In fact, so at home that I, upon discovering a Vietnamese restaurant in town, stopped in for lunch. And they did not even take our money. Fellow countrymen, in a foreign land, as far away as one could possibly imagine.

The owner mentioned about flights from France that would supply needed ingredients for egg rolls and other authentic Vietnamese dishes.

They must have been one of the very few early Asian settlers in the country.

Then, yesterday, on the Newshour, we watched Peter Pham, expert on African affairs, interviewed for the segment on current regime change in Ivory Coast.

I have seen his book on Africa‘s affairs. And to hear him on air, was just as delightful.  The word “positive deviant” came to mind.

Instead of rebelling against strict parental and cultural codes e.g. pressures to become a doctor or an engineer, some people harness their passion to pursue something totally “deviant” but with a positive spin. And Peter Pham was one of those. Vietnamese, but expert on African affairs.

A few years back, I was also surprised to see a Japanese expert on Vietnamese language.

The depth of his knowledge about our culture and language would put any of us to shame.

There certainly were some drawbacks being born outside of the culture, but this also is made up by his objectivity and relentless pursuit. In short, he went in deep.

My short stint in West Africa was my attempt to understand a culture so different from mine. To experience the world via someone else’s eyes.

In Liberia and Ghana, I relied on English to communicate. But in Cote d’Ivoire, I was forced to pull out language I acquired in my early years. Oui, oui.

I wish for the people of Cote d’Ivoire the best, when the country can be stabilized and rebuilt to its former glory.

Its boulevards and police posts were so Saigonese that I felt at home there all of a sudden. That kindred feeling that is reserved only for relatives.

Former colony, fellows of the same dreams (in French, of course). I am sure people there can recognize Alain Delon, BB and Catherine Deneuve in an instant.

That was in 86. I don’t even want to venture about its current state of internal warring. And how a hotel that turned compound for the President-in-waiting can accommodate that much aspiration for change and modernity. Any disruption, if well-capitalized, can be turned into opportunity for growth. The continent is awaiting to see if election model work out for this former French colony. All eyes are on Ivory Coast, including mine.

Vietnamese love for French songs

When traveling in Vietnam, you can still hear French embedded in every-day culture:

fork (fut-xet) , suit (com-plet) and tie (ca-ra-vat). Apparently they just went with the phoneticized versions for lack of  dynamic equivalents in French Colonial era or literal translation, such as “Hop Dem” (Boite de Nuit).

Some old hands can still carry a tune or two in French. From the music of Christophe to Art Sullivan, from Dalida to Charles Aznavour.

Ask anyone from the older generation, they will tell you they know Alain Delon, Catherine Deneuvre , Jean Paul Belmondo and Brigitte Bardot.

And you should listen over an iced-coffee with condense milk (cafe au lait). You see, it’s there, the French imprints in gastronomy and architectures (Notre Dame Cathedral), traffic cop stations at street corners, and the ambivalent tie (a rare thing given its tropical climate).

The older scholars are still conversant in French. Their worn-out  La Rousse copies testify to that.

Chances are they still have a beret lying around (up North, or in Dalat).

Old Time-and-Life pictures still show French officers smoking in Hotel Continental and Caravelle in the late 50’s (in shorts).

Foreigners’ hang-out places now see practically every nation on Earth represented (expats), but still bear the name French quarters.

Vietel won and carried out the Haiti Telecom contract despite the quake. The thing they have in common: speak French as former fellow colonies.

Speaking of history. Madame Nhu (the title says it all) was overexerting her derivative power with her bad PR comments (they can barbecue themselves all they want, nobody asked them to) about the burning monks. She once had been tutored by her soon-to-be husband presumably in French.

A friend told me I should try to make it to Paris before dying.  Apparently, Paris is our new Rome and Mecca (it’s still among the top ten tourist destinations despite the recession). Even the hyper-savers in China couldn’t help spending an average of $1800 there for shopping at Capitalism temples.

Since they arrived in tour bus, their schedules weren’t allowed for sitting down dinner. Just shop (although both the Chinese and the French love cuisine).

And if I can’t do it, a trip to my local supermarket will do. There, I get my French Roast coffee, and a baguette plus cheese (La Vache qui rit).

And on Youtube, I can  just select French songs e.g. Francoise Hardy‘s. Those singers, in tailored suits, sang with utter confidence and vulnerability:

“Mal, je suis mal…” or, “Il fait de soleil, je pense a toi.”

As a Vietnamese in origin, I was wired to love French songs. No way around it. It’s a good start for my schooling, in French, at an early age. What else?

Frere Jacque, dormez vous? I didn’t know I was homesick, until one day, I happened to listen to Adieu Sois Heureuse by Art Sullivan. It not only brought me back in time,

but also, to a place where I grew up, where a lot of dreams went unrealized, and many friendships, half-baked, left wanting for more. French is the best language for nostalgia. And where else better than in Vietnam where you can still find it embedded in every-day culture, and etched in the memories of exiled like myself.