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.
Thang Nguyen 555 