Morning coffee

Saigon now; Saigon then, Saigon street corners contrast with vivid colors—life unfolds with the animation of the young and meditation of the old. We wake each morning into this bustling city, but who wakes the city up? It is not easy to ascertain who launches Saigon into the morning—the fixed of boundary between night and day is blurred. At 3 am, Saigon bars still serve quietly. At the same time, hawkers arrange their goods in the first hours of wholesale markets. In these are blue-collar workers starting their shifts beneath the glow of street lights. Saigon is waking up, but the city never fully went to sleep. Who starts off the city’s day? The answer is elusive, perhaps hidden somewhere among the street sounds: vehicles, horns, and people selling newspapers in the street. “But today’s newspaper! Thanh Nien! Tuoi Tre! Come buy today’s paper! “ Today is the same as everyday—a cup of black coffee. The difference is only the place. I am at a western-style café on the corner of Pasteur and Le Loi streets. A Valentine’s ballad by Martina McBride and Jim Brickman sounds out, making the street life suddenly a shade more romantic. At 7:30 am, employees walk into government offices. Vehicles pack half of the street every time the traffic light turns red. I watch the commuters, who have long faces and jutting chins—typical Saigon faces. They stop at the three-way crossroads when the traffic light turns yellow and then hurry forward when the red light changes to green after 45 seconds. “Please buy a lottery ticket! “a 10 year-old girl cries. Her accent is from Quang province; her choice is pure, as if she never knew about life in the dusty streets. It is a tenor note in this morning’s ballad. These are a foreign couple in white shirts and cream khaki trousers. The man holds the woman’s hand and they go to a nearby table, which has a good view of the street. The man has side-burns and puffs through a cigarette holder, gazing out at the street through the smoke. They call a street vendor and buy a colonial hat. Three other men enter and choose a hidden corner in the coffee shop. They order coffee, tea and strawberry juice. They are about 60 years old. They start talking about Saigon in 1975—their accents sound like Vietnamese from overseas. They sit with a meditative look, chatting about Saigon streets and about the corner where they are now sitting. The men talk about the city Saigon once was before the names of streets were changed. Whoever war born and grew up in Saigon before 1975 knows the old names of streets, such as Green Tamarind Leaf Street. Bonard, which is now called Le Loi Street, is perpetually teeming with fashionable and wealthy young people walking and window shopping along the hot pavement. Le Loi stretches towards the famous Ben Thanh Market to Catinat Road, which is now called Dong Khoi Street. The shops sell goods, such as Eagle batteries and Perlon toothpaste, aimed at middle class consumers. People roam around these areas, especially on weekends. The intent is not so much to buy as it is to experience—to see street life and walk arm in arm, talking together. There are many ice cream shops and restaurants, enticing passersby and a voyeuristic gaze at the beautiful young girls walking by. Entheralled at the detailed memory of the 60 year-old man’s story, a younger man invites the Vietnamese from overseas to Napoli Bar on Pham Ngoc Thach Street. This popular bat is a nighttime venue where audiences listen to famous songs of an era passed—enlivening the street sounds with every performance. Also on Pham Ngoc Thach Street, these are many fashion shops, trade centers, and souvenir shops. The most famous commercial center is of course Ben Thanh Market, a highly frequented tourist destination and known as the true heart of Saigon. Saigon now; Saigon then, Saigon streets stir in the morning and soon explode into a symphony of activity: noises, smells, colors. Who woke Saigon up this morning, tipping her into another lively day? The answer, of course: who really knows? “I had a cup of black coffee” I say “The bill, please.” rnThe bill is handed over, folded into a fake leather black folder. The number is more than a few thousand VND, as usual. But when I notice that the bill is 36,000, I am happily surprised. This is a lucky number to start the day.