Out and between
To compensate for the idle summer in 2021, when I spent most of my waking hours gazing at the laksa leaves on my rooftop garden, this July has been a fairly eventful month. The month rolled in with a festive Canada Day celebration, accompanied by frequent trips around the Lower Mainland. After numerous failed attempts of finding a parking spot at the Steveston Salmon Festival at the sleepy-turned-vibrant Steveston Village, I hopped on Canada Line and practiced my bus-hopping skills to reach Granville Island. Although I've visited the island quite a few times, I couldn't help being immediately transported to a whole different world. The chill Granville Island I visited during drizzling days in Vancouver was miles away from the breathtaking pier I came to on a clement morning. Downtown Vancouver was shimmering in its glory, fully awake after two years of hibernation: groups of radiant tourists chitchatted their way through the piers. After navigating through the mazes of artisan stores and mom-and-pop shops, I tucked myself into a dazzling array of Lee's donuts - from powdered green tea to scrumptious Long Johns - the buttery aftertaste of which still tiptoed on my tongue long after.
On more cloudy days, looking for a more peaceful side to summer, we drove down the cabbage patches-lined roads to a petite strawberry farm in Richmond, just a few miles away from home. My eyes were dazzled by the strawberry bed stretching far to the shady woods, where little kids chased each other with bucketfuls of strawberries while their parents, promptly tucked in flowing summer dresses and polo T-shirts, flashed their cameras. The landscape seemed to be transported straight out of a Victorian novel, with the pristine Prussian sky over an idyllic farm on a bright July morning. As this was my first time picking strawberries, I couldn't hide the excitement when stooping down to see the branches laden with succulent red delights. The farm strawberries were much smaller than the commercial ones, but, by golly, they were pure heaven! After a few minutes of foraging around, I learned that the sweetest ones were the size of the head of the thumb and should be oozing with shimmering juice. The strawberries' taste brought a light note of honey along with a very distinctive fruity flavor.
As the summer sun lingers more in the sky, I cut my days short with a long-awaited return to Saigon. Ever since I mastered marathoning with a suitcase full of books through International Customs, I experimented with more changes in my circadian rhythm than I've ever had. This erratic rhythm is further aggravated during the summer a few weeks ago. After a tiring red-eye flight (which seems to be the only kind of flight I can take to return) with a brief transit in Tokyo, I landed at Tan Son Nhat Airport in the wee hours. After hours of binging airplane movies, I longed for nothing more than my cozy bed and dog-eared books on a rainy day. Sweat dripping from my palms, I clenched tight my suitcase and braced myself for the throngs of weary travelers at the passport check gate. As I navigated through the maze-like streets on my father's moped, Saigon welcomed me back with a kiss of the humid night breeze on the cheek and a warm embrace of smells: the smoky late-night grilled meat stalls, the calming scent of joss sticks from a temple by the sidewalk, and the pungent petrichor from a running creek. After a few initial minutes dazed in this cacophony, I quickly regained the familiarity of my dear homeland. Just as the clock struck 2 AM, I arrived home, tired yet delighted after filling myself with a bowl of hủ tiếu from a night stall by the sidewalk. Life has never been better since the city opened up after the historic lockdown.
The pulse of Saigon vibrates deep into my circadian rhythm. Although I may fall asleep late at night, when the last lights on the street are dimmed out, I usually wake up no later than 7:30 in the morning. The streams of traffic always flow on the street where my house is on, echoing their rumbles to the orchid plants on the balcony. By 9, the heat has already penetrated every corner, ripening the chillies on the rooftop and diffusing coolness from the droplets on my cup of lemonade. As it's usually too hot to get around, I stay inside and occupy myself with myriad activities: scavenging musky books from the bottom of the gigantic bookshelf, sweeping the dry petunia leaves that blow into my study, and indulging in baskets glowing red lychees and fuzzy rambutans. When my studious side occasionally got the better of me, I scribble down plans for research papers and brush up on my languages if not getting tense about online classes. Outside, the sun still shines brightly until dusk falls by the violet horizon. As I open the windows without being scathed by the intense heat, a cool breeze freshens the whole atmosphere, infusing spirit into the dull city from a haze of slumber. Saigon, it's nice to have you again.
Just last Sunday, I lived the life of my dreams by going to my ever-favorite musical: Ngày Xửa Ngày Xưa (Once Upon a Time), featuring a retelling of Captain Sinbad's adventures in Arabian Nights with a fussy family of mermaids. No Disney fuss and frills, just pure joy by talented Vietnamese actors who have been coloring the furthest memories I could trace back. I couldn't help but scream with joy when Sinbad's ship sailed forth to the vast ocean with the crew beaming brightly, seeing thousands of thrilled spectators of the play. But the best magic is not Sinbad's adventurousness nor the chaotic mermaids' power, but the sheer dedication of the cast and crew after two rough years of the pandemic to hold a musical again. The magic is nothing short of the wonder electrifying me since I first watched the musicals 15 years ago, when my whole world is still my loving Mom and Dad, our little house in Tan Phu District, and chocolate candies. Now, when my world is oceans stretching and mountains undulating, the musicals still hold a special place in my heart, just like when a 2-year-old Vicky gaped when the drumbeats echoed from the DVD player.
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