Rants and Rambles

Ke Ga Point, Binh Thuan Province, with the iconic 127 year-old lighthouse built by the French. As a little kid, I was too scared to even climb up its stairs to see the panoramic view of the sea. Sadly, the lighthouse was closed when I got old enough to conquer my acrophobia. As the raindrops trickling turned into a full march sweeping on my rooftop garden in Saigon, I lazily opened my eye after a heavy noon nap. The first few weeks back home felt like an eternity, with the oppressive sun rays blanketing the city from dawn till dusk, dragging the day into an endless trial of extreme heat and humidity. When not engulfed in the thundering afternoon rains that bring a brief cool wisp of air, it seemed impossible to do anything but moving from another air-conditioned room to the next. The heat came silently, marking itself on the wilting rose leaves, the lack of midday coos of the spotted doves prying chili peppers on the rooftop, and my dog Nest's water bowl finished within ten seconds...

 Originally published in The Ubyssey Homemade bánh mì (noun): The embodiment of heaven The rusty motorcycle took a sharp swerve, slightly tossing my damp backpack. Sitting in the backseat under the poncho flap extending from my father’s back, I tried to guess our location through the thick curtain of monsoon rain. It wasn’t long before I could smell the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked baguette, signalling my arrival at the bánh mì stall near my elementary school in Saigon, Vietnam. “A sausage bánh mì with all veggies, please,” said my father to the middle-aged woman behind the stall. Her calloused hands started to perform magic — a ritual I never failed to watch with fascination. She split a golden baguette in half, spread pâté all over the fluffy white insides of the loaf, then added sausage slices and cilantro, green onion and daikon pickles, finally topping the marvellous creation with a dash of chili sauce. At 7 a.m. sharp, I got off the motorcycle in front of the school gat...