Dien Bien Phu Street was a wide boulevard, heavy with motor traffic, bicycles, and cyclos, and it was a little unnerving sitting in an open compartment with the driver in the rear and cars and scooters cutting in and out.
The city was very lively on a Sunday night, horns honking, boom boxes blasting, and pedestrians crossing in mid-block and against red lights.
Susan pointed out a few sights as we made our way along the boulevard. She said, “This street, Dien Bien Phu, was named after the final battle between the French and the Viet Minh — the predecessors of the Viet Cong. The Viet Minh won.”
“Whoever wins gets to name the streets.”
“That’s right,” she said. “In ten years, this will be called Avenue of the Multinational Corporations.”
Susan took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to her driver, who took it, then the two cyclos came close so she could hand the pack to my driver. She said to me, “My guy wants to know if you’re a veteran.”
I hesitated, then said, “Tell him First Cavalry, Quang Tri, ’68.”
She relayed this, and they both said something to her. Susan said to me, “They are both veterans. My driver was a jet fighter pilot, yours was an infantry captain. They say, good to see you again.”
I looked at her driver and made the V for victory sign. He returned the sign, half-smiled, then stared straight ahead.
We rode around central Saigon, and Susan pointed out the sights, but mostly we just watched the street show.
She said, “See those apartment blocks? They were built by the Americans in the ’60s for CIA and embassy people. They now house Communist party officials.”
The apartment blocks were drab gray concrete, without the usual balconies, and they looked like a penal institution. I said, “Serves them right.”
We passed Notre Dame, and I noticed that the small square was filled with people promenading. The uniformed cops seemed to have disappeared, and I assumed the plainclothes cops took over after dark. And yet, by outward appearances, Saigon did not look like a police state. In fact, it looked like everyone was going out of the way to break some law or another — public drinking, prostitution, sleeping on the sidewalks, running traffic lights, jaywalking, and whatever else they did that I couldn’t see.
On one level, the South Viets were second-class citizens in their own country, ruled like an occupied nation by the cadres of Communist carpetbaggers from the north, and exploited by the Asian and American capitalists. Yet, on another level, they seemed happier and more free than the Communists, like Colonel Mang, or the capitalists, like Susan Weber.
We were at the northern end of Dong Khoi Street now, and it was as if we’d entered Times Square or Piccadilly Circus. The brightly lit street was choked with pedestrians, cyclos, bicycles, and motor scooters, all heading south toward the river.
The facades of the old French-style buildings were nearly covered with neon advertisements, and names of places like Good Morning Vietnam, Ice Blue, and the Cyclo Bar. There were also a number of upscale French and East Asian restaurants and a few grand hotels from another era. I recognized the Continental, where the war correspondents used to stay and make up news stories in the bar.
The metamorphoses from Rue Catinet to Tu Do to Dong Khoi had not been complete, and it seemed like all three versions of the same street co-existed as one. I did remember Tu Do, and I saw a building now and then that I thought I recalled, but too much time had passed and all the names were changed. I called out to Susan over the noise, “Is there still a place called Bluebird? Or Papillon?”
She shook her head. “Never heard of them.” She added, “I understand that the Communists shut everything down in 1975.”
“They’re not fun guys.”
“No, they’re not. A lot of places started to reopen in the late ’80s. Then in ’93, the Communists got annoyed with all the bars and karaoke places and pulled a raid all over the city and shut everything down again. Some places were allowed to re-open, but only if they used Vietnamese names and cleaned up their acts. Little by little, it all came back, bigger, brighter, and crazier than ever, and with Western names again.” She said, “I think, this time, it’s all here to stay. But you never know. They’re unpredictable. No respect for private property and business.”
I pointed out, “They could kick you out.”
“They could.”
“Where would you go?”
She replied, “I have a book called The Worst Places in the World to Live. One of those.” She laughed.
I tried to locate the little alleyway that led to the cul-de-sac where my friend used to live. It was on the left side as we headed down to the river, but I didn’t see it. I said to Susan, “You live on this street?”
“I do. It’s not so bad five nights out of the week. And I’m on the fifth floor and closer to the river. I’ll show you.”
The throngs on the street were mostly young; boys and girls in T-shirts and jeans, the guys chatting up the girls, the girls mostly in groups.
I could see the end of Dong Khoi, and the moonlight on the Saigon River in the distance. Susan called out, “That’s my building.”
She was pointing to the left at a stately old French-style building on the last corner before the river. On the ground floor was a Thai restaurant, and next door was another old hotel called the Lotus, which Susan informed me was once the Miramar, and which I remembered.
She said, “Top floor. Corner apartment, river view.”
Sounded like a real estate ad in the Washington Post. I looked up at the corner apartment and noticed lights in the window. I said, “Someone’s home.”
She replied, “Housekeeper.”
“Of course. You like those corner locations, don’t you?”
The cyclos swung onto the river road where a nice breeze was blowing across the moonlit water. The nice breeze smelled of God knows what, but if you held your nose, it was beautiful. The shore across the river, I noticed, was almost totally black, which I recalled from last time, and there seemed to be not a single bridge over the river. I said to Susan, “That’s still undeveloped over there.”
“I know. There are thousands of acres of flower farms there — orchids, exotic plants, and all that. When I go to sleep at night, I dream about subdivisions and shopping malls, then when I wake up and look out my window, it’s all flowers — a waste of prime property.”
I looked at her and realized she was putting me on. I smiled to show her I was a good sport.
The cyclos went a short block, then swung north onto Nguyen Hue Street, which ran up to the Rex and was parallel to Dong Khoi. This was a wider street, and it, too, was filled with humanity and vehicles.
Susan said to me, “It’s a clockwise circuit — down Dong Khoi, then along the river, and up Nguyen Hue, then right at the Rex on Le Loi, and right again on Dong Khoi. An all-night parade.”
“You mean I have to listen to this from my hotel?”
“Only until about dawn. Then it gets quiet until rush hour starts ten minutes later.”
“Did you pick the Rex for me?”
“I did. It’s close to my apartment, as you can see.”
“I see.”
“I like the rooftop restaurant. I like slow dancing.”
We turned right on Le Loi and continued east. Susan said, “The kids call this circular parade chay long rong — means living fast.”
“We never got above walking speed.”
“I don’t make up the language — I just translate it. It’s like cruising, living in the fast lane; it’s metaphor, not physical speed.”
“I have problems with metaphors. Time for dinner.”
She said something to her driver, and we continued on.