Flashback to the summer of 2014

Imagine if you will, it is midnight on a Sunday, and I am sitting reading Agatha Christie novels with tears leaking from eyes as I continue to eat chili powder and drink copious amounts of water. It is a strange scene isn't it. Especially considering that the last hours leading up to Mondays (of madness usually) should involved such strange activities. It almost makes you think I am making it up. But I am not. This has been part of my evening and for so many reasons.



For weeks, possibly months now, I have been missing Vietnam. Specifically Hue city, Vietnam. Somehow my life there, the pace, the space, it felt right (among all the things that felt wrong). I miss the coolness of the room, the quiet hum of the air-conditioning that worked so well. I miss being able to lay down in the narrow balcony, hidden by a potted plant, drinking a Coke, sharing my life. The rains, the sudden downpours, that wet the streets and the vast courtyard of the hotel, that instantly took me home. I miss being able to walk on the sidewalks and on the roads, dodging traffic and making friends. I miss settling into a routine, finding friends and figuring out which were the people and places not to be trusted. I miss sitting with Margaritas and reading. I miss my take-home Margaritas. I remember the trips to nearby places and the delight of returning, of sleepily, grumpily spotting the entrance to the citadel area where we lived. I cannot believe that I traversed a significant length of the city on foot, when I was in the mood. I miss the city that had sparkling, multicolored bridges that were open to people on foot. I miss Chi, our favorite coffee lady. She once served us watermelon with a dry spice mix and even as it made me cry, I loved it. She gave me a whole bottle. One half of that bottle is kept for me at home in India. The other half is here with me. Every once in a while, I fill a jug of water and start eating the mix. It makes me cry, I like it. I think it cleanses me in a way. I don't think I have been able to tell anyone of all the ways in which I miss Vietnam. I want to go back. I want to be there. It is strange right, almost absurd, this fascination, this heart-clenching emotion of missing a place, an entire city. I miss all the friends I made. I took baby steps in a life where I didn't speak the language. I do not know what to do with this emotion except turn it into words.

(Agatha Christie is an author I have enjoyed from my childhood. In recent months, I am finding great joy in reading her novels and in the university's unparalleled collection of books. As an adult, I can see her writing has racism and elitism in it. Yet for this moment, I am putting it away to lose myself in the nimbleness of Poirot's mind and Miss Marple's shrewd deductions)