God damn it’s hot in here. Cassie is sleeping immedietely to my right, sandwiching me between herself and a crying baby who wont shut the hell up (I love kids). We traveled three countries in one day, two planes, two cabs and one bus. Currently we are on the boat back to our little island home, and it’s hot as hell. Cassie is lucky to be sleeping, in fact, I’m jealous. I wish I could muster the lathargic attitude to sleep, but with the temperature, the crying baby, and the 75 other sardine can victims, any chance of sleep for me has been thwarted. I keep a handful of advil PM’s for occasions like this, so naturally, I inhaled a couple. It seems my inablity to rest, depsite my exhaustion, does not sucumb to medication.

It’s times like these it’s easiest to let my mind wander. I’m thinking about my trip to Vietnam, it’s rude city streets, cat-calling pedestrians, and it’s undeniable beauty.

I’ve been to cities before, never cared too much for them. A lot of people moving really fast, all trying to catch up with whats going on, trying to stay ahead of the curve. Ho Chi Minh city is no different. From dawn to dusk, hundreds of thousands of people fill the streets, sidewalks, shops, and air space. Anyone who even slightly diverged from an asian ethnicity has a target on their back, constantly under attack from men and women selling everything and anything. Young women selling knock off handbags, old men selling helmets and sunglasses, children selling cigarettes, all trying to make a buck. Unfortunately, for the divergents (Westerners), we appear as one big ATM, a free-flowing cash cow. As I’m sure one can speculate, it becomes irritating.

By the second morning, the flame that ignited our lust for the city had dwindled and disappeared, shedding a brief and unsatisfying light. The big city was chewing us up and spitting us out. Trying to be as conservative as possible with our funds, though managing to spend a hundred dollars a day, we were shocked how expensive the city was. I suppose where there are swarms of people, there is demand, and when there is demand, either you pay triple the value for a water bottle or you get the hell out.

It wasn’t until the last night, I realized I had a skewed understanding of what life in Vietnam is really like.

Cassie and my last day landed on a friday, a holysitc day for party goers of all kind. Torn between the decison to stay in or be apart of this ritual we decided to make the most of our last night in Ho Chi Minh City. We showered, put money in our pockets, and slid into clothes we had been wearing for five days at this point, but so be it. Two nights prior we had taken notice to a buffet, nestled into a high rise building, and Cassie being a sucker for a good view, we made an appearence and feasted like Americans routinely do.

Fresh seafood, dishes of all nationalities, and all you can drink beer, it was good to be alive. Until this point, we had come to terms with our lonliness. Showing all the social evidence of being lepors, we were shocked to have been submerged into conversation with our neighboring table. Amidst the language barrier and barbaric act of sucking down snails, Cassie and I managed to mantain an understanding with the Vietnemese table. Two women in their mid 50’s and two equally as seasoned drunk men were the catalyst for what turned out to be a very pleasant evening. They had told me about their trips to Canada and their yearning to visit the U.S. The two drunk men were doctors, however, after drinking several tall glasses of beer, I’m not sure I would have trusted their synopsis.

We laughed and exchanged stories, drank and exchanged smiles. With every sip of beer the barrier between our languages thickened, until our conversations turned to silent laughs and selfies with one another.

Once Cassie and I were content with our Blood Alcohol Level, and our new friends were content with theirs, we tried to articulate our goodbyes before making our way back to the hotel room.

Upon our exit, our mission at hand was intercepted by four Vietnemese smiling at us incessantly. A young man, approximately 25 years old, approached us and asked if he could take a picture with us. Confused, and slightly offended, we agreed. What started with one photo turned into a full out fashion shoot. The four of them and the two of us rotated between all possible combinations, holding up peace signs and fabricating huge, idiotic smiles.

Once the shoot was done, we began to chat with the four. The young man who spoke the best English asked us about our lives, and we reciprocated the interest in theirs. It turned out, the three men were family, and the woman was the young mans girlfriend. They were kind, genuine, and seriously enthused from each word that came out of our mouths. Cassie suggested we all find a place to sit down and have a beer, after all, what’s one more beer.

After a majority vote “yes”, the four locals showed us to a little place outside the buffet with 50 cent beers. We were indeed happy. On our way there however, the old man and father to the young man, took a profound interest in me. It was as if he could not look away from me, smiling at me, touching my hands, as if he was in deep thought.

I thought nothing of it and didnt want to be disrespectful, so I smiled back and would consistantly motion him for a cheers. His son, the one who spoke best english, glanced over to see his father so captivated and intrigued. He went on to explain to me how his father was in the war many years ago. He described to me the reason for his fathers terrible scar located on the top of his shaved head. A vietnemese war plane, shot down from U.S troops, crashed and hit his father, nearly killing him, and by the sight of the scar I’m surprised it didn’t. Listening to the mans son explaining his past, and even though he didnt speak or understand a stich of english, he remained smiling. His son told me it was his father that wanted to take the pictures with us. It was his first time in Ho Chi Minh city in fourty years, and the first time he had seen an American in decades.

I looked into the mans eyes, and I could see his thoughts, and even though we couldn’t speak to one another, we exchanged something profound. The happiness that illuminated from the old man was something I had never seen before. I smiled whole heartedly and the man did as well. We tapped our beers in unison, uniting two peoples once seperated by hatrid, and the man held up his two fingers, forming a peace sign, breaking all barriers and leaving me with something great. He left me with something more than any conversation could ever produce, pure acceptance and kindness. I will never forget that man, and will always thank him for the experience we shared together. Two countries vastly different, once enemies, now friends.

The men continued to tell me about their lives. How difficult it is to grow up in a country stricken by such poverty, and how western poverty is very different. He described what it is like to grow up in a communist country, about how they have no freedom. They cannot speak freely, do what they’d like, and undeniably yearn for freedom. He says that Cassie and I are very rich, just by the way we speak, and the way we dress, and act.

We talked for two hours before heading our seperate ways. The four of us exchanged goodbyes and gratitude for having met. The four of them went off to their home, a quarter the size of Cassie’s and my hotel room. Meeting them opened my eyes to a new perspective of life. How lucky we are just to be born, in a free country, and how much people take their lives for granted. The people I met that night live wholesomely, appreciating the things they DO have instead of the things they DON’T. And here I am, complaining about how hot this god damn room is. For now, I’ll appreciate the little things, my life, my freedom, and the experiences we share in life.

“A man is but the product of his thought, what he thinks, he becomes,” Mahatma Gandhi

Written by Michael Gilmore