I'm sitting alone at a restaurant in the backpacker district of Ho Chi Minh City. An English pub across the alley way is filled with loud, boisterous Americans. I'm not one of them. Three young women ride up on motorbike taxis. A crippled beggar approaches them, his hand extended. They cringe & back away, then laugh amongst themselves as they join their friends inside. The cripple moves on. Later, the Americans in the English pub break out in a drunken rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. Tears sting my eyes. I am surprised. I miss my home, my friends, my family. But I am not a part of this celebration of Manifest Destiny. I don't want to be.
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Saturday, November 7, 2009
In the Out Group
I'm sitting alone at a restaurant in the backpacker district of Ho Chi Minh City. An English pub across the alley way is filled with loud, boisterous Americans. I'm not one of them. Three young women ride up on motorbike taxis. A crippled beggar approaches them, his hand extended. They cringe & back away, then laugh amongst themselves as they join their friends inside. The cripple moves on. Later, the Americans in the English pub break out in a drunken rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. Tears sting my eyes. I am surprised. I miss my home, my friends, my family. But I am not a part of this celebration of Manifest Destiny. I don't want to be.
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1 comment:
I'm guessing you're writing about the Phạm Ngũ Lão area. I give it a very wide berth. It usually inspires similarly unpleasant thoughts.
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