Comfort zone

I didn’t realize I had a fixed idea of Saigon’s landscape until I discovered that it was wrong. Upon stepping into Phu Nhuan District, I thought, where are all the skyscrapers? The Gucci ads? The three-piece suits? I felt simultaneously disappointed that the city was not more modern and foolish that I’d made the assumption to begin with. Where did I get that untrue notion? I must not have made much effort to look at recent photos of the city. From all the stories of Vietnam’s stunning economic growth and desire to Westernize, I turned Saigon into Tokyo and Beijing, which I thought were valid comparisons.

What a relief it was, then, to spend some time in District 1 last night. I had to stop by the bank in that district, which I discovered is the most Westernized (read: touristy) of the city's 19 districts. So that’s where all the skyscrapers were – mostly in the form of hotels, of course. L'Occitane, Rolex, and Louis Vuitton abound, as do KFC, hamburgers, and pizza. I’m not sure what kind of person would travel all the way to Vietnam and dine on the Colonel’s cuisine, but the chain seems to be popular with locals.

Although I’m tempted to find out how KFC in Vietnam stacks up against the original, my cousin and I opted for a seafood restaurant after the bank. To my dismay, lobster turned out to be just as unaffordable here as it is in America – nearly $100. Maybe next time. Instead we shared a humble but tasty substitute, prawns, and a seafood hot pot. I knew the food was supposed to be fresh – we saw guests making their selections from tanks at the entrance – but when the server placed the ingredients in the pot, I noticed the shrimp still squirming on their skewers. The server hastily covered the pot.

Once outside, we walked to the famous Ben Thanh Market, only to come up against a gate that was closing and lights that were shutting down. No matter. A block away, hundreds had gathered for an outdoor skit and concert, perhaps lured, as we were, by the fluorescent lights and booming stereo. Predictably a comedy, the skit reminded me of an improv performance, though I knew it was scripted. Using banners and backdrops made of paper vulnerable to the light wind, the actors played with a not-so-subtle message to wear helmets and avoid littering. Then came the musical acts, mainly young singers like the self-proclaimed “boy band, Melody” and a foursome that has probably watched its fair share of the Pussycat Dolls. These girls, at least, were more democratic in dividing up the singing, and invited a handful of elementary-school-age boys onstage with the condition that they must dance. Why didn’t they invite any girls from the audience? I asked my cousin. Little girls are probably too shy, she said.