The breath of the city, the morning road──people are here, and conversation becomes scenery

I don't intend to wallow in nostalgia, but when I'm in Vietnam, there are moments when I think, "Ah, this looks a little like the scenery of those days." It's less a feeling of nostalgia and more like being gently knocked somewhere in my memory.

Ordinary roadsides — not markets or shopping streets — also turn into shops when morning comes. At the corner of the road I pass every morning, an auntie in a nón lá is selling fruit. The selection isn't large, but there are things that, in Japanese terms, would be persimmons, pomelos, apples, and grapes, along with Southeast Asian fruits like jackfruit. It's just a display of a cushioned mat spread out over a basket, yet customers really do come. They greet each other and chat away, laughing. It's probably just idle small talk, but in this way, a connection with society truly does exist right there. Even within the busy market, once the morning peak passes, it's as if they suddenly find their own "time for enjoyment" — there are men playing the Vietnamese version of shogi.

It's not that I want to join in myself, but walking through scenery like this — cheerful and laid-back — somehow makes me feel happy. There's none of that atmosphere here, like "Hey, stop playing shogi and wrap up this product for me," or "How much is this? Come on, do your job~." I wonder which one's stronger. Are they having a close match? What are they talking about, I wonder. Even though I don't understand the words, there's a sense of clear, unclouded air flowing through the place — an energy overflowing with bliss, or something like that. Or maybe that's not quite right… On the road in front of the housing complex, when morning comes, a street-stall tofu-dessert vendor arrives. Warm, soft tofu. It's the douhua (tofu pudding) you find across Southeast Asia. There's a café right in front, and orders come in from its customers too. In Vietnam, eating food from outside inside a café is OK (though lately some places are different) — there's an easygoing rule like that. They help each other out; it's fine for both to thrive. People sit on the little stools at the stall and chat about this and that, gathering little by little. And then a woman, still bleary from just waking up and riding her bicycle, drifts over, drawn in, and buys some tofu dessert.

It's not a special place. And yet, a place where people can chat idly, and gather as naturally as humming a tune, exists here and there, all on its own. Migration Life Ranking