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Chapter Four

VIVI

I’m not used to being around this many people. And I’ve definitely never been around this many people that look like me .

Living in Little Saigon was almost like living in a bubble—Vietnamese spoken at every turn, Vietnamese mom-and-pop shops at every corner, and Vietnamese kids being the majority at the local high schools. Still, my little bubble can’t compare to the enormousness of Sài Gòn.

People speed by on motorbikes, grunting over potholes. They laugh with friends at food stalls and dodge traffic like experts. A whole new world I’ve never known, never grew up with. It’s overwhelming, but I’m so glad I’m here.

I chew on the twenty-hour-old bánh bao that Mom packed for me. She ran out early yesterday morning just to get me my favorite food before my flight. But the bao tastes like rubber—too cold, too stale—and not the same as when she’d make them every Friday with pork, spices, Chinese sausage, and quail eggs.

I wonder if Mom knows the best bánh bao spots in Sài Gòn; if she even remembers. It’s hard to imagine Mom as the girl in the photos buried inside her closet, smiling beneath the same Vi ? t Nam sun as me. I haven’t ever seen her smile like that before. Whoever this girl is can’t be Mom.

Yet her name is on the back of the photo, next to the date when it was taken.

“Vivi! Will you quit staring and finally help me unload your suitcases? You’re right. Your parents did pack a truckload of crap—”

“Cindy!” I hush her. She gives me a “what the hell” face. “Don’t air out my dirty laundry to everyone.” My voice low, almost whisper-yelling.

Cindy, unlike me, still speaks at a normal volume. “Are you embarrassed? Why? It’s a suitcase. For packing stuff. That you packed.” She says it so matter-of-factly that I almost convince myself I’m the one being unreasonable.

“We’re trying to impress people here.” I help her drag my definitely , very, awfully heavy suitcase. “And I want to be, I don’t know, cool? This isn’t high school. These people have no idea who we are. It’s like a clean slate.”

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “Then can I have a new personality, too? Oh! What if we invent alter egos for ourselves abroad?”

“You sound like a sexpat. What’s next? We have affairs abroad and never tell our families about it?” I never would have learned the word sexpat if not for A Bánh Mì for Two . One of the older blog posts on the website, “Ten Reasons to Never Travel to Vi ? t Nam,” mocks the types of Westerners who come and “colonize brides.” It’s one of their least popular posts and received so many hateful comments that the author locked the comment thread. The post remains on the site to this day. I never understood the criticisms from readers. The author wrote about their experience in their home country. I mean, I definitely wouldn’t try to butt into the conversation since I know absolutely nothing about Vi ? t Nam.

Cindy winces at my suggestion. “No, thanks. We’re not even rich enough to be sexpats. I do not have enough money to fund a green card for my foreign spouse.”

I click my tongue. “What alter egos should we try, then?”

“We can pretend to be enemies.”

“Nope. You’re going to cry the moment you try being mean to me. It’s impossible for you.”

“You’re right,” she sighs. “I guess we’ll just be Cindy Rodriguez and Vivi Hu ? nh. True to ourselves.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Says you.”

The street outside our dormitory, thankfully, isn’t as busy as the city center. People walk back and forth with ease, some carrying buckets atop their heads while others engage in screaming matches across the street. My eyes dart everywhere, studying every corner and every small shop, landing on a girl staring straight at us. Tanned skin with a posture that screams confidence. She looks like she belongs, like she knows this city. Our gaze meets for a fleeting second before she immediately turns away, her braid dancing by her side. Embarrassed, I turn away, too.

Was she judging us—judging me? Did she know that I’m not like her? That I’m Vietnamese but not from–Vi?t-Nam Vietnamese?

A clap reverberates through the air. “Everyone! Welcome to your home for the next four months.” Anh Huy, our program chaperone and instructor, unlocks the tall doors to the dormitory. He eases us in, taking our luggage and paying special close attention to mine. “This is quite heavy, Vivi.”

Oh my God.

One by one, we manage to drag ourselves through the door and into the common room, sleep in our eyes while we take turns complaining about how sore and tired each of us are. My poor back especially, after an out-of-control toddler kept kicking at it the entire plane ride. I’m about to fall asleep right then and there, until the sweet scent of grilled meat overwhelms my nose.

“It smells like th ? t n ?? ng.” I’d know that smell anywhere, especially because it’s my parents’ favorite thing to do on the weekends: flipping skewers by the banana tree in our backyard. Maybe it reminds them of Vi ? t Nam.

An elderly lady carrying a full plate of bánh mì saunters through a partition, and my eyes bulge at the feast between her arms. Bánh mì. Tons of bánh mì. “Xin chào! Welcome! You must all be so tired from your trips. I am Bà Hai, the residential coordinator of this dorm. Here, have some.” She shoves loaves cut in half into our hands.

“You must be ng ?? i m ? g ? c vi ? t.” She studies my face. My stomach flips. Of course she knows I’m Vietnamese American—this is a study abroad program for Americans, after all—but will I ever just look Vietnamese? “Do you like patê?”

“My favorite.” Who doesn’t like patê?

“Good.” She smiles bashfully. “You get the bánh mì with the most patê.”

“Thank you, Bà,” I say, not forgetting to bow. Cindy follows suit while the other students awkwardly copy me.

Taking my first bite of Vietnamese food in Sài Gòn, I chew through the umami explosion on my tongue. The tender meat melts like butter, the patê mixing with its rich, fatty taste. Baguette crumbs decorate my mouth and I lick my lips, savoring each flake. My taste buds meet the pickled vegetables next, the flavor not too sweet or sour, as if each ingredient down to the soy sauce was prepared with care.

Cindy smacks her lips beside me. “First meal abroad and it didn’t disappoint. Maybe I can live here forever.”

Bà Hai cackles, motioning us for seconds. “I knew it was the right call to get bánh mì! Did you see the stall right across the street? Bánh Mì 98 is the best in the city.”

My new roommate and a Vietnamese local, Nga, takes a suitcase and guides me to our room. I drag my other luggage up through the narrow, spiraling staircases, pausing to pant when we unlock the door. Vi ? t Nam is really working out my legs so far.

Nga gives me the spare key. “Make yourself at home! I cracked the window open, but you can close it if you want.”

I step into our small but cozy room. It has two beds, one in each corner, and two desks. A typical dorm room experience. Our window stares out onto the streets, offering a view of Sài Gòn with its colorful buildings, pagodas, and skyscrapers. I feel so small, like a droplet in this vast city. The sun glows as people hustle back and forth in the streets, most wearing some kind of hat to shield themselves from the heat. Not bothering to unpack my suitcase, I jump right into bed and sink into the wonderfully soft mattress. Drowsiness tugs at my eyelids and I allow it.

The alarm titled TEXT MOM goes off and I send her a quick message promising I’m safe along with a curated selfie Cindy took of me against the airport wall—no Sài Gòn cityscape in the background. She responds with a thumbs-up emoji right away. It’s almost 4:00 a.m. in California.

I think about the future Vivi in four months. Will I be a different person in December? Will this trip change how I see my parents? How will I see Mom, after learning about the life she had here?

Will I finally know why Mom was so happy here? Why she left?

My phone chimes.

Mom : Mommy th??ng con. Stay safe. Don’t talk to strangers.