A little matchmaker had presented her to me from one of the large binders of potential love-partners that the matchmakers of the old world carry from house to house. Ever since those days I wanted to meet her. It was arranged that I would learned about her from photos, stories, foods, and music. I had courted her from across the world. When we did meet at last, we were reuniting. I with a dream, and she with the dreamer. Written in tropical malaise our story begins, with a new man and a new woman. Meeting in the cafes, living over iced coffee, and staring through the smog from the back of a motorbike. If I wake up, she’ll slip from memory. I’ve gone mad, I’ve crossed into a lucid dream, the impermanence of us, makes each moment precious.
Our dream looks like this. I live in a large home with an excellent family. They are warm, flexible, and modern. They gave me an earnest welcome and they hold me with appreciated respect. I live in a bright apartment above a classroom. I have all the luxuries of modern living. The family members are passionate about their work and their leisure. They run an excellent school with brilliant staff. The students are lovable and enthusiastic to learn. The food is delicious and the Iced coffee is succulent. The city is saturated in a warm haze that blurs the ugly and pretty parts into a colorful collage of life.
In the first daze, of tropic warmth and family living, I fell in love with Sai Gon.