Once again, here's a letter from my father in Hanoi (I edited it just a bit for brevity). His description of the park reminds me of the picture book I just read to Bea and her friend, E, a wonderful account by Fumiko Takeshita of a white park bench. The illustrations, by Japanese artist Mamoru Suzuki, which depict the park over one day, are charming as well as engrossing. (You can find the book at Alibris and used at Amazon--I highly recommend it).
Here's my Dad's Vietnamese park experience:
I had one of those disjointed moments this afternoon that seem to characterize my life. I had finished early at the office so after dropping things off at the room I walked to the lake near the office, dodging the motorbikes that use the sidewalks during rush hour.
It's probably about half a mile around the lake and there were many making the circuit, joggers, older and younger people, courting couples, kids with their moms or grand moms and the stray motorbike here and there and one very tiny, very nervous, very lost chihuahua dog wearing a home knit sweater. To my right, older men gathered around what resembles a checkerboard but playing a far more complex game. The circle of mostly elderly men squatted or leaned over the two playing the game, freely and enthusiastically offering their advice.
On my second clockwise circuit just before the last turn that took me back to the entrance I passed the most noisy part of the park. About 35 women, mostly young, radiated from an athletic woman leading them in aerobic dancing to loud Vietnamese pop music.
Just beyond them were the small mechanical kid's rides--one little train and a small and very mild whirly gig. The tinny sound track for the rides provided counterpoint to the jazz.
A new track began and to my surprise the tune was familiar. The female vocalist had (what is to my ears) the thin voice that seems traditionally to characterize popular songs in Asia before the advent of MTV. But. . .I had sung to that tune for as long as I can remember.
Sounding out over the lake and the hundreds of people of all ages from elderly kibitzers to the young couple. . .was, in Vietnamese accented English, "Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, the little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head." It went through all the verses.
And so somehow on my last evening walk of this trip things come around, confusing East and West, English and Vietnamese, Lent and Christmas.
Love,
Mere
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