Growing up, my family always talked about their roots in Vietnam. My grandma would monologue about how destitute her family was living in the northern parts of Vietnam. I always remember how she told me that she let some street vendor practice piercing her ear in exchange for one bao bun to eat. My father would reminisce on the hustle and bustle of Saigon. He once told me a story about how he crashed riding a motorcycle and almost died, leaving a giant scar on his forearm. Because of all these stories, I was excited to visit Vietnam.
I had just graduated high school, and my brother had just graduated middle school, so it was the perfect time to visit. Jet lagged and cranky, my family and I spent two hours getting our bags, going through customs, and finally reaching “fresh” air. It was actually so smoky from all the pollution. There were cars, motorcycles, and bikes zooming left and right, no one paying attention to the traffic lights. Pedestrians crossed through this maze with no seemingly no care for their safety. Honestly, it was pretty overwhelming. I didn’t get that “awe” feeling like I did visiting other cities or countries. Instead, I felt anxious… and hangry.
I remember it was a Sunday when we landed in Vietnam. On Sundays growing up, it was a tradition to always eat at Pho 95 at home with my grandparents and cousins. Sticking with tradition, we headed to a pho restaurant. It smelled just like Pho 95 back home, except we sat on little plastic stools on the sidewalk instead of proper tables. I ordered my usual “pho tai bo vien”. The smell of my pho when it came instantly calmed me. Being a foodie, I knew that even though I was anxious before, I would definitely enjoy all the good, authentic Vietnamese cuisine during my two weeks here. I gulped down my bowl of pho, barely leaving any broth left. That was one of the few meals I got to have before I got food poisoning and didn’t get to eat or drink anything the rest of the trip.
Story: Ashley Mai, Photographs: Claire Schenken
