Superstitious cultures once believed the night to be a portal to another world, a time when the walls between places were thinner and anything could happen.
They weren’t totally wrong.
Yesterday (or two days ago now, I suppose — it’s after midnight as I write this), I found myself back in Bien Hoa, the place where my travels all began.
I came here to visit friends, say goodbye, and prepare for the journey home. After all, I’m tired. It’s been an eventful, but long, six months — I’m ready for sweet tea, chicken salad, and time spent lazing about in a recliner with a dog in my lap.
Travel has a way of throwing things in our paths that defy our plans.
Last night, I met a group of English teachers here in Bien Hoa. It was odd, as I didn’t realize there were even that many foreigners in the city. Nonetheless, we hit it off — and tonight I wound up at their apartment, drinking and talking into the evening.
One thing led to another, and I found myself on the quiet, darkened rooftop, discussing philosophy and life while overlooking the sleeping city below. By the time I left, it was quite late — nearly 1 AM.
The thing about a city is that it has two sides: day and night. Walking the same street at night is an entirely different experience than walking it during the day.
Shadows populate places where light once ruled. Near-silence is the soundtrack of the world, rather than the cacophony of sound during the day.
You’re afforded glimpses into a hundred different worlds, through half-open curtains and back-lit storefronts. You can look into the private lives of people you’ll never know, catching moments in time as you walk by.
You see the people who work at night, silently going about their tasks. You also get to see the darker side of the city: men stumbling into alleyways, almost too drunk to stand. Animals scavenging for food in the scraps and garbage.
Bien Hoa holds a certain beauty at night that isn’t always apparent. While I’ve looked down on it many times from my balcony, I’ve never walked the streets like this. As the day’s heat wisps away into the cool evening air, the humidity remains, but it feels like a warm blanket more than a wall of discomfort.
The insects buzz cheerfully, and in the distance, I can hear a chicken crowing. I leave tomorrow for Saigon, and I know I’m going to miss this little town. It’s only two days until I take a flight back to America, but no matter where I go, Bien Hoa will always hold a special regard.
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