I’m of the belief that everyone needs a good park near their home. Back when I lived in Tokyo, I had just that: Komazawa Park. It was a fifteen minute walk from mine, a massive expanse of greenery, football fields, baseball pitches, tennis courts, as well as three stadiums—one indoor and two outdoor—perfect for hosting a variety of other sporting events. Originally built for the 1964 Olympics, Komazawa Park has been well maintained through decades, and though days of its Olympic contributions are far-away memories, it still plays host to numerous Japanese and tourists throughout the year. I really started falling in love with the park in my latter years of high school. I’d started making a habit of going on walks, and there was no better spot to walk than Komazawa Park. Off I’d go, making the fifteen minute journey over before entering the park grounds. The route I took was always the same: starting by one of the football pitches, past the skate park, along the overpass connecting two sides of the park, then curving back around to where I began. I always felt better afterwards. The walk allowed me to think things through, and the soft rustle of leaves against the wind gave me the impression the park was listening—always open, never judging. It’s no wonder why when I moved to Saigon three years ago, the importance of a good park had already been long established in my mind. That’s why when I came across Lê Văn Tám Park, I knew I’d found just what I needed.
Lê Văn Tám Park was close to where I used to live in Đa Kao. I forget how I found it but it was probably how people discover most things when they first move someplace new: by walking. You realise, after a while being in Saigon, few people actually walk here. It’s not as much of a walkable city given the traffic, bumpy sidewalks, and the heat—the heat!—which will have you pouring sweat not long after you’ve taken a dozen steps. Having said that, when I first arrived, I walked everywhere. There’s a quote by Werner Herzog about how the world reveals itself to those who travel on foot, and seeing Saigon on those initial walks gave me a picture of the city I otherwise wouldn’t have had if I’d travelled everywhere by Grab and, eventually, on my own motorbike. It was on one such walk I found Lê Văn Tám Park, and given the heat and the dizzy, discombobulating feeling of being in a new city, coming across the park had a similar effect to what I imagine the oasis has for the man who’d been travelling the desert for weeks without sight of vegetation or water. A tranquility washed over me as it did back whenever I walked through Komazawa Park, and making a circle of Lê Văn Tám I could forget about the fact that I’d just moved to a different country without speaking a lick of the language or knowing a single other person. I’d done it—At least I was here! And looking at the way the light played through the tree tops, noticing the squirrels darting across the freshly trimmed grass while groups of guys played basketball on the court and older men and women exercised in the calisthenics gym, I knew I’d be just fine.
Throughout my time living in Đa Kao, I’d go to Lê Văn Tám Park every now and again. It was a welcome respite from Saigon, and, more often than not, my room. When I take a second to wonder why I value parks so much, I think it’s got a lot to do with the fact that they can take you away from the hubbub of day-to-day work and give you an opportunity to slow down, relax, and—hopefully—think. It’s like meditation without the act of sitting in the lotus pose and repeating a mantra. After all, there are numerous ways to meditate. You can ride a motorcycle, do jiu jitsu, and walking (or sitting) in a park is another way to reach some semblance of zen. As someone who loves to write, the meditative effects walking provides are beneficial because after years spent typing away on my laptop, I’ve found writing can often devolve into a solitary, confining act. There have been numerous times where I’ve been in my room, staring at the cursor as it blink, blink, blinked on a white page, trying to figure out the next word, the next sentence and yet for what felt like hours, nothing would ever come. I’ve learned in times like that, going for a walk is the cure. Even better is a walk in a park. These have the power to take you out of that tunnel-vision mindset you can often get stuck in when you’re trying to figure out what to write. Of course, this is not to say walking through parks only benefits would-be writers. As I say, these walks take you away from the hubbub of day-to-day stresses, and in this supercharged society a lot of us live in where information flies at you and you can never seem to catch a break, a walk through a park can occasionally be your only opportunity of getting away from it all. I’m sure there are countless studies on the benefits of strolling through nature, but I’m not here to cite any scientific research. All I can speak on is my own experience and the very real feeling of content I get after doing a round of some park, whether it be Komazawa Park, Lê Văn Tám, or any other, anywhere. You might notice a few things: sunlight dancing through the leaves, squirrels darting from tree to tree, older folk sweating out their age. Then that magical thing happens. At some point while admiring nature’s simplicity, you’ll realise you’ll have stopped thinking about all the things that were bothering you before. It all melted away.
