If home is where the heart is, Saigon’s been mine since I moved here over two years ago. I still remember landing in Tân Sơn Nhất that first time—I’d been planning on coming since graduating from university in 2019, but thanks to Covid I was stuck in Tokyo till the summer of 2021. That plane ride over was surreal. Listening to Dylan and wondering how the hell this had actually happened—Was I really finally moving? One of those rare moments in life where the page doesn’t turn onto the next chapter but the next part, and you’re so acutely aware of it you can’t help but feel as anxious as you do excited. Nothing could have made me happier than that moment I stepped foot out of the airport to a crowd of a hundred Vietnamese staring back, waiting for family, friends, and lovers to return. I’d made it. I was here.
Moving someplace new meant going from Tokyo, where I grew up, to Saigon. It also meant going from my childhood home to an apartment in District 1. I found the spot my first week in the city while the English company I’d be working for put me up in a hotel. I could’ve stayed there for longer but I was desperate to find my own place. Living alone had been something of a dream for as long as I could remember, so during that first week I bounced from viewing to viewing, desperate to find a spot—my spot—that I could call home. The moment I walked into that apartment in District 1, I knew I’d found the one. High ceilinged with a mezzanine bedroom, the space was more than I could’ve asked for, albeit a little on the expensive side. But what did that matter? I was in Saigon, after all, finally here after years of waiting.
I stayed in that apartment for the first two years. It was nice, cosy, and once I had a few paintings on the wall and a bookshelf going it became more of a home than a house. Down a cul-de-sac in the Đa Kao neighbourhood, the place didn’t fall victim to any of the issues I’d heard you had to watch out for when living in Vietnam: neighbours belting karaoke like a pack of wolves at the moon, mad roosters cock-a-doodle-doodlin’ at the break of dawn, streets flooding at the lightest drizzle. Really, the place was something of a dream. An escape from the chaotic city, my ground floor apartment featured large windows that looked onto the courtyard and my neighbour’s places. Directly across from me, the tin-roofed house of an old lady who looked and moved like a tortoise. A calm, friendly woman, she always smiled when I walked by, nodding and replying to my Xin chào with her own greeting. Some afternoons she spent popping bubble wrap, entertaining the neighbourhood cat. When it rained, she’d sit at her front door and watch it all come down.
Next to the old lady’s was an apartment I took to be an Airbnb. Every month a new group of tourists came in and out of the place: Americans, Australians, Chinese, English, French, Indians, Japanese, Koreans, Russians—For the span of their stay the courtyard came alive with their language. Some louder than others, some more jubilant, some so quiet when they passed by my windows they were like a pack of mice tiptoeing on their way. Then they’d be gone, rolling their suitcases out the cul-de-sac only to be replaced by a new group a few days later.
Once I had my own spot, settling into life in Saigon became easier. Still, settling completely took several months—Though I loved the city, the heart wasn’t yet at home. The main reason for this was a weekend work schedule that prevented me from going out and meeting people. Of course it’s hard to complain considering I was only teaching 25 hours a week, but more than half of that was condensed over the weekend. Not to mention, I quickly learned how mentally and physically taxing a single two hour lesson could be, so when you had four of those on a Saturday and another three on Sunday, the last thing on your mind was going out and mingling. The reality was, friendships came slow. Hanging out on weekdays wasn’t much of an option either seeing as when you had a day off your colleagues were working. Even if they weren’t, maybe they were tired, maybe they had plans, maybe a hundred other reasons that prevented them from hanging out with you. So it was. So even though Aidan and Garrett—good friends and partners in this District 0 venture—were my colleagues, it took a bit before I really got to know them.
Fast forward two years and life in Saigon has never been better. It’s been six months since I left Đa Kao. I’d been thinking about moving and when I was told of the rent increase, that was the nail in the coffin. Off I went once more, looking for new apartments but this time more sure of what I wanted: something bigger, something with a balcony seeing as I had a cat now, Teemo, and he needed somewhere to run around and play. The same thing happened. A few viewings here, a few viewings there, but when I walked into that apartment in Bình Thạnh, I knew there could be no other. How was it possible, I’d asked my estate agent after walking in, that the place was so big yet so cheap? I had the whole top floor of a four-storey apartment building: three rooms going from the kitchen, living/bedroom, and a balcony so large you could fit a barbecue, inflatable kiddie pool, a home gym and still have space for a jungle’s worth of potted plants. Not to mention the view—The view! Landmark 81 stood tall and proud that clear, blue morning. The deal, at that point, was sealed. Only needed to sign some papers.
Everything changes when you go from one place to another. Moving from Tokyo to Saigon changed everything, then from the hotel to District 1, from there to Bình Thạnh. I’d been in the city for two years but everything became new again. New neighbours, new places to eat, new routes, new views, new pieces of furniture—As I stuffed my new apartment with books, paintings, carpets, plants, a television, a couch, and more, more, I realised how funny it was that new furniture can turn into something of an obsession the older you get. Long gone are the days you define yourself by your clothes and what music you listen to—Now it’s all about that wooden lamp over there, or how about that Chinese cabinet with the intricate engravings on the front? I spent a good chunk of cash dolling the place up. Making it mine in a way the previous spot in Đa Kao never was. As of writing this I’m still making some of the money back, but what does it matter? I have my home now, and it’s where my heart is.
Who knows what’s next? Friends and family from Tokyo sometimes ask how long I can see myself in Saigon, and truth be told, I haven’t thought that far yet. But I’m halfway through two years and another two will go by just as quickly. I can’t leave now. I don’t want to leave now, there’s still so much of Saigon I’ve yet to discover, that’s yet to reveal itself. I wonder if I’ll ever even know when it’s time, but then I think back to how desperate I was to get out of Tokyo and I’m sure someday it’ll hit me. Maybe it’ll be a gut feeling. Maybe it’ll be something more conscious, like a career choice, like friends, family. Then again, maybe it’ll be that moment I leave Tân Sơn Nhất as I did on that first evening, and seeing all the Vietnamese at the arrivals I’ll feel nothing. No happiness. No sense I’d made it. So on my way I’d go. Back home.
