You don’t realise how lucky you are until you're sitting on a beach in Da Nang with ten of your friends, most of whom you’ve known since you were just a kid. Sometimes, thinking about it, it’s strange knowing that the lot of us have known each other for so long. It feels as normal as it does surreal. Normal because it is what it is: we’ve grown up together. First as innocent enough boys in elementary school, into middle and high school where we thought we were cool, acted out in attempts to prove our coolness, then to university where for the first time we lived in different places, occupied different worlds. It’s surreal because now, as adults, we can look back at all of that and the many different turns our lives had taken only to realise, no matter how far the distances are between the countries we reside in today, we remain, at our core, as close as ever.
The boys trip started in Hanoi with a few friends from Japan. Maruta who’s living in England, Shinya who’s in Australia, Ryan who’s in the States, and Kotaro, who’s got a remote job which pretty much lets him bounce around the globe. Their trip was something of a warmup before the actual madness that would be Saigon and Da Nang. They spent time in the capital city as well as an overnight stay on a cruise in Ha Long Bay before flying down to Saigon. It was late June, I’d gone home to Japan for a couple weeks as something of my own warmup for the trip. Really, I didn’t know what to expect. I knew it’d be fun but there was a worry that it might be too much fun—That once the eleven of us gathered it’d very quickly descend into a Lord of the Flies type of degeneracy as a result of no sleep and too much partying. Needless to say, I was excited. I returned to Saigon on a Friday night. The Hanoi boys would be landing tomorrow, as would Tom, living in Japan, and Kazuho, in England. I slept well that evening, breathed in deep the silence of my room at midnight and let it leave my body in a slow exhale. I knew it would be a while before I’d have this kind of peace.
Tom had an early flight so he popped over to mine on Saturday morning for a few hours before going to La Vela Hotel, where they’d be staying for the duration of their trip. The four from Hanoi landed in the late afternoon while Kazuho, thanks to Emirates Airways, ended up missing his layover in Dubai and had to spend a night there. One man down, we had to make up for him and so Tom and I began our night relatively early at Neo-, a place that had ranked high on my list of spots in Saigon I wanted to show them. A few craft beers, a nice, warm evening and a bit of conversation with Tung and everything was off to a fine start. The four made it several hours later. I hadn’t seen each of them for at least a year, whereas in the case of Shinya, we hadn’t met since I’d moved to Vietnam and he’d left for a working holiday in Australia. Meeting friends after long periods of separation, you’re often left wondering whether things are going to be the same. Maybe you’ve both changed and though you once shared a connection, it’s not as strong anymore. Speaking to Shinya there was nothing of the sort, and heading to a nhậu after Neo- we caught up on everything that had been going on. Garrett and Aidan were with us too and sitting there with friends from different places, I knew the coming days would be everything I wanted and more.
Over the three nights in Saigon, there was non-stop eating, drinking, and going around the city. Luckily I had my apartment in Bình Thạnh to retreat to. This was necessary. This meant I had moments of solace within which I could remind myself that this was a marathon and a sprint at the same time—as such, I needed to make the most out of these brief moments of solace. A lot happened. Bui Vien, TNR, unholy bowls of late night phở. Japan town, Bar Commune, a real-life game of Pacman while massage parlour girls tried to pull us into their stores. Thảo Điền, Cafe Stag’s rooftop, the sun as it set and the view of Landmark 81. I wanted to show them as many places as I could and for a month prior I’d been making a list of all the places I wanted to show them but once we were together it didn’t really matter where we went. It was enough just being together again, talking in our own special JinGlish mix—Japanese and English—about everything. About the things we’d been doing, the things we were going to do, but more than any of that, about nothing important. Just jokes, laughter, just the occasional looking around and wondering how the hell it was that we were actually in Vietnam together.
Out of it all, my favourite evening in Saigon was the Sunday before my birthday. I’d been fantasising about the evening for what any doctor might consider an unhealthy amount of time but I couldn’t help myself. I had it all pictured: dinner at one of my go-to nhậu in the city, Xèng Quán, conveniently located at the end of Phạm Viết Chánh street. Post dinner we’d walk down and (potentially) stop off at Rooster for a few pints. I already knew what I would tell them, how they had a pint that was only thirty-four thousand dong but its price was no measure of its quality—It still somehow tasted so damn good. After that? Rafters. There was no other spot to go but Rafters. Groups of friends would gather and we’d drink too much, maybe get in a few games of pool. I never thought of anything beyond that. I was sure we’d figure it out on the night.
And so we went. First to Xèng Quán where we ordered our staples, shrimp for Tom as he’d made it a mission to eat shrimp at every meal, as well as multiple plates of rau muống. They’d fallen in love with the dish, and throughout the trip it was the first item they demanded whenever we sat down for a meal. We ended up skipping Rooster and headed straight for Rafters—It was late by then and some people were already waiting. It was weird how for the most part, a lot of what happened that night I’d already spent a good deal of time imagining and yet the reality of it exceeded any of my hopes. Standing on the second floor of Rafters playing the biggest game of Killers I’d ever seen on their pool table, every now and again I’d pause and look around, see multiple generations of friends talking and getting to know each other and once more it all felt equally surreal as it did normal. The clock struck midnight and calls for a speech went around. I don’t remember what I said but perhaps that’s for the best. Some moments are best left only being experienced once.
With Saigon out of the way, the final leg of our trip started in Da Nang. I met the guys at Terminal 1 of Tan Son Nhat airport, a group of slightly-haggard twenty-somethings who probably each needed one full day of manicures, massages, and meditation. There was no time for rest, however, and we were okay with that. Da Nang awaited—the beach, an airbnb complete with swimming pool and pool table, as well as four more friends: Gaia, Jinya, and Avi, all living in Japan, and Ryo, based in the States. The plane took off. I fell quickly into a deep sleep. An hour later, we’d landed.
What is there to say about Da Nang? Even before I’d gone I always knew I’d love the place, given it being a beach town and all. As far back as I can remember the idea of living by the beach has been something of a dream, and Da Nang seemed like a spot where I could actually make that a reality. We were blessed with the weather: a sunny, breezy afternoon that had us staring out the window on the drive to our Airbnb. There’d been talk of figuring out the rooming situation for some time, given that there were nine beds for eleven of us, but based on text messages it seemed the four had already arrived and picked out their rooms. No matter. We got there, hugs and handshakes going around. I hadn’t seen Ryo and Avi since I’d left for Vietnam and it came and went again, that wonder at how things might be but really, nothing had changed.
That first evening we went for dinner at a local nhậu around the corner from where we were staying. I did my best at ordering with what little Vietnamese I knew—of course, several plates of rau muống and shrimp—and once the food came I delighted in how much they loved every dish, as if I were the one who’d cooked it all myself. I suppose in some ways I did feel like a representative of Vietnam, given that I’d been here for three years and this boy’s trip was taking place in the country. Hearing their mutters of pleasure after every bite, lips wet with beer, puffing away on cheap cigarettes and vapes, I was glad to recognise some semblance of love similar to what I felt upon my first visit, and which I continue to feel to this day. From the nhậu I wasn’t sure what we’d do. Though I never admitted it, a night staying-in sounded like a dream, maybe a dip in the pool before a hot shower and lounging on my bed for several hours until sleep carried me away in its sweet embrace. Naturally, that wasn’t going to happen. We headed for an area in Da Nang that was supposed to be popular amongst expats for a bunch of bars and clubs that spilled out onto the street. Finding ourselves in a bar called Heaven, the worst rain of that trip poured while we were there. A torrential downpour coming out of nowhere, the music pumping through the bar’s soundsystem was no match for the deafening rain which splattered onto the pavement in front of us. It was nice though, calming. Once it settled we headed home.
Similar to what happened in Saigon, Da Nang consisted of non-stop eating, drinking, and going around the city. We hit the beach a few times, went to a spot called Bikini Bottom for a gluttonous feast of smash burgers, fries, and jalapeno poppers, lounged at an expensive beach bar drinking Mojitos and Margaritas, met a few backpackers who became friends for the trip, walked around Hoi An at night and told ourselves we’d have to come back with girls, went back to Heaven, went back to that whole area with bars and clubs spilling onto the road and ordered enough beer and tequila shots to drink the place dry. It was all good. All fun. But what I remember the most are the conversations we had, especially the one-on-one talks with each of the guys. There was a lot of catching up to do, a lot of questions about what was going on in their lives and what they had planned for the future. Hearing them talk, it was funny how so much had changed but then again, everything stayed the same. Sure, we were now living in different parts of the world and working jobs that ranged from a doctor to an English teacher to an ice hockey player, but we were still the same friends to one another, still cracked the same jokes, conversed with that same JinGlish mix that sounded like alienspeak to anyone who overheard us. We’d known each other for too long, after all, for the things that had changed to have any real effect on our friendship. How could it, when we’d grown up together, confessed our first crushes to one another, got told off in the principal’s office with each other? When we drank our first beers, sneaked our first cigarettes, talked until late into the night about things that we never felt we could say to anyone but each other? When I thought about it like that, when I thought about how at one point we were together at school every day, going from class to class, day to day, weekend to weekend believing—as most teenagers do—that we were at the centre of the universe, of course it made sense that no amount of time, distance, or direction could have any real effect on our friendship.
So there I was. On a beach in Da Nang with ten of my friends, most of whom I’d known since I was a kid. I was lucky. The sun beaming, kites flying high like carp in the cloudless sky. I knew then that no matter whether our next gathering was one, two, or another ten years into the future, it didn’t make much of a difference. We’d known each other for too long, after all, for the things that might change to have any effect on the past that we’d already shared.
