March & April

Blackbird Coffee, Hanoi  

I hear the tapping of a keyboard next to me. It’s my current neighbor hard at work…working away to soft music that reminds me of rainy days in the city. The staff is bustling away downstairs. Some faces have changed and some haven’t. The one that I hold in high regard belongs to the legend who remembers my complicated flat white order and just me in general…things I do not take for granted. There is something about returning to people who remember the specifics. It is like returning home after a long trip and not having to adjust anything. But people are sentient beings capable of experiencing so much, yet the way we retain just the minute of details is utterly romantic to me.  

This brief feeling of warmth is washed over by slight embarrassment as I look down to adjust my shorts. Stains from splattered hot chocolate because I was swirling the delicious nectar around in my cup. I knew it was going to spill. I have a track record of that occurring 99% of the time.

Plus, of course, it was going to happen because I wore a white article of clothing. Why is it that when I wear white, I spill or stain? Why? 

That investigation is still on going and I have my best people on it.  

The abrupt sound of glasses being stacked or put away distracts me from the previous inquiry flowing into another: what was the scent in the air? 

Coffee with something.  

Coffee with cool air and clean and the sweaty oils in my hair.  

The front door opens, and air circulates the scent of roasted espresso beans. I think my hair smells like sunscreen, oil, salt, and a touch of gasoline. I don’t know why but that feels like a day at the beach...with coffee service of course.

It was almost 5pm when I arrived at the shop and did not see the appeal in having coffee and staying awake later than I needed to tonight. It’s something I want to fix, but I need to exercise discipline or date someone that also sleeps early. Discipline, it is then. At least I can feel proud of being awake before 11am...10:44am counts as before 11am. Okay? Okay.   

I did not care for the aesthetic of getting up early and “ceasing the day”. However, the older I get, the more I realize that my irregular sleep schedule may be the cause of a possible hormonal balance. I must get that tested, because the weight fluctuation and slight hair loss I am experiencing are not by chance.  I have suspected this for a long time, but never mustered up the courage to do it. The stress of learning there if is something wrong with me. Also, I have no idea if this is covered by Medicare or I have to pay out of pocket. You know even though I look like I am in my early to mid-20s, I am well into my early 30s and the body does not lie. Maybe now is the time and I can complain about the lack of health services covered by Medicare post checkup. Additionally, there is the constant gaslighting by doctors to their female patients, “No, there isn’t anything wrong with you.”  

It angers me just as much as the inadequacy of the emotional support I received as a child.  And I question the impact of that in my older years and maybe how a lot of that is contributing to my patterns. No matter where I go, I carry this baggage with me, and I do invest the time to unpack and sort through my internal affairs. Have I truly made space within me to be compassionate? To grow into a more “functional adult”? I still do not understand what that means. Maybe it is because I have no serious obligations such as mortgage or children. I just know that it was not easy for my parents, and they were operating on much less support than me. So, if I ever have children, what do I pass on to them? I cannot think too much about that now and I will cross that bridge when I get there. The thought of that now is suffocating. What I can focus on is understanding my limits and pushing them further. 

So... 

Who am I now? Intertwined with the growth induced by trauma and suffering...Am I still able to recognize myself? 

If I could bottle a scent that makes me feel at home with myself, what would that entail?  

What is the essence of Drishti?   

There is something intriguing about the challenge and art of figuring out your personal composition. 

I love it when they warm up baked goods: fruity with slightly burnt sugar. 

I guess this is my cue to leave as hunger is quickly approaching. However, convenient of an excuse that is to leave this half completed, there is more to be communicated. For instance, the reason I came to Hanoi was to pick up where I left off last year. Then the project of making a film on the egg coffee dropped into my lap and I started to feel pressure. The winter here was rough. Absolutely gray skies and tons of air pollution. Remind me to skip Hanoi during this season. I think for filming now would be a decent time because it is not too humid yet and the sky is still gray most days. The idea is to discuss the colonial roots of the egg coffee and to tie it back into the present. The motivation came from realizing that although there are many prominent dishes that are a result of hard times, there does not seem to be too much coverage on what those hard times meant and how people came to live in those conditions. War is often the reason and now it is climate change. Both factors have colonial/imperial roots.  Life here is difficult for people who need to work all day to support themselves and families. 4 am is the wakeup call for many. I can only manage when I have jetlag and just saying that is underrated privilege. The culture here seems to be about sacrificing for the future. This creates almost an emotional debt bond between parents and children because they feel they owe so much. I know I felt this to some extent with my Indian parents. Whereas in the West, we are dealing with our lives from an individualist approach. The “I”, “me”, and “myself”. Interestingly, my parents are beginning to adopt this mindset, which makes me happy. Overall, I think this mindset is a luxury, but maybe we are stretching it too far. I cannot say for sure which is better, but whichever leads to cooperation and compassion, is best. It could just be a healthy blend of both. It could also be the mystifying of the “other” or “them”.  

How I move through the city, is not necessarily as a tourist, nor an expat, nor a local. I am an active observer and try to get involved if I can be of use somewhere. I have a friend here and I am helping her build the perfect menu for her cafe. In return, I get the pleasure of testing recipes and exercising my creativity. I love people who have dreams and I love being around them. I love asking them and I genuinely do not care if they think it is silly or small. I think it matters. The beauty of a space that is constantly developing is watching people inch toward their minor home improvements to major infrastructures around the city. The unromantic aspect are the developers and corruption. It seems to be everywhere, not just in Vietnam! My home city, Montreal, can’t seem to move past constantly fixing roads with cheap materials only to do it again way too soon.  

So, I now question this constant development within me. Is it getting me somewhere or am I just setting myself up with cheap decisions? Do I fear that once I take care of the major issues in my life, I won’t have anything left to look forward to? Am I that uncreative? I do not get to call myself an artist if I fear such a thing.   

I am not mad. Just tired of inching toward my goals and having landslides back to where I started because the way I live my life is unstable…(but exciting!). It can be unstable, but still organized. I have said it before, but I should come to terms with the fact that I am not a “normal” person. I did not want a stable life, so why do I get disoriented when my environment changes every few weeks? If anyone should know how to hit the ground running in the eye of a storm, it should be me!  

I am learning to love this aspect of myself because oh my god, it is impressive.