PARIS – Surely many people dream of visiting Paris at least once in their lives—to hear those famous lyrics, “Paris có gì lạ không em? để mai anh về giữa bến sông Seine…” and to leave the City of Light utterly enchanted, as if whispering, “The day I leave Paris, I promise to come back because I’ve left my heart behind…” In Paris, the Seine isn’t just celebrated in Vietnamese verse; even Bing Crosby, renowned around the globe, captured its magic in song:
She goes flowing, flowing, flowing
Through the open countryside
For she’s going, going, going
To meet Paris like a bride
And she’s cooing, cooing, cooing, cooing
Like the murmuring doves
For the Seine has gone a-wooing
And it’s Paris that she loves
Elle roucoule, coule, coule
Dès qu’elle entre dans Paris!
Elle s’enroule, roule, roule
Autour de ses quais fleuris!
Elle chante, chante, chante, chante,
Chante le jour et la nuit,
Car la Seine est une amante
Et son amant c’est Paris!
That fall, I was determined to experience “La Ville Lumière” firsthand. I strolled through the Luxembourg Gardens as a light mist veiled the streets, admired the warm glow of Lyon station, and soaked in the brisk, early winter chill along the Seine—with its lazy, unmoving waters and the bare Bateau-Mouche boats. Naturally, I couldn’t pass by Notre Dame without checking if that beloved hunchback was still lingering, and I made a special stop at the Pont des Arts, hoping to attach my own love lock as a keepsake.
Taking Off
On a dry day in San José, when an unexpected sprinkle began, I boarded a direct flight heading east. The first leg landed in New York, where I switched planes, picked up additional passengers, and then set off on a transatlantic journey westward. Interestingly, the airplane was made in the USA, the crew hailed from Britain, the flight attendants were French, and nearly every passenger was of French descent—except for one yellow-skinned guy. It seemed that while the French were vacationing in America, Vietnamese-Americans were venturing west.
Out of the blue, a fair-skinned woman with a face dusted in freckles sat beside me and cheerfully said, “Bonjour!” Clearly, she was one of the French. I replied with a warm “Hello!” Overjoyed, I realized that for the remainder of the flight I’d found a companion with whom to revive the forgotten Western tongue from my school days in Nha Trang. She spoke English with a French lilt, and I answered in French tinted with an American accent—our abundant hand gestures bridging any language gaps.
We shared stories and laughs. She recalled how, long ago, some folks had enlisted in the Lê Dương military—something about a campaign in Indochina that ended in mysterious disappearances. I mused that perhaps this soldier had fallen for a Vietnamese girl, much like the American pilot in Sayonara who became smitten with a Japanese woman and ended up staying forever. She wondered if her country was cursed with endless strife—a fate perhaps sealed by a past of both colonization and protectorate rule, where clashes between rulers and the ruled were inevitable. Not wanting to dampen our budding camaraderie with debate, I offered her a taste of mung bean cake. “C’est bon,” she said.
She spoke in a singsong, drawn-out tone, playfully lisping her words. Sitting next to me, she nodded along as if fully understanding every nuance—even as sleep tugged at her heavy eyelids. The more she dozed off, the more she mumbled a continuous stream of French, punctuating her drowsy rambling with repeated “Ah, Oui! Ah, Oui!”—accompanied by animated eye-raises, pursed lips, and frequent, almost comical, shoulder shrugs. When the plane’s lights dimmed, she lowered her voice so as not to disturb others, yet her chatter persisted. At one point, she asked if I was Chinese—as though having “yellow” skin automatically meant I was. I shook my head and explained I was American, even pulling out my blue passport emblazoned with a golden eagle. “Ah, Oui! Américain,” she replied, still puzzled about how someone with my complexion could be American. That’s when I clarified: I’m an American of Vietnamese descent. She nodded again with a cheerful “Ah, Oui!” and flashed a charming smile, her white teeth bright beneath her distinctly Western, pointed nose. Once she fully caught on, I gently explained that our shared heritage ran deep—even back when our teachers would import entire textbooks from the West, and we, the little dark-headed “dragon” kids with names like Nguyễn, Trần, Phan, would sing in unison that “Our ancestors were Gaulois.”*
Thus today I am a citizen of the United States, though my roots trace back to the Gaulois. And yet, my meals remain simple—white rice, boiled water spinach, and braised fish, just like the humble fare of 1950s North Vietnam. She nodded in sympathetic agreement, as if echoing an old family tale.
The British Airways Boeing touched down at Orly Airport amid thick, rolling clouds and a light drizzle—just another chilly, damp autumn day in Paris. As the plane slowly taxied to its gate, my heart raced with anticipation for the days ahead. Overcome with excitement, I even recited a few lines in Vietnamese, prompting Micheline—sitting beside me—to gape in surprise, “C’est quoi ça?”
Once the plane powered down and passengers began stretching and gathering their things, Micheline suddenly leaned over in a very Western gesture, her cheek pressed close to mine, and said, “Ô-Rơ-Voa.” A subtle waft of perfume drifted from her blond hair. It was only then that I learned the name of my long-time in-flight companion: Micheline.
Was that the end of our connection? I had envisioned a charming rendezvous at a sidewalk café—perhaps in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés district someday—but Micheline abruptly turned and hurried out the door. And just like that, separated by thousands of miles, the promise of “The day I leave Paris, I promise to come back” faded away.
I cleared Paris’ port of entry smoothly and efficiently. The officer glanced at my documents with a curt “Bienvenue,” to which I replied, “Mẹc-Xi.”
My journey to explore the “City of Light” began with a plate of stir-fried beef and a chilled bottle of Tsingtao at a modest, crowded eatery in the cramped Chinatown of the 13th Arrondissement—the very soul of Paris.
*Autrefois notre pays s’appelait la Gaule et les habitants s’appelaient les Gaulois.
-Đức Hà-
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