Nhà Màu Xanh

‘Nhà Màu Xanh’ translates to Blue House. It was on 160 Do Dang De Street in Cam Le district in Da Nang. 5 bedrooms, 3 stories. It stood tall and firm like a monolith. We named it The Blue House because of the vivid sapphire accents across the daisy white paint that doused the exterior. The doors, the gates, the frames, the balconies, the kitchen backsplash, were all blue. On the balcony from our bedroom there were two blue French doors that when opened let in the succulent morning sunlight and urban air.

We were a collection of five nomads and strays from around the world, trying to coexist in the conundrum that is Western and Eastern culture. And as the only foreigners living in a middle-class Vietnamese suburban neighborhood, The Blue House stuck out like a sore thumb. Not only were the colors different from most modern houses on our street, but the style was distinct. It was built with a quaint Spanish aesthetic, but with obvious Vietnamese functions.

Vietnamese homes don’t have central AC, they only have single cooling units inside the bedrooms. This means the kitchen and common spaces are the hottest areas of the house, and it’s where we all spend the most time. The living spaces in a Vietnamese home truly reflect the nature of community in this country. You can’t ever really escape the laden heat, so you’re forced to stew in it alongside your roommates and lovers. The heat floats in the air and nags at you. It erases every empty space, and it becomes a part of you. 

There’s a level of camaraderie that develops when you live in a sweat box in the middle of a heat wave. It’s captivating and intimate. It allows every connection to flourish, just like the tropical weather nourishes its flora.

The essence of our home made us all feel like we were always on vacation. We all worked teaching jobs, but at the end of our work days we gathered in the Blue Kitchen, in the chunky humidity of twilight, and delighted one another with music, food, and tales of navigating a developing city on the coast of Central Vietnam. 

It’s funny being a foreigner in Vietnam. You get unwarranted stares, and your broken Vietnamese is never quite good enough. The traffic is deadly, but the beers are cheap. You can find the best noodles in a congested alleyway around the corner from where you live, but you might get caught in a midday downpour on the way there. The closest open-air markets are less than a 5-minute motorbike ride away from your house, and, if you’ve practiced your Vietnamese, the market ladies will smile as you haggle with them for fruit.

But the vista from this house is perhaps the most amusing, and what I’ve learned from the most. I see hard working families striving for a better life amidst a post-war economic boom. I see my neighbors sweeping the sidewalks clean of fallen leaves and tree branches after the typhoon. I see the shirtless grandpas gathering each evening drinking Huda’s on ice and being served fresh food made by their wives and daughters. I see the family across the street tending to their gardens, which they generously share with their neighbors, a symbol of the country’s strong communist culture.