Nowadays, I find myself feeling romantic about things that most Vietnamese people choose not to remember or never liked much in the first place.

While the whole country pushes on towards destination Singapore, I’m trying to get old people to talk about what it was like to go on a date in Ho Chi Minh City when petty criminals conspired to steal fresh vegetables from the market down the street.

I keep hoping to run into someone who remains passionate about poetry (a thing I still don’t understand) or speaks Russian or can tell me just one good story about what life used to be like here.

But I never do. And if I do, they have nothing for me.

I get the feeling that Vietnam views all of its art and history as easy jetsam—a collection of clunky mediocrities that must be heaved overboard in order to build steam. Cuisine alone continues to garner respect and interest from the present generation. But, even there, cooking has become something of a spectator sport.

Sigh…