My trip home.
ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ "There it was", I though as I glanced out through the airplane's window, Saigon was the last city I saw be fore I escaped fifteen years ago. My heart was racing as the plan made its landing. This would be my first trip home since coming to America.
ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ My plane landed midday in the hot, humid summer time at Saigon International Airport. It was hardly and airport, much less an international one. We exited off the mid sided Airbus on a set of rusted stairs. An old bus with a massive Pepsi advertisement adorning its exterior took us to the terminal, where we met my sister. We collectively rushed to the baggage claim, as we were determined to collect all the luggage we had bought 12,000 miles away from Houston a few days age. We navigated our way through the mad crowd of taxi drives, hopped in one of their vehicles, and soon arrived at a motel cross from the apartment where my sister and her husband lived with their two young children.
ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ ÃÂÃ The apartment was little more than a room with one of its walls missing; there were no doors, just a giant opening where a wall should have been. The room itself could have been no more than 20 feet wide, and about twice as long. The bathroom consisted of a clogged up toilet and hose that served both as a shower and as a source of no portable water. The "font" of my sister's home was bordered by two decrepit sewing machines; as my sister helped made ends meet by sewing clothing for other people in the apartment. The rest of the apartment was filled with assorted clutter, ranging from cut up fabrics to children's books to broken toys. This space would hardly comprise...