The city does not tell its
past, but contains it like the lines of a hand.
Italo Calvino
Shifting the Gaze
The other night I walked by the lake edge, among the trees strung
with electric light bulbs, listening to soulful music, which wailed
from the loudspeakers. The air tingled with romantic passion -
until I
asked - and learned the songs were for War Martyrs' Day.
Reading an
unknown city is to look through a prism - appearing
as solid space, afloat on
its own meaning, yet defined by shifts
of gaze: myth, monster, machine, maze;
an unstable language,
always inventing itself. Or a site of pavements,
kettles, people.
No special lights or singing tonight - but on the wide
path between
black water and traffic, people go about their usual
occupations:
for sale - a giant bouquet of plastic balloons, sprays of fresh
red roses,
small cups of tea, rice and fruit; photographs under a floral
arch.
Late capitalism has only just arrived: several traffic lights, a
clump
of banal high-rise hotels, offices; and in the State's new department
store - the city's escalator, curious citizens staggering and tumbling
to tiled floors. As yet, Hanoi, is no international paradigm - but
this old red flag city is transforming rapidly before wondering eyes.
Technology for a few. Soccer. New tourist sites. Next year, will
the tea
seller sit here by her kettle, will men squat round board games,
a beggar
sleep in the doorway, the four boys play ball on the pavement.
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