You know, each one of these trips presents some new view of Vietnam. After the first trip, I thought about Vietnam's history. After the second trip, I thought about Vietnam's culture. This time, it's occurred to me that I never had any real interest in the first two, except as they related to American history and culture. But is that really so strange? I'm certainly not the first American writer to take that angle. I've gradually realized that all these things in Vietnam are more universal than I originally believed. I mean, I can stare at all these poor farmers and all this urban sprawl, but is it so unique to Vietnam? I could be in Mexico for all I know. There are certain differences, of course, but not many of them are apparent to me as I sit in the Tex-Mex Grill in Saigon.

The Tex is almost a mirage...a roughly Alamo-looking sort of place between two fairly nondescript(but distinctly Vietnamese)buildings. It seems like it exists only to disorient Americans. Inside, the ceiling is hung with sombreros, as if twenty Mexicans have been inverted and jammed into the acoustic panels up to their eyes. The walls are covered in holstein cowskin and American license plates. I loved it the moment I walked in. It seemed odd to open the menu and see tostadas instead of sour fish soup. Of course, the Vietnamese waitresses did a lot to dispel the illusion. And there's always this language barrier...or maybe not.

I've been crossing the language barrier more and more these days...and with relative ease. It started simply enough, deafly watching the in-flight movie. It wasn't some sort of behavioral experiment...it was just the result of my tragic failure to find my headphones. Those mean-spirited employees of All Nippon Airways stuck me in the bulkhead, placing my headphones who knows where, rather than right in front of me(where they might have done some good). Despite my new handicap, I had no trouble at all following the plot. I decided to see how far I could push the envelope. I watched countless Japanese shows, the beginning of some Benji movie(entirely in Greek), and who knows how much else? I also started ordering my meals in silence, pointing and gesticulating like crazy. Even if I spoke in complete gibberish, context and body language let all of us speak in tongues. So much for the language barrier. I guess it really could be Mexico for all I know.

So why had I come to Vietnam over anywhere else? Apparently, this had been one of those American Dream situations. You may not understand, so let me fill you in on American writers. We're a rare breed...quietly semi-objective, passively nationalistic, overeducated, young, wild American writers. With each new generation, we attempt the same fool's crusade. Rocketing out of the great American cities, we go looking for some utterly intangible prize. It's generally the American Dream, and I guess we've written a lot about it over the years. We go out on the wild roads of the world, hoping that we'll find our prize at the end, but also hoping that the end will never come. Of course, the end always comes, and we never find the prize. I certainly couldn't have hoped to. But it didn't stop me from looking for the remains of the American Dream in Vietnam. What a fantastically long trip, and what better place to look for it? I was sure to find it here, amidst the ruined ideals of the old U.S. Army and the pristine icons of the Communist Party. Of course, I couldn't find it. There's a monument for My Lai, but no monument for the death of the American Dream. So after three years of vacations to the last known location of the Dream, I was no closer to it than either the villainous heroism of Jack Kerouac, or the heroic villainy of Hunter S. Thompson.

So sadly, this trip will have to be the last one for me. The Vietnam road has finally run out, like I always knew it would. There's nowhere to go but back to where I started from. The Dream is unaccounted for, as usual. On the bus from the Mekong Delta into Saigon, I reflected on the other generations of failed American writers. The Beats have died, and the Hippies have grown old. I knew I would too, and I rolled that around in my head as I looked out at an undeniably victorious nation. Then it hit me. Here was the American Dream in a foreign country, wearing a totally different face...the determined, self-liberated Vietnamese. Maybe that was the secret...the American Dream wasn't unique to America. Perhaps it was much older. I can see it stretching back to the writings of Petronius in the Roman Empire. How many writers had there been, and in how many countries? How long had there been roads to follow into the wilderness? Well, the Dream lived on, but it wasn't necessarily American. It was a perfectly anti-climactic ending. So I'm soon smiling, and it slowly dawns on me that not only is the Dream alive...it's unkillable. We haven't been watching the Dream die. We've been watching the deaths of generation after generation, all of them besieging the Dream, and all of them eventually falling back before it's smirking timelessness. And as I drift off to sleep, the ghost of Dean Moriarty fades into view, slapping me on the back, pointing excitedly out the window at the toiling rice farmers, and all the time shouting, "yass, yass, YES!"

C. Palmer

Today's sounds: Saigon's central market; a trio playing traditional Vietnamese music on traditional Vietnamese instruments at the Sofitel

Today's photos: Saigon nightscape; site of former US embassy; central market in Saigon; another photo of the central market in Saigon; we saw this picture being painted near the Notre Dame Cathedral--the artist was unable to use his hands--he painted this with his foot; exterior of the Notre Dame Cathedral in Saigon; inside the Notre Dame Cathedral