An Extraordinary Vacation in Vietnam (Draft V4)
Slowly opening my dreaded eyes and blinking rapidly to shake off my state of unconsciousness, I peek outside of the airplane window to see where we were at. Scanning with my eyes to the top view, I could see the beautiful white miniscule stars that shines across the sky. Shifting my eyes down to the bottom, I glimpse at the vast amount of city lights that springs across the land. As I brainlessly stare through the window of the plane, I felt a slight bump on my shoulder. “Con trai, chúng tôi đang ở đây.” I glanced over my shoulder to hear the first few words my father spoke to gain consciousness upon landing in my parent’s holy majestic birthplace, Vietnam. Exhausted and excited, I replied back
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Tony, my adorable 3 or 4-year old cousin, held my right hand with both of his small chubby hands as we stepped aboard this large piece of moving metal. The bus was a Mercedes and the entire body was colored in a rich red, very eye-catching, and the color of the vehicle reminded me of a magazine where I saw similar buses in London. The bus was gigantic enough to fit at least five families and maybe a couple of pets as well. Maybe I’m exaggerating a little about that, but, it’s pretty darn huge! Big enough to fit my two parents, Tina and Tony’s parents, grandparents, and another family from Australia that we’ll be picking up in a few …show more content…
I disliked this part of the vacation as I didn’t like to say goodbye to the country and the people here as we’d probably never see each other again for a very, very long time. As we arrived to the airport, our family were all hugging each other and saying their goodbyes. When we got to the entrance, I screamed out “Goodbye Kelly. Good bye Linh. Goodbye everyone in Vietnam!” Tears poured out of my eyes like a tsunami as I spoke these simple, yet, difficult words. We all waved back and forth as we separated. My heart aches as my mind flashes back of all the memorable moments we had here in this wonderful country. Once everyone boarded back on the plane, I told myself that our vacation went by really fast. I stared out of the window as the airplane was slowly lifting off from the ground into the night sky. I reminced and started going through all the things we’ve been through. I softly spoke to myself “We’ll meet again, Vietnam.” Those were my last words in that
I. ‘s True Story of The War in Vietnam”, is a powerful account of one man’s journey from New York to the horrors that would proceed him into Vietnam. The memoir’s use of writing and vivid descriptions helps to make the story come to life as something more than events that would appear on a timeline. While some of the text seems clumped together, they also give a sense of life and credibility to a subject that at times caan be too much to comprehend. The author’s approach about his experiences is admirable. I would recommend this book to anybody who would want an up-close account of what life in Vietnam was
Nguyễn, Văn Huy, and Laurel Kendall. Vietnam: Journeys of Body, Mind, and Spirit. Berkeley: U of California in Association with American Museum of Natural History, New York, and Vietnam Museum of Ethnology, Hanoi, 2003. Print.
That afternoon, my mother and I were tending to the rice field along with other women and children from our village. The sun was beaming so brightly that it permeated through the interstices of my straw hat. “Kim Phuc, don’t stay out in the sun for too long,” my mother yelled from across the field, “your skin will get too dark and aged!” I wondered why she cared so much about my tan when the greater concern, clearly, was the war in our homeland. Although, her remark forced me to revise how poorly I was dressed for the weather. After examining my grey, cotton shorts and flowered tank top, I decided to go back to our hut and find a change of clothes. “Mom, I’m going back to the hut,” I yelled, “but I’ll be back!” Then I hurried out of the rice
Zero awoke to find himself standing, it was not something he was familiar with and he searched his memory for any recollection of it happening before. Quickly he discovered that large parts of his memory were missing, gone were the seemingly endless data bases of information. Quickly he sent out feelers trying for a connection of some sort but he drew a blank. It seemed that where ever he was now, had limited connection capacity. Instead he used his visual feed to survey his surrounding, it appeared he was in some kind of desert of discarded parts.
Going to War The arrival of winter is well on its way. Colorful leaves had turned to brown and fallen from the branches of the trees. The sky opened to a new brightness with the disappearance of the leaves. As John drove down the country road, he was much more aware of all his surroundings.
The fog was heavy, the distance we were able to see was less than 30 yards from our position.
(Sassoon). This goes to show that the soldiers were constantly filled with sorrow since they dreamed of home, even though they knew they were going to die. This sorrow is also expressed in Sullivan’s article about Vietnam. In one story, Vo Cao Loi talks about his experience in the war. Vo said that when Americans came to his village he ran, he also said “when I returned, after the Americans left, I counted 97 dead in all-including my mother.”
It has been a week since I have reached the front. The conditions in the trenches are deplorable and even worse than I expected them to be. My senses seem to have become numb to the ceaseless barrages of shells and artillery fire which pummel the trenches all day and night. Gas attacks have become a routine occurrence, and it is almost out of habit now that I swiftly slip on my mask and secure it for dear life whenever someone yells the dreaded cry of “GAS!” I have seen people who do not get their masks on in time or do not fasten them properly. They choke and they gag as the infernal gas excruciatingly consumes them and then they drop to the dirt, never to get up again. Witnessing this once is incentive enough for me to always keep my mask
The fall rain pounded against the almost opaque window of the car or the miserable excuse of one they were driving. The fall leaves scattered across the highway made a satisfying crunch as the car scuttled away to its next destination. Inside John was getting vexed by the crappiness of the ride, driving the car with one hand and trying to massage his aching back with the other. The already uncomfortable seat paired with the seemingly endless amount of potholes made the idea of a proper ride seem almost as plausible as a cure. Thinking back to the time when he rode his Harley—its smooth leather seat, the roar of the engine, and the wind in his face— he, as he often times would, began to linger in memories of the past. Meanwhile, in the backseat,
We don’t really have much of a plan set out yet. It’s been 5 weeks. We just want to escape from this torture.
October 20, 2007, the day that I’m going to say goodbye to my hometown. I was born and raised in Philippines by my grandparents for sixteen years. It is heart-breaking to think that I will not see them anymore like how I used to. I was 16 years old, and it will be my first time to travel with my big brother in the airplane. Our trip from Philippines to Virginia is approximately about 18-20 hours. It is not a direct flight, so we have to change plane three times, and it is a long trip for us. I was crying the whole time when we were in the airplane. As soon as we reach our last destination which is the Washington D.C., we have no way of communicating with my mom and auntie because we have no cellphones. I was hesitant to
I woke up to the sound of rain, pouring against the cold, mushy earth. Instinctively, I reached for my rucksack to pull out my canteen and stumbled through the thick foliage in hopes of finding a fair sized leaf where I can funnel the fresh rainwater into it. Our squad has not seen any sort of water, fresh or murky, in days. Squatting, I gently fixated the tip of the leaf into my canteen, and watch as the rainwater gushed in, quickly filling it up to the brim. Picking up the canteen, I tilt my head back and took a large gulp.
The flakes lightly touch my face, attaching to my lashes and tickling my nose. My boots crunched through the powdered snow. They detonated like Christmas crackers every time my feet hit the ground. The world was imprisoned in a bony white silence. Nothing sounded, nothing stirred, nothing sang.
From late June to early August of 2013, I found myself taking yet another six-week crash course at Florida Atlantic University. The course in question was Creative Writing I. At the time, it seemed like a serious gamble. My experience as a writer had come through doing ‘academic’ writing, and, to say the least, I never considered myself someone with a creative mind. I didn’t know where to begin, and it felt as if I’d ensnared myself in another trap. Later on, a spark got ignited in my brain leading me to remember how my Grandpa’s dad was a former professional fighter in the bantamweight division. Said spark would compel me towards asking my Grandpa about his dad’s boxing adventures and other endeavors. The notes I took during this discussion
One of the most unique creatures are fish. As I am sitting here in my room, my fish are swimming about with not a care in the world. I wonder what it would feel like to be a fish.