I blurted out, “the Y bridge”. Something came rushing out of the man’s eyes albeit well-hidden behind thick glasses.
He was instantly transported back to a time and place. When he was younger, more eager to help (he served as a chaplain in the Army)
and perhaps, more idealistic. For me, the Y bridge was the bridge we took to my grandpa.
We took the right of the fork, leading to and pass the Slaughter House (Lo Heo Chanh Hung). And on our way back, of course, we made a left turn to go home to District 3.
Vietnam now has a bunch of forks on the road to take, most critically, how to get through “valley of death” to join the league…
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