“This is the last time you will be performing this play, probably for the rest of your lives. After all those rehearsals, doing it over and over again, going scene by scene, for just 30 minutes on that stage…one last time.”
A pep talk from our director that was more grounding than lifting our spirits, but it hit me hard and sank in. Two months of 2+ rehearsals a week, couple hours each, then almost everyday, hours stretched; all for a “Silly Shakespeare Short” rendition of The Tempest. To think of where we started 8 weeks ago– barely knowing each other, barely knowing the script, and morphing each scene into the final interpretation– it’s kind of special all that came out.
Then there’s what the director calls “postpartum” after the last fadeout and final bow, when the set gets broken down and the cast say their goodbyes. What do I do now? All that time and energy pushing for something and then suddenly the weight is gone. Did all that even happen? Thankfully there are pictures to prove it did.
Poetically, that dovetails into my last few days in Hanoi–and abroad–before flying back to the States. bitter.sweet. surreal. Now every xe om ride feels like ‘the last time’ I’ll fly through these streets and sights, so I peel my eyes open and crane my neck every which way. Because as much as I want to come back to Vietnam and Hanoi, I truly don’t know if or when it will ever happen. And it certainly won’t the same experience as I’ve had these 12 weeks living in my Ba Dinh bubble with a rooted work schedule. If I come back, it will likely be leisure based, which is entirely different from actually living in a place. The street I’ve lived on constantly shifts to a different one each time I look a little higher or a little closer around. Twelve weeks sounds shorter than three months, and time does a funny dance with memories where yesterday feels like weeks ago but has it already been months since I moved in in September?
Not only the sights, but obviously the people I’ve met along the way. Soaking in hot tea, toiling away at backstage ‘refugee camp’, a drink after, a smoke, over hot pot, cruising the bay, countless rides to rehearsal, arm-in-arm in Old Quarter, lunch around the office table. Good, great, bad, meh; and it continues to amaze me how we wouldn’t have met under any other circumstances (yes, platitudes platitudes, but that doesn’t mean the sentiments aren’t real).
Of course, as I’m writing this, D reminds me:
“Ah that’s wonderful (that I’m blue)! Doesn’t that mean that you had a good time while abroad, and that’s why good byes are so so hard?”
Okay, enough of the syrupy stuff. It’s been a ride, Vietnam, and em yêu anh* for it.
*If you couldn’t guess, “I love you.”