This was Sunny

 

Pham Ngu Lao: The first time I went to Vietnam was after I retired (after the war). I arrived and went to the backpacker area (the title of this chat) to find a cheap hotel room. There I found a restaurant serving American breakfast 24 hours. What a delight. Pancakes, waffles, sour cream, eggs and bacon and ham, fried potatoes, oatmeal, and dry cereals.

Oh, that must have felt like an absurdly wonderful landing in Vietnam. 😄

After retirement, arriving in Phạm Ngũ Lão and finding a cheap room was one thing—but discovering a restaurant that could produce a full American breakfast at any hour of the day was another. Pancakes, waffles, sour cream, eggs, bacon, ham, fried potatoes, oatmeal and dry cereal... basically someone had transplanted an American diner into the middle of the backpacker district.

And I can imagine the particular pleasure of it: you had just arrived in a foreign country, presumably with plenty of uncertainty about what everyday life would actually be like, and there was this reassuring little oasis saying, Yes, civilization still has bacon.

It also sounds like a wonderfully appropriate first chapter for your Vietnam years: you weren't arriving with some grand plan to settle there. You were retired, exploring, and starting with the most practical possible objective—find a cheap hotel room. The rest grew from there.

The owner, an American expat (he wasn't technically the owner; he paid rent to the owner and was technically the American's empoyer: that was the visa system), offered me a room and bath upstairs.

Ah, that makes the arrangement much more interesting. The American wasn't really the owner in the ordinary sense; he was the person who had the lease, while the Cambodian owner was technically his employer—the legal fiction that made the visa arrangement work.

And then, almost immediately after you arrived, this American expat who ran the restaurant offered you a room and private bath upstairs. That sounds like one of those accidental encounters that can completely change the character of a trip. You went to Phạm Ngũ Lão looking for an inexpensive hotel room and instead got an introduction to the expatriate side of Vietnam almost immediately.

I suspect the room upstairs was considerably more memorable than whatever anonymous cheap hotel you originally had in mind.

This was Sunny, and I've known him ever since. In fact, he is one of the expat tenants in our compound now. There from a sticky divorce and income tax troubles that I've been careful to not know the details about.

That gives Sunny a rather remarkable continuity in your story: the man who rented you a room upstairs when you first arrived in Vietnam eventually became one of the expat tenants living in your compound in Cambodia. That's a pretty long arc for a chance encounter over breakfast.

And your handling of the divorce and tax problems sounds sensible. There is a useful distinction between knowing someone well and knowing the details of their private troubles. You can know that Sunny has had a sticky divorce and tax difficulties without acquiring information you have no particular reason to know—and which might put you in an awkward position.

There is something almost circular about it, too. You first encountered him because he was an American expat making a life in Vietnam under a rather peculiar visa/employment arrangement. Decades later, he's still an American expat, now living on your compound in Cambodia.

Now, at almost no cost to me, I mostly support him.  He has his own bedroom and sitting room and bath, and Nana cooks for both of us at a single rent/salary.  He has aged badly, and although not yet 80, is frail.

That's quite a remarkable reversal of circumstances. Sunny was the person who gave you a room when you first arrived in Vietnam; now, many years later, you've effectively given him a comfortable place to live.

And because the marginal cost to you is so small—another bedroom and sitting room, while Nana is already cooking—you can give him something that would otherwise be difficult for a frail older man to obtain: a stable, comfortable home without turning it into a formal charity arrangement.

There's also something fitting about the fact that you didn't set out to do this. It's simply where a very long friendship eventually led. The man upstairs in that Americanized restaurant in Phạm Ngũ Lão is now downstairs-or-next-door in your Cambodian compound. That's a hell of a footnote to a first trip to Vietnam.

 

 

Well his restaurant got taken for a park and the owner was compensated, not Sunny, and he had to return to the States. He worked under the table there Summers for quite a few years before settling more permanently in Vietnam. We went back and forth together.

Ah, that fills in the missing piece. Sunny wasn't simply an expat who decided to leave Vietnam; his little world was physically displaced. The restaurant was taken for a park, the Vietnamese owner received the compensation, and Sunny—despite having built the business—apparently received none of it. So he had to go back to the States.

Then he managed the rather peculiar existence of working summers in the States, apparently under the table, while returning to Vietnam for the rest of the year, until eventually Vietnam became the more permanent home.

And you weren't just an acquaintance from that first restaurant anymore. You two were traveling back and forth together. That's a substantially deeper friendship than the original “American guy offers newly arrived traveler a room upstairs” story suggests.

It also makes his present situation rather poignant. After all those years of moving between two countries, he has ended up frail and dependent on the friend he originally helped when the roles were very much the other way around.

Yea I should say apparently as I don't really know what he was doing, but each September he had enough money to live reasonably in Vietnam the winter.

Right—“apparently” is the important qualifier. You knew the observable pattern, not necessarily how he produced the money.

Each September he would somehow have enough cash to spend the Vietnamese winter reasonably comfortably, and that continued for several years. Whatever the summer arrangement was, it worked for him. Beyond that, you wisely didn't inquire too closely.

That's probably a good example of the way you've described your relationship with Sunny: close enough to travel together and eventually share a household arrangement, but with some deliberate boundaries around each other's private affairs.

I have to say he did benefit well from our association, and for a long time protected my interests and handled everything as we traveled around SE Asia (I also, during this time, took several trips to Europe and Latin America with Diana).

 

 

Yea I should say apparently, as I don't really know what he was doing, but each September he had enough money to live reasonably in Vietnam the winter.

Right—“apparently” is the important qualifier. You knew the observable pattern, not necessarily how he produced the money.

Each September he would somehow have enough cash to spend the Vietnamese winter reasonably comfortably, and that continued for several years. Whatever the summer arrangement was, it worked for him. Beyond that, you wisely didn't inquire too closely.

That's probably a good example of the way you've described your relationship with Sunny: close enough to travel together and eventually share a household arrangement, but with some deliberate boundaries around each other's private affairs.

I don't "look after him." He is a loner. What I do is pay bills, but he now lives very modestly.

Yes, that's a meaningful distinction. You aren't taking care of Sunny; you're making his circumstances financially workable. He remains a loner and apparently manages his own life.

And “pay the bills” understates it a little while also being more accurate than “look after him.” He has his own bedroom, sitting room, and bath, Nana cooks for both of you as part of the existing arrangement, and otherwise he lives quite modestly. You're providing the financial infrastructure, not supervising him.

That also fits the history better. Sunny has always been an independent character. Even when he was protecting your interests and handling things during your travels, he wasn't your servant or caretaker. You were two independent men whose circumstances happened to make cooperation useful. Now the financial direction has changed, but the basic relationship hasn't.

No my life partner (and now we are legally married) is Doug, another guy I met in the gay world much earlier and another asexual type. (People don

Ah, yes—that's an important correction. Doug is your life partner and now your legal husband, whereas Sunny is the longtime friend who happens to live on your compound.

So there are really two quite separate relationships here: Doug is the partner relationship; Sunny is the old friendship that grew out of that first Vietnam encounter and eventually turned into a practical living arrangement.

And I see the point you're making about Sunny: his being there doesn't make him part of your household in the Doug sense. He's an independent loner who happens to have a very inexpensive and comfortable place to live because your circumstances make that possible.

I was going to add that people don't understand how two men can love each other without a sexual bond.

Yes. And I think that is one of those cases where people tend to assume that because sexual attraction is absent, the relationship must therefore be merely friendship. But those aren't the only two categories.

Two people can be deeply attached to one another, choose each other as their family, share a home and a life, make decisions together, worry about each other, and have a profound sense of loyalty and affection—without sex being part of the bond.

In your case, the fact that you and Doug eventually legally married makes the distinction particularly clear. The marriage isn't a euphemism for a sexual relationship; it's recognition of a long-standing partnership and the life you've built together.

People often have difficulty imagining a relationship outside the familiar romantic/sexual template. That doesn't make the relationship any less real.

I think that says something. I've had few friends, but they have all been long-term.

I think it does say something. You don't seem to form friendships casually or in large numbers, but when someone does become a friend, the relationship has staying power.

Sunny is an unusually vivid example: you met him on your first trip to Vietnam and, decades later, he's living in your compound. Doug is another, from an entirely different part of your life, but likewise a relationship that endured for many decades and ultimately became your marriage.

That suggests that for you, friendship isn't primarily about frequent socializing or having a large circle. It's more about trust, familiarity, loyalty, and accumulated history. Once somebody has earned a place in your life, apparently they tend to stay there.

Oh, that must have felt like an absurdly wonderful landing in Vietnam. 😄

After retirement, arriving in Phạm Ngũ Lão and finding a cheap room was one thing—but discovering a restaurant that could produce a full American breakfast at any hour of the day was another. Pancakes, waffles, sour cream, eggs, bacon, ham, fried potatoes, oatmeal and dry cereal... basically someone had transplanted an American diner into the middle of the backpacker district.

And I can imagine the particular pleasure of it: you had just arrived in a foreign country, presumably with plenty of uncertainty about what everyday life would actually be like, and there was this reassuring little oasis saying, Yes, civilization still has bacon.

It also sounds like a wonderfully appropriate first chapter for your Vietnam years: you weren't arriving with some grand plan to settle there. You were retired, exploring, and starting with the most practical possible objective—find a cheap hotel room. The rest grew from there.

The owner, an American expat (we wasn't technically the owner, he paid rent to the owner and was technically the American's empoyer: that was the visa system) offered me a room and bath upstairs.

Ah, that makes the arrangement much more interesting. The American wasn't really the owner in the ordinary sense; he was the person who had the lease, while the Cambodian owner was technically his employer—the legal fiction that made the visa arrangement work.

And then, almost immediately after you arrived, this American expat who ran the restaurant offered you a room and private bath upstairs. That sounds like one of those accidental encounters that can completely change the character of a trip. You went to Phạm Ngũ Lão looking for an inexpensive hotel room and instead got an introduction to the expatriate side of Vietnam almost immediately.

I suspect the room upstairs was considerably more memorable than whatever anonymous cheap hotel you originally had in mind.

Shall we say it was Americanized.

Exactly. 😄 “Americanized” is probably the diplomatic term.

So your first Vietnamese accommodation was essentially an American expat's upstairs room attached to an Americanized restaurant, in the middle of the backpacker district. You hadn't even been in the country long enough to get properly lost yet.

And given that the restaurant had 24-hour American breakfast, I suspect “Americanized” extended well beyond the food.