In the space of half an hour, Đào Xuân Tình and I bonded and felt each other’s souls over something as simple as bicycles. The bikes were only the ice breaker, but since we were only four years apart in age, and he vividly recalls the war that tore apart their country, we both shared teary-eyed memories of the tragedy that was The Vietnam War. And for the record, in Vietnam it is known as The American War.
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The first day we were in Hanoi we walked down the street in Old Town, and I noticed an exhibit of Peugeots at an exhibit hall called the Hanoi Cultural Exchange Center. I thought they might have Peugeot motorcycles in there, but the exhibit only included bicycles—and lots of them. Over 100 were on display, built from 1892 to 1992, and come to find out this was only a fraction of what the owner, Đào Xuân Tình, had in his collection. Oh, and he collected old sewing machines and time pieces as well, so this was a fascinating man.
Finally the day before we left Hanoi I walked over to the Exchange Center and started viewing the bikes. In a few minutes this sharply dressed man came over to say hello, and he asked the number one question we get all the time: “Where are you from?” I told him, and he got excited and wanted to talk, so pulled out his Google Translate, and I did the same, and we were about to get to know each other courtesy of technology, but I had no idea how personal it would get.
He called over his wife, and since they were with another couple, they came over too. The man started showing me around and took me over to the collection of old sewing machines, which were very personal and known to me since my mother was a seamstress her whole life and used an old Singer sewing machine from the fifties, which was part of my life from as early as I could remember. I told the gentlemen about my Mom and pointed out the type of sewing machine she owned and by then I realized that I was speaking with the owner of this magnificent collection.
And the proud daddy of all of them.
He shared his favorite pieces, including a sewing machine that was a century old, and a Peugeot bike that was the same. Some were in better condition that others, but they were all personal to him. A picture on the wall had he and his wife tooling along on two identical bikes, and the picture looked to be at least 30 years old. He excitedly took me over and showed me those bikes and in sign language indicated, “look, here they are!” Another bike was dated 1952 and I said, “that bike was made two years before I was born,” and he came back with, “you’re four years older than me, but we look exactly alike!” and I quipped, “we look good for our age, don’t you think?” which brought a chuckle from both of us.
The whole Peugeot obsession started in 1975 when he was ready to graduate from high school, and his first Peugeot was a “matter of pride,” a valuable asset and luxury; the bike represented the history in his country, which was formerly a French colony. His bike criteria is strict: each bike must remain original and retain at least 80 percent of its quality.
Another room beckoned us, so he took me over there and turned on an Akai reel to reel tape deck, which brought back an immediate memory of being a teenager age 13, and using a machine just like that to put together music lists. He played some somber Vietnamese music and solemnly said, “I am so proud of my collection and all the handcrafts that are here today,” and I agreed. There was a moment of reflection between us, and I could feel the mood shift. I think it was our mutually sad moments, which brought me to say, “and I am so proud how Vietnam has progressed over the last 50 years. I am so sorry you had such a challenging history,” which caused us both to hug.
Not awkward, just shared emotions from our youth that would be best forgotten.
That war to me, and others my age, was a horrible possibility as the war lasted year after year. When it started I was only 10 or 11, a child, and the thought of me going to war, was impossible. But years past and I aged and got close to the ominous DRAFT, the only scary as shit thing that had all young men approaching age 18 to shake in our boots. For me that was something to be feared and to avoid, but for Đào, he wasn’t so lucky. How do you avoid a war that encroaches upon your home, your community, and your country? Fortunately he was pretty young at that time, but even young and pre-teens were active fighters. The things they may have seen in person were only possible nightmare scenarios for me., but for him they were real.
We stood there for a moment and he said (via translate), “this (our meeting) was destined to happen,” and I agreed 100%.
Onward we walked, with him pointing out this bike or that, various old Singer sewing machines, and a few other old collectibles. This proud man has several award plaques displayed for different collections he had, so they were more than just memories to him: they were significant artifacts from his country.
We finally parted, gave each other new hugs, and I shared with his friend, who spoke marginally better English, some of what transpired between us. No doubt Đào gave him more details in their shared language. He asked if I liked Vietnam and I gave him the short story of being here for the fourth time, gone from the US for seven years, and our travels to 43 countries. I shared that we love Asia, Vietnam, and specifically, Da Nang, where we will return to in just a few weeks.
As I walked back to the room I was reflective of what just happened in such a short time. It reminded me that Kat and I ARE travelers, not tourists, and just visiting a museum, admiring the exhibits, and walking away is fine, but when we have the opportunity to know the people behind these items, how they started, and to sense their personal love for what they shared, well, that’s a whole new level. And it was fortuitous that the day we met was International Museum Day.
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