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| ベトナム建築行脚 / Vietnam Architectural Journey |
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| この猫ちゃんは、セブンイレブンに居ます。 / This little cat is at the 7-Eleven. |
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| ベトナム建築行脚 / Vietnam Architectural Journey |
Since it's Sunday, I'm writing something gentle.
I catch myself wondering, “What's gotten into me?” because whenever I'm walking around, I find myself searching for old buildings somewhere.
I like Western-style houses with an antique feel, but I especially love old office buildings.
In fact, the building where I lived and cooked for myself was an old building too. It was a so-called multi-tenant building, and I lived in a room that had been converted for residential use.
The door was iron, with a nostalgically old-fashioned newspaper slot attached. The doorbell was right in the middle, but it didn't work, so anyone needing to see me had to knock. We had an unspoken rule about it.
Back then, I was doing my own version of “Internet Slang Do for My Star You.”—or rather, “Only My Life Slang Do for My Fucking Warm You.”
So for unwanted solicitations, since the doorbell didn't work, they'd press it silently a few times before calling out “Excuse me!” from outside the door.
Even if they knocked by chance, I wouldn't open it—I hadn't made any appointments with anyone today.
I originally got that room through a referral.
At first, I wanted a place near my school that fit my budget, and there was a cheap market for fresh veggies and meat nearby. When I went to see it, it was a small room with a wooden door, and the bottom was peeling up in jagged pieces. I thought, “Well, I can live with this and fix it up later,” so I said,
“Okay, I'll take this one.” When I said that, the young real estate agent asked,
“Are you sure?”
Huh, he must be worried about letting me have such a cheap, good room, I thought, and replied, “Yes!”
“But it's right by the road, you know?”
“It's convenient, that's fine.”
“It gets noisy at night too.”
“That's fine. Convenience is what matters.”
“....”
“....”
“Wait, hold on. I'll look for another place.”
Before I could say “Yes,” that room was no longer available.
Later, I got a call and was taken to another place.
“This one includes water in the rent. And the door is steel.”
He recommended it confidently, so I took it.
Seeing my persistent young face wondering if they were that reluctant to rent that room,
actually, as I was leaving,
they said, “Wooden doors are dangerous, no matter how cheap. You shouldn't live in them when you move next time either. I'll refer you, though.”
After that, I kept feeling grateful, realizing they'd referred me to a much better place.
The bath was gas-heated, the type where you fill it with water and heat it up. What I really loved about it was the small space on the back wall of the tub and the frosted glass window above it—a sliding door type that hinged and opened just a little.
For some reason, the bathroom had a large extra space. I heard it was meant for a washing machine, but the other holes seemed to have been filled in, so it was unusable.
There was also a device in the room covered by some kind of square vinyl cover. I wondered what it was, but even after removing the cover, I couldn't figure it out. Someone knowledgeable about infrastructure at the time told me, “Isn't that a gas heater?” After having the gas company check it for safety, I turned it on one cold winter day. With a popping sound, very hot warm air came out, and I was able to stay warm that year.
These days, I hear the economy is growing around inbound tourism, with visitors coming from overseas to cities and towns all over Japan.
My town is no exception; many tourists come to visit us.
The photography book features beautiful images tracing the roots of Vietnamese architecture, including scenes of people living within those structures at the time of shooting.
That sense of daily life was also present in a single room within a small, shared apartment building in a tiny student district of a completely different cultural sphere.
At night, when I quietly step into the bath and gaze through the frosted glass beyond the houseplant in the orange glow, I can't help but feel that a single large lily would be far more fitting there. I realize that night must surely exist within the traces of life just minutes ago, preserved in this book.
Vietnam is famous for its colonial architecture, but if I were to visit the city, I'd want to see the buildings made for the people who actually live there.
I want to see the slightly older, real buildings of Hanoi's Old Quarter, where the beauty of inaction and action coexist. And I wonder, how do the people of this country, this city, actually live?
What do they eat on a daily basis?
What delicious, steaming dishes grace their plates each day in this season? That, I suspect, is the true interest of those who visit the city.
The streetscapes of old Japanese wooden architecture are lovely,
but the Hong Kong before 1980, as recorded by Kōtarō Sawaki in Midnight Express 1: Hong Kong & Macau,
That explosive vitality creating the clamor of night markets—if such a thing existed as a Japanese Night Market,
then Japan too once had those zinc-coated containers,
where birds and pigs slowly rotated while roasting beneath umbrellas, night, and bustle,
the hot scent of oil paper stuffed with sweet corn,
rotating cakes lined up at the bottom of straw-wrapped paper parcels,
the sweet, economical scent of large iron rotisseries roasting chestnuts.
If such a place were open year-round just a short walk from the hotel,
then why, even though it's a different country with different food,
do we inevitably find ourselves under tungsten lights,
staring at the edges of white containers splattered with black sauce, mindlessly eating square-cut okonomiyaki?
I think everyone would smile happily at that thought.
Takoyaki is also available on Uber Eats.
Well then, rest assured and have a wonderful Sunday.
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| この猫ちゃんは、セブンイレブンに居ます。 / This little cat is at the 7-Eleven. |
20251026 13:31 I revised the text.
