It’s not hard to find snippets of America in Saigon.
Detecting a rich whiff of phở in a small European mountainside town, spotting diacritics in the bylines on a foreign newsstand, and overhearing an unmistakable Huế accent on public transportation in a distant metropolis: I’ve been told how comforting it can be to unexpectedly encounter an element of Vietnam when far from home. I imagine the inverse holds true for many foreigners living in Vietnam. But there is no good analogy for this experience as an American living in Saigon thanks to the global reach, cultural and otherwise, of my home country.
From fashion brands to movie posters to technology companies, to say nothing of captured warplanes, it’s impossible to avoid elements of America on the streets of Vietnam in 2024. And yet, I really only feel sentimental in one place: in front of the Saigon Post Office.
Photograph of the Saigon Post Office taken in 1895 by Firmin André Salles. Image via Flickr user manhhai.
Constructed between 1886 and 1891 and often mistakenly credited to Gustave Eiffel (it was actually French architect Alfred Foulhoux), the colonial structure with Gothic and Renaissance elements was designed as a monument to science and technological advancement. In addition to the large mural inside depicting early telegraph routes in the region, the building's facade features the names of scientists who were essential to early telecommunication breakthroughs.
Regrettably, there is no respect shown to Vietnamese individuals. And unsurprisingly, French arrogance means all the names featured belong to Frenchmen, with one exception: Benjamin Franklin. Amongst Franklin's many inventions including bifocals, catheters and the glass armonica, one of America's so-called “founding fathers” is credited with the lightning rod that helped propel scientific innovation forward; the momentum of which continues on ahead through satellites and smartphones.
A 1775 portrait of Benjamin Franklin by Joseph Siffrein Duplessis. Image via Wikimedia.
A flawed individual reflective of his times, Franklin is one of my personal heroes. Gifted with an inexhaustible curiosity and work ethic, a reverence for high art alongside homespun wit and whimsy, his name, more than any of the many signs of the American empire in Saigon, makes me proud. It reminds me that amongst all the consumerism and boorish self-obsessions we export to places including Saigon, America has a lot of good to offer the world. So every time I pass the post office I’m reminded of one of his many pieces of advice: “If you would not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading, or do things worth writing.”
