Where the Sea Feeds the Soul: Nha Trang Reverie

Your longing for Nha Trang and its sea resonates deeply with mine…

Dear Brother H.T.,

Your letter stirred my heart, and I must beg your forgiveness for this belated reply – may you kindly indulge me.

Nha Trang: A Sea Love 

Duy Tân Street, tracing the sea with its “cool breezes and the faint, briny perfume of seaweed through all seasons” as you wrote, is indeed Nha Trang’s loveliest ribbon, isn’t it? Born in the early 20th century bearing the French name Avenue de la Plage, it became Duy Tân, then Trần Phú Street. Yet, to me and countless Nha Trang souls, it remains simply “the sea road”. In days past, my friends and I would chant, “Let’s cycle a loop along the sea road!” as the afternoon winds danced.

You might smile, but I once believed the vision of “Duy Tân Street, shaded by long lines of trees” in Phạm Duy’s famous song “Returned to My Love” was our Nha Trang’s own, with its ancient banyans casting dappled shade. Later, pedaling dreamily along Saigon’s true Duy Tân (now Phạm Ngọc Thạch Street), my heart still drifted to “the old road she walked” in Nha Trang. Is this the “aching nostalgia” you spoke of?

Like me, you surely can’t forget the horsetail she-oaks lining the shore, their roots and branches bold yet graceful. Their slender, segmented needles, like delicate green threads, could be snapped and rejoined with ease. As children, my friends and I played a game, daring each other to spot a broken segment, bursting into laughter when someone guessed wrong.

We’d also wander, gathering their fruits – tiny, dark, pinecone-like clusters, light yet firm, sprouting in charming bunches. A horsetail she-oak cluster on my desk would spark joy for a week, whispering the sea’s murmur, the wind’s rustle, and the salt-kissed air. Horsetail she-oaks, what a name, don’t you think? Sturdy as an oak and at the same time, ethereal as a horsetail! 

I’ve gazed upon seas afar, from San Francisco’s endless waves crashing by the Golden Gate to Normandy’s wild tides embracing rugged cliffs. Each sea is breathtaking, yet Nha Trang’s sea shines as a romantic maiden, sweet and tender. Why? Her crescent shore curves like an ivory comb, her sands gleam, framed by verdant mountains. To the left, Fairy Mountain reclines like a maiden with flowing hair; to the right, Cảnh Long rests, a slumbering emerald dragon. These gentle peaks cradle the sea, never dwarfing her, softening the winds and taming the waves.

The mountains lend the sea companions – islands dotting the turquoise expanse, as you recalled: Turtle Island, true to its name; the slender Swift; the sprawling Bamboo; and the distant Silk Moth, Một, Mun. From the shore, they seem close enough to swim to. As a girl, gazing at Turtle Island aglow in dawn’s light, I dreamed of swimming to touch it, believing it would gift me a beautiful love and a joyful life. Were you, perhaps, watching the sunrise then?

Even now, Nha Trang’s sea whispers the decade-long romance of the cherished songwriter Phạm Duy and his ethereal muse, Alice Lệ Lan. His melodies were woven for her soul. But when she married in 1968, his farewell echoed in the haunting notes of “A Thousand Miles Apart”: “A thousand miles apart, she’s gone, nothing’s left, no tears no laughter…” A year later, the familiar embrace of Nha Trang’s shore only amplified his heartache, birthing the melancholic “Nha Trang Revisited”: “Nha Trang, I return alone on the midnight shore, chasing the phantom scent of memories, seeking a whisper in the breeze, tenderly rebuilding the shattered dreams of yesteryear…”

Nha Trang: True Tastes

Your mention of “duck embryos and pyramid sticky rice cakes sold by vendors, especially along Duy Tân’s beach” revived vivid scenes. I can still see the flickering oil lamp in the quiet night, the kind-faced woman in a faded bà ba blouse, her thick hair knotted, her yoke swaying as she called, “Pyramid sticky rice cakes, duck eggs… h-e-r-e…” in a lonesome, lilting cry.

My mother would summon her to our yard, and we children crowded around, gingerly tapping tiny spoons on the eggs’ shells, nestled in cups the size of jackfruit seeds, cracking a small hole. We’d sip the broth first, then delicately peel enough to scoop bite by bite. None of us dared peel too much, fearing the tiny duckling inside, so we savored each spoonful with salt and pepper, eyes closed, chewing slowly. Mother warned, “Watch for the hard albumen!” but the vendor chose very well – our eggs never held those hard bits.

In the deep, silent night, only our soft chewing and mother’s quiet chat with the vendor filled the air. The lamp cast a hazy glow, and the cool dew made the warm egg cup in my hands all the cozier. The pyramid cakes (bánh ú), stuffed with pork and mung bean, wrapped in banana leaves into fist-sized towers, were light yet filling. They were a beloved staple back then.

You rightly praised: “Ninh Hòa’s nem chua (fermented pork) and chả lụa (Vietnamese ham), specialties every visitor must taste for their divine flavor!” And the unmatched flavors of them even reach a truly sublime harmony when united in nem nướng. In the 1960s, locals called nem nướng as “chả cuốn”. It was rice paper rolled with greens, cucumber, grilled pork patties, and tiny spring rolls with shrimp and scallion. The dipping sauce, a savory blend of glutinous rice porridge, stir-fried minced shrimp and meat, tomato and spices, was irresistible. If my memory serves, a good nem nướng stall once stood at the Lê Lợi slope from Đầm Market to the sea.

Ah, the Con Cò café, nestled at the corner of Hồng Bàng and Bà Triệu… I fear it has now gracefully flown to the realm of cherished memory. But fret not – I’ll treat you to the Four Seasons coffee, not the chic seaside café of today, but Nha Trang’s authentic blend born post-1975. Its rich, intoxicating aroma will enchant even the pickiest coffee lover. Let’s gather with Mr. ĐHN at a quiet café with soft old melodies playing, sipping that warm, fragrant brew, and reminiscing about Nha Trang’s bygone days.

Wishing you and your family abundant health and serenity.

With warmest regards,
Minh Le