Toui & Family / Sylvan
Tomorrow I’ve set the alarm for 5:45 to go to the fresh market with Toui (on his scooter!). I’m (sort of) part of the family, going on two weeks. Both my room (though a bit musty) and the restaurant (despite often too much scooter traffic roaring by) are lovely. Now that the Aussie has returned home, 7-year-old, Nava, is eyeing me with less caution. I think it’s just a matter of time before he lets me in.
And I’m having more conversations with Sylvan, who I may have mentioned, but without much detail. At first, I thought Sylvan could be the grandfather, but I’ve since learned he’s more of a regular, visiting for a time most every year. He’s Vietnamese, but because of his father’s position as a photographer for the royal family, the family was exiled to Laos during the Vietnam War, then escaped to Thailand, then France when the Laotian royal monarchy was overthrown in 1975.
Sylvan was a photojournalist, first working for a Japanese publication, then AFP, the international French agency. As I understand, he met and married the daughter of the US ambassador to Laos, and she wanted to move back to the States. He insisted on Washington, D.C., where he thought he could get work. And he did, for a long time with CBC (Canadian), then as a freelancer, where he said he kept very busy.
Though he’s a fixture in the dining room, which serves as a common room for overnight guests, I see him out every day, his Nikon in hand, searching for another “perfect” photograph. I’ve learned that his memory fails him, but he was particularly lucid tonight. We talked photography, cameras, lenses, the nuances of filters, etc. He’s a dear man.
I asked him how long he was staying, and he shrugged: “I don’t know.” He has a daughter in the States; I briefly met her on a Zoom call. Turns out she was the one that made him leave the US when ICE invaded DC, for fear of being picked up and detained. So essentially in exile, yet again.
All so disturbing, and with no end in sight. So surreal in the most worrisome way.
And I’m having more conversations with Sylvan, who I may have mentioned, but without much detail. At first, I thought Sylvan could be the grandfather, but I’ve since learned he’s more of a regular, visiting for a time most every year. He’s Vietnamese, but because of his father’s position as a photographer for the royal family, the family was exiled to Laos during the Vietnam War, then escaped to Thailand, then France when the Laotian royal monarchy was overthrown in 1975.
Sylvan was a photojournalist, first working for a Japanese publication, then AFP, the international French agency. As I understand, he met and married the daughter of the US ambassador to Laos, and she wanted to move back to the States. He insisted on Washington, D.C., where he thought he could get work. And he did, for a long time with CBC (Canadian), then as a freelancer, where he said he kept very busy.
Though he’s a fixture in the dining room, which serves as a common room for overnight guests, I see him out every day, his Nikon in hand, searching for another “perfect” photograph. I’ve learned that his memory fails him, but he was particularly lucid tonight. We talked photography, cameras, lenses, the nuances of filters, etc. He’s a dear man.
I asked him how long he was staying, and he shrugged: “I don’t know.” He has a daughter in the States; I briefly met her on a Zoom call. Turns out she was the one that made him leave the US when ICE invaded DC, for fear of being picked up and detained. So essentially in exile, yet again.
All so disturbing, and with no end in sight. So surreal in the most worrisome way.