Sara Tung
1. THE DISPATCHRe: Love Along the Mekong
On Mon, May 31, 2021, at 4:05 PM, Sara wrote: I wrote a story about our travels in Laos, Vietnam, and Thailand in 1995. I’m sorry we lost touch. Years after we parted, I still loved you. Since it was pointless to long for the past, I resolved not to; hence, my silence these past 22 years.
A travel romance is by nature intense and fleeting, but my feelings for you were not fleeting. We seemed to understand one another. You made me feel seen and appreciated, and I hope I made you feel the same. We experienced so much together, but we were also searching for what we wanted to do with our lives. I hope we inspired each other to follow our dreams.
You wanted to do something important, and I wanted to do something with purpose. Eventually, it seems we both found our way.
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On Wed, Jun 2, 2021, at 4:31 AM, Alexander wrote: I’m sitting in the airport in Nairobi, ready to board a plane to Amsterdam. My dad is sick and will not get better, so he has decided to end his life.
If you want a handful of emotions, you might as well open the doors of a container, flush the emotions over yourself, and be soaked in them. I feel I did just that by reading your story.
Most remarkably, I experienced our journey through your eyes, through your words, and from your point of view. It’s a journey I’m familiar with but is not mine. You noticed things I didn’t—different accents, different smells. Your story also reminded me of many things I’d forgotten. However, some crucial scenes are missing. It’s funny—you remember conversations almost word for word, whereas, I remember intentions and emotions, wave after wave.
Then again, your journal was available to you. My notebooks are stored somewhere north of Amsterdam, a place I haven’t been in seven years.
One thing I remember vividly—every conversation ended “open.” A question would remain hanging in the air after someone interrupted us, and we’d never get back to the core of our discussion.
Another thing I remember—making love on a train in Vietnam with the noise of the rails. We were in a sleeper car separated from the people walking through the train by a flimsy curtain.
We went to look for the Tung Kongsi in Hanoi. In the end we found it. You went in without trying to get me in.
Two years ago, I was making a film in the north of Vietnam with the hill tribes near the Chinese border, not far from where we were in Laos.
I was in Hanoi for some days and didn’t recognize anything until I found myself at the little square where we found your Tung Kongsi, where I took a picture of a door that had closed behind you.
Interestingly, I named my company “Media Kongsi,” kongsi being the only Mandarin word in the Dutch language.
There in Hanoi, many memories of our journey came back.
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On Wed, Jun 2, 2021, at 1:15 PM, Sara wrote:I'm so sorry. It must be painful to return to Amsterdam when your father is about to end his life. Nonetheless, you have an opportunity to be with your dad and to help ease his suffering.
I shouldn't have troubled you at this time. However, I feel better knowing that my story helped you with your emotions for now and that our time together meant something to you.
As for our journey – there was so much to experience even though we traveled together for only a handful of weeks. And memory is a slippery thing.
I wrote little of our travels after we left Vientiane for Bangkok. That is perhaps why my story is missing your memories of Vietnam—of making love on the train or searching for the Tung Kongsi. I looked up the meaning of kongsi (it’s Chinese but not Mandarin). However, I still don't remember looking for my family home...and in Hanoi? At the same time, I can’t identify a few of my photos. But you’re sure you took a photo of me at the Tung Kongsi, with the door closing behind me. You even named your company “Media Kongsi.”
Why did I stop writing before our travels ended? I must have stopped when things got painful.
In my experience, we were falling in love. But you struggled with your feelings, as your poem suggests:
I care more for you than I will ever dare
To tell you or to let you know.
When we parted, you said you didn’t want any ties. Yet we corresponded over the next four to five years.
I hope your visit to Hanoi was pleasant, especially with all those memories flooding back. I remember you returned to Laos a year after our travels, and I thought—and still think—I will never do that. Laos could never be as precious as it was when we discovered it together.
Our journey helped me to think more seriously about writing, art, and finding my voice. I will always be grateful.
Lastly, a photo you took of me on the train in Vietnam. It looks as if we didn’t travel by sleeper car.
2. BUREAU INVENTORYMy husband’s Eames chair, 2007
Blue and white porcelain jars; Beijing and Shanghai; 1986, 1998, and 2002
Yi Kai painting, Beijing, 1987
Thai puppet, Bangkok, 1987
Handwoven basket, Luang Prabang, hand-carried through Laos, Thailand, and Vietnam to Hong Kong and San Francisco, 1995
The English Patient, opened to page 261
Meditation bell, Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, mid-2000s
Bronze Buddha, Asian Art Museum, San Francisco, 2010
Balinese procession wood carving, Ubud, 2016
San Francisco in the background, since 1995
3. BIOGRAPHYSara Tung’s essays have appeared in McSweeney’s and the Cha: An Asian Literary Journal features “Tiananmen Thirty Years On” and “Hong Kong Protesting.” Sara studied creative writing at Stanford University, where she earned bachelor’s and master’s degrees in history and an MBA. Raised in LA, Sara taught English in Shanghai, then did corporate work there and in Beijing, Hong Kong, and Singapore, before consulting to nonprofits in Bali and the San Francisco Bay Area. More recently, she served as an administrator in international programs at Stanford. Sara is currently focused on essays and a novel about China.