The day was early when I made my way to the “pink church,” which wasn’t far from where I stayed. I hadn’t made any specific itinerary, so it was rather an impromptu trip. The only particular reason why I picked a place of worship as my first destination was because of its supposedly flashy, curiously unusual appearance for a religious building, which happened to be in the shade typical of one of those Wes Anderson movies.
As I walked southeast, I noticed that there weren’t as many pharmacies as on the northwest side of the road. It was the night before when I made my first attempt to explore the area to find some bottled water and stuff to snack on, when I noticed that the northwest was basically overrun by pharmacies, which to my surprise existed literally in every other house on the street. I reckoned it was probably the byproduct of the pandemic. I had to turn around, walked in the other direction and passed the hostel again until I finally came across a FamilyMart, like a luminous shrine in the middle of a chaotic street market that reminded me of bits of my hometown.
In the morning, the messy street market seemed to feel a little more welcoming. It was still overrun by people, still ever-lively, but felt more bearable for passersby when under the sun.
Then the rosy-looking building, Tan Dinh Church, emerged on the right-hand side of the street. Almost commanding the entire crowded, grayish street to pay attention to her unmissable, grand, almost jaunty facade.
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