Seconds after posting in a few Facebook groups that we were looking for a three-bedroom apartment in Thao Dien, local agents inundated Eli’s message box with greetings, grammar errors, locations, emojis, prices, and pictures. Sifting through only a fraction of them, we scheduled four tours around three apartment complexes on Saturday.
We started at Tropic Gardens at 9 AM. I was excited about the building because I saw a picture of a bamboo-woven screen that separated the living room and kitchen, which was enough to convince me that Tropic Gardens knew interior design. But, during our tour, I discovered that bamboo walls didn’t come with every room. Unlike Korea and Canada, where apartment layouts were copy-pasted, Vietnamese style let owners choose where to put up walls.
And Tropic Gardens renters, it seemed, designed their units for childless couples—not roommates. They featured palatial master bedrooms with walk-in closets, hot tubs, and massive mattresses. Consequently, the other two rooms were afterthoughts: substantially smaller, lightly furnished guestrooms. So we turned down Tropic Gardens for equality’s sake. How could any of us enjoy this lavish chamber when his down-the-hall brother slept in a closet?
The real estate agents were another turn off. Every Tropic Garden viewing came with an earful of rapid and relentless Vietnamese-flavored English, hyping up the rooms to royalty levels. “This best mattress in country!” “This room for king!” “Many girlfriend can cook in kitchen! You have oven! No many ovens in Vietnam!” These claims lost their charm at each visit’s end, when the agents announced the rent price. Despite clearly stating a monthly budget between 800-1000 in our messages, the agents told us 1,200. And then, after laughing down our rookie haggling attempts, these property veterans tried locking us in by appealing to our supposed racism. They assured a unit had only been rented to white people and never to Chinese or Koreans, which, in her words, meant less COVID and smell. And when that failed, she took a shot at our mid-twenties testosterone by promising that beautiful, bikini-clad Europeans constantly lounged by the building’s pool. So while Tropic Gardens’ sleazy pitches left me feeling like an ethically-sound boy, I became less certain about finding a home by day’s end.
Next we went to Masteri, a five-tower mini city. These sharp and shiny buildings loomed on both skyline and mind as gentrified erections, an exhibition of foreign-investment virility beside Saigon’s endemic clay roofs. Having previously hooped and wandered under the towers’ shade, I couldn’t deny Masteri’s benefits. The roads were smooth. The bushes were trimmed. The ball court was inside a charming walking area. There were speed bumps and security guards. There was a big mall. The Masteri towers were cool like that crew at the cafeteria: beautiful, stylish, exclusionary, image-obsessed. And their presence was a cheap challenge to my self-worth: “If you think you’re doing well, you should live in Masteri.”
We met Derrick, our agent, in the lobby. Derrick was a dude—odd, considering his profile pic was of a chick. In decent English, he let us know that that was his girlfriend and that we’d be seeing nine units today. His aesthetic—a designer tee, crisp khakis, suede loafers—matched Masteri’s swank.
His apparent partner, a tiny Vietnamese girl, joined a couple minutes later. With bangs on forehead and a mask covering everything else, I only saw two puppy dog eyes. I wasn’t sure if she was scared or if that was just how they looked. Either way, I never found out. Derrick was the talker. She was the silent gatekeeper, periodically materializing to access entrances, summon elevators, twist keys, and unlock door codes before returning to the background.
The Masteri tour restored my hopes for a sweet Saigon pad. The bedroom sizes were pretty equal. The places were more furnished than the ones at Tropic Gardens. Our favourite units had elite living rooms. First place: honeycomb wall-mounted shelves, two oak speakers, and a big TV. Second: a plush couch, the centerpiece of a genial living room, perfectly distanced from the wall-mounted widescreen. A pleasant surprise: these two were the cheapest of the tour. Compared to the 1,200/month for the other Masteri units, Derrick told us we could nab one of these for 1000—possibly 950 after he bartered with the owners. Before leaving, we shook hands then gave Derrick a man-hug, cracked a couple jokes, and got his number, assuring him that we loved the first and fourth pads. We’d message him tonight with our final decision. If he could get the price down, we’d almost certainly sign off then celebrate at the club with him.
Our last stop for the day was HAGL, where Eli had lived for the past eight months. The rooms were cheap (850/month) and spacious, but each had a flaw. The first place’s owner demanded a two-month deposit. The second place had crayon on the walls. The third had stiff beds. The fourth’s toilets reeked of a dead animal. The last, inhabited by our Vietnamese agent, her South African husband, their toddler, and a grandmother, was worse than the previous three.
At a beer patio, we reviewed visitation photos and phone notes. We sent Kyle some videos and thoughts from our search then made a final decision: it was Masteri. They were the most furnished. A ball court was walking distance. We messaged Derrick that we’d like to look at them again tomorrow morning. Then we’d sign a six-month contract.
We met Derrick in the sunlit lobby. I jokingly called him out on seeming subdued, a sign of our comradeship. He explained that he was hungover– big night. We laughed. “Could we see the first unit again?” He told us that, unfortunately, it got taken yesterday. “Damn!” I said. “How about the fourth one we saw?” Still available. “For 1000 or 950?” “950.”“Ok. Sweet. Let’s go.” We chatted about relationships until the Vietnamese girl from the previous day showed up.
She let us into the building again. Derrick and her waited outside the doorway while Eli and I did a final inspection of the unit, recording an in-depth video with commentary for Kyle. Satisfied, we told Derrick we wanted to sign. He told us we needed one month’s security deposit as commitment. Seeing as we’d lost our first option, we agreed. Eli had the cash at home. We just needed to get it. In the meantime, Derrick would prepare our contracts.
45 minutes later, we rendezvoused at the Masteri lobby. It was hot. Derrick was thirsty and looked sweaty. He asked if we wanted to get a tea or coffee at a nearby café—we could sign there, too. We declined as we already had lunch plans. Derrick walked to the reception desk then came back with two contracts. We skimmed over the details, signed off, and then asked about the picture on the contract’s last page. He said it was the owner. Then we handed him an envelope with 22 million VND.
That night, we video called Kyle, who was in Korea, about which room he wanted. We made fun of each other’s NBA teams and fantasized about roommate life before wishing him safe travels through the increasingly thickening COVID storm. Stretched out on the sofa, I took a deep exhale. After 2 months, I finally had a home.