Sa Pa Lake

Right in the middle of Sa Pa there is a lake. People call it Mắt Ngọc Lake.

A walking path runs all the way around it. Early in the morning, some people come out to walk a few laps and warm their feet. Late in the afternoon, others come to sit for a while, doing nothing at all, just looking at the water.

And along that lakeside path, people have planted climbing roses.

Not one rose bush set down for show. Not one short row along the prettiest stretch and nothing more.

About 500 plants.

That number is worth a pause before going on.

Five hundred roses is more than it sounds.

Here is one way to see it. A child stands at the start of the rose path, determined to count every last one. Counting out loud, clearly, not skipping a single plant. The child counts along the whole length of the path. Through the sunny stretch. Through the shady stretch. On and on, until the voice turns hoarse, the legs grow tired, and the lakeshore has taken on the colors of late afternoon. Counting all 500 is no quick game. It takes hours.

Here is another way. If each rose were a small child, the 500 would be a whole schoolyard packed at recess, lined up in one long row that hugs the water.

And here is a third way. This one is harder, but it is the truest of all.

Every rose, before it ever flowered, began as a small hole in the ground. Someone had to bend down and dig that hole. Someone had to set the plant in, fill the soil back, press it firm around the stem, and water it. Then stand up, walk a few more steps, bend down again, and do exactly the same thing.

Five hundred times bending down. Five hundred times standing up.

The number 500 does not live on paper. It lives in the backs of the people who planted it.

A climbing rose cannot stand on its own. It needs something to hold, something to reach along and climb. So along the path the roses do not spread into round bushes. They follow the walkway and curl upward. Anyone walking the path passes close beside them. The scent of the roses brushes past, very close to the face.

Then comes the most beautiful part. The part only Mắt Ngọc Lake can do.

On clear blue days, the water lies so still that it becomes a great mirror of earth and sky. Clouds from high above drop down and lie in the water. Mountains in the distance stand on their heads at the bottom of the lake. And the rose path, all 500 plants, looks at itself there too.

Which means that on fine days, Sa Pa has two rose paths.

One is real. It grows from the earth, with thorns and leaves, close enough to touch, though its thorns can still scratch a hand.

The other lies under the water, out of reach. A single bird swooping low, or a breath of wind passing over, is enough to make the whole underwater path tremble and break into scraps of color. A moment later, the water settles. The path comes back, whole, without a single plant missing.

Perhaps that is why people call this lake Mắt Ngọc, which means jewel eye. The water is as clear and bright as an open eye looking up at the sky.

Look from the lakeside toward the center of town, and a building of stone comes into view. It is the Stone Church of Sa Pa.

That church is also a story of patience. Work on it began in 1925. It was not finished until 1935.

Stone cannot be laid quickly. Flowers cannot be hurried into bloom either. In this small town, beautiful things all get made the same way: little by little, patiently, until they are done.

And Mắt Ngọc Lake is not hidden away somewhere remote. It sits right in the heart of Sa Pa. Getting there takes no climb and no long ride. A step off the street is enough.

So the lake is not a place to admire from afar and then leave. It is a place for walking and resting. People who live in Sa Pa come out to it every day, so used to it that they hardly notice anymore. People from elsewhere stand still for a long time, a little dazed, because they have never seen water so flat lying right inside a town.

The same shore, the same rose path. For one group it is home. For the other it is something new. Both share one walkway, heading in opposite directions, nodding hello and walking on.

Five hundred roses, strictly speaking, is someone else's number.

It belongs to the people who planted them. To the people who counted them. To the people who wrote the number down.

But up close, at the water's edge, the number melts away. There are no longer 500 roses ahead. There is only one, the nearest, leaning out from the bank and reaching toward the water.

Its topmost flower bows very low, almost touching the mirror.

Below, in the water, another flower is reaching up to meet it.

The two can never touch. Day after day, they lean toward each other at the edge of Mắt Ngọc Lake, in the heart of Sa Pa.