...and I sit, and start to write this first missive from Vietnam.

It’s early—at least for my body and brain, it’s around 5 AM. But the reality is that it’s 10 AM, and I’m on the last leg that will bring me to Ho Chi Minh from Singapore.

My brain is struggling. On one hand, I had the plan to sleep a bit more to arrive perfectly in sync with Vietnam’s timezone. On the other hand, the screen in front of me is projecting the NBA play-in finals—I love that in this part of the world, you can wake up with live NBA games. But then, in my hands, I have the book I started reading back at El Prat Airport.

Funny enough, Marc Augé is explaining to me that supermodernity is based on three figures of excess: (1) overabundance of events—so many things happening at the same time, which changes our perception of time; (2) spatial overabundance—information spread at light speed through the world, just like we can (and I’m doing now) move from one part of the globe in a matter of hours; and lastly, (3) individualization of references—the fact that in Western society, the individual wants to be a world in itself.

Thanks, universe, for bugging me with these thoughts. I’m sure this book will be the perfect background for this wandering.

In the middle of these thoughts, I fall asleep, and the moment after, I land in Vietnam.

I’m tired, sweating like hell in an unexpected level of humidity that clings to my skin. I reach the hotel, shower, and start to sweat again. That’s when I decide I need to eat something.

The first impression? Honestly, I felt like people are serious and private. It’s too easy to compare the situation with Thailand, being just a few months apart. I start walking around and, surprisingly, I don’t see any tourists. I enter a street where there should be a market, but everything is indecipherable—starting from the stares of the people. The sweat starts to take control of my glasses, which turn foggy, and a feeling of discomfort grows from my stomach. I start to feel impatient and lost, without any place that looks like a restaurant. I spot a small terrace with a few locals drinking beer and eating something—I decide it’s time to sit and recollect myself.

It turns out that food changes your mood and view of the world—no shit, Sherlock—and while eating, discomfort turns into excitement and contentment. In the end, it’s this discomfort I was craving on this trip.

I savor the moment, and after a bit, I start walking towards a hotel where the people from The RAW Society were presenting the results of their workshop. So nice to meet again with people I last met a year ago.

We have dinner together, nice chats and catch up, and then time to go back to the hotel, edit the photos from the day, write this missive, and go to sleep: the plan is clear. Until it is not.

On the way back, I walk alongside people’s homes—families and friends sharing drinks and food. And life, in a second, feels so simple. At one point, I see this big family (I think), and I just ask to take a photo. They are so welcoming and friendly that I decide to go back to the hotel (as planned), print the photo, and bring the print back to the family (unplanned). I bring with me a portable printer for situations like this, to give back to the people and create memories.

What happens then is what makes me love human beings. I arrive at the place and the lights are off—everybody is singing happy birthday when I just step in with the print in my hand. What follows is that they let me sit there, I taste their grilled chicken, drink beers, and speak a mix of English and Google Translate Vietnamese (definitely unplanned).

What a warm and heartfelt experience.

Then I’m here, saying goodbye to the family and switching back to the “clear” plan: go back to the hotel, edit the photos from the day... yada yada.

And I sit, and start to write this first missive from Vietnam.

Till tomorrow,

— M