This morning, waiting at the gate early, I pressed play on “Những Chuyến Xe Trong Đời”, took a quick sip of coffee, and found myself wishing someone were beside me.

The afternoon flight carried me into a nameless memory something wordless, undefined. This “spontaneous” had been set up with two Belgian beers, a bottle of red wine, four German beers, and a nearly 35-kilometer bike ride from Thủ Đức to the center of Saigon. Meeting her felt like fate. I truly believed it.

Landing at Nội Bài at 6 p.m., I received a message: “Ân, did you book a place for tonight?” What? I was still floating above the clouds! Eventually, we met. The hotel reservation had failed but no matter. After a quick bowl of phở, we hopped into a Fortuner and drove to Thái Nguyên.

In the city center, the cold gripped us 8 degrees Celsius. We checked into a downtown hotel, dropped our bags, scrolled through Tinder, took quick showers, and stepped into the night. We found a small pub. The three of us devoured boiled greens, pig intestines, and a few beers. I shivered through the night under a single-mode air conditioner.

We rose groggy and brewed tea on the 8th floor, overlooking Thái Nguyên’s provincial hospital. Back on the road, I told our driver to stop by an electronics store. We bought a heater (600,000 VND) and some heat packs. Good to go. From Thái Nguyên to Cao Bằng, our car was filled with music, laughter, and way too many snacks.
We stayed by Ba Bể Lake, in a bungalow literally on the water. Along the way, we stopped at a roadside stall and tried banana cake and bamboo-tube rice, this time with peanuts. Our driver handed us a bunch of so sour tangerines that they nearly knocked us out.

Twisting mountain roads eventually opened up to reveal the lake’s green mirror. We booked a small boat for three and drifted across the still surface as the sun descended. Wind, mist, cold… I wished I had someone’s hand to hold softly, longingly. A flock of white egrets burst upward with the hum of the motor. I smiled, squeezed my own hand tightly, and whispered: “It’s okay not to be okay.”

We journeyed toward Đầu Đẳng Waterfall. The water tumbled in layers, relentless and wild. In shallower stretches, fish darted past in schools. Occasionally, we passed elderly men or perhaps just weary ones slowly paddling small boats. I was reminded of Nguyễn Tuân’s “The Boatman of the Đà River”. I turned to Hương and said, “Let’s bring paddle boards here next time. Just float. Just be.”

At dusk, i ran through stubbled fields and past quiet bamboo groves as smoke from burning straw rose in the air. The evening chill was laced with the scent of earth, youth, and village life. i paused beside a bamboo grove, watching an old woman stoop to gather a bundle of greens. A child, sniffling, trailed behind her.

As the last light faded, I offered, “Let me help you carry that.” She smiled gently and said, “I live up the hill. You’re strong — seeing you here brings me peace.” The child wiped her nose, watching shyly. “We’re just visiting,” I replied. “I live up there too. Take care, okay?” The old woman nodded and vanished into the drifting smoke. Peace settled in.

From our bungalow balcony, the mountains stood in silence. Dinner closed with grilled fish, hot tea, a quiet beer, and jazz. The forest whispered, and the birds sang. The day slowly exhaled.

From Bắc Kạn to Cao Bằng, we visited Pác Bó Cave, Lê-nin Stream, and Karl Marx Mountain. The water shimmered unexpectedly. We stood where Hồ Chí Minh once wrote, “Morning by the stream, night in the cave.” But night fell quickly, and there wasn’t much to linger over.

Meeting Long, someone I had known online for years but never thought I’d encounter in Cao Bằng, felt like fate again. He took us to the best wild duck in town, followed by a platter of pig intestines at the coziest homestay: Gia Bảo. It wasn’t built for profit, it was built with heart. The hostess, a warm and graceful woman in her fifties, poured us tea in a garden full of roses and stone benches. That night, we melted.

Melted in the scent of roses, the warmth of beer, the joy of friendship, and the music of Ella and Louis. The next morning was peaceful. Hương and Thăng made tea. I practiced yoga. Trinh reorganized her gear. We laughed over stories of missed flights, Thăng’s overnight drive, and toasted to peace.

We bid Cao Bằng farewell with hot bánh cuốn from Cô Nguyệt, pickled bamboo shoots, tart apricot fruit, and strong milk coffee from Nô A, beside Bằng Giang pier. Long gave me a warm hug goodbye. Then we got back in the car, music playing, spirits light.

In Trùng Khánh, we wandered into Ngườm Ngao (Tiger Cave). Its cold quiet reminded me of that night we walked hand in hand through the city, under 10°C. He took off his gloves to hold her bare hand at the crosswalk. She smiled without a word. On an empty road, she asked softly, “Why’d you take them off? Aren’t you cold?”

“Silly,” he replied. “I wanted your hand to feel my warmth, not some fuzzy glove.” And they smiled, nose to nose.

We left the cave debating whether to recommend it. I said, “Go to Quảng Bình instead Tú Làn or Thiên Đường and you’ll see how small this one really is.” On the way back, we stopped by Khuổi Kỵ, a stone village of the Tày people. Only about a dozen houses, but it reminded me of Tibetan refugee villages in Nepal. Stone fences glowed golden in the late light.

We checked into the fanciest hotel near Bản Giốc Falls, the Saigon Bản Giốc Resort. We joked that we’d saved the best for last. The place was a bit outdated, but after a couple of calls, we landed a “premium” room on the fourth floor with a waterfall view for the price of a standard. Not bad. We laughed at the view not quite cinematic, but still decent. We cleaned up and prepared for our big finale at the falls.

After a walk through dry fields, rickety bridges, and streams, the waterfall finally appeared. We laid out tea, spread our mats and chairs, snapped some photos, and listened to calm tunes. But this wasn’t peak season. The falls were quiet, almost too tame. Honestly, compared to Đà Lạt’s Datala, the seven-tiered Phi Liêng, or that one in Indonesia I forgot Bản Giốc felt like a whisper.

We took the boat back, craving dinner at Phương Cưu (Long’s recommendation). The night ended with Saigon beers and roasted chestnuts from earlier.
“…The road home settles in your heart, rain or shine…”

At Hồ Thang Hen, the dry season left it almost bare. We zipped off on two motorbikes to Núi Thủng “the Mountain with an Eye.” A perfect hole in the cliff. The plateau was surreal. The closer we came, the wider that “eye” grew. Below it, a quiet stream flowed through cliffs and pine. The view took our breath away more than any waterfall could.

It’s not where you go. It’s who you go with.
Trips with no names, no plans, no pressure — they are the gentlest of all.

The people I meet by chance, in kind lands with kind weather, are the ones I treasure most.

The kisses, the hugs, the warm greetings, the smallest acts of care the sister pulling a jacket over your shoulders at the perfect time these are the moments that stay.

The tears. The soft heartaches. Yours, mine, theirs.
They arrive gently, in the middle of these majestic landscapes.
And remind us:
We are small things, walking among ancient stones, humbled by the waters that carved them.

We feel gratitude.
We feel tenderness.
We feel a deep, radiant energy.

Here’s to one more trip through life — full of light.

I gather the land I’ve walked into my arms. I hold each stone. I hold every fleeting second:

Moments of being together.
Moments of holding hands.
Moments that return me to the quietest kind of peace — like the smile of a child.

Namaste,

Saigon, January 18, 2021