Chapter 3: Nha Trang - Sea

"Those two hours of doing nothing were among my clearest moments in 2025"

2025.8.4 — 8.12

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3.1 Arrival: 36 Degrees and Motorbikes

From Da Lat's 23 degrees, down the mountain, to Nha Trang's 36 degrees.

A thirteen-degree difference, like falling from one world into another. Da Lat was slow, moist, misty; Nha Trang was direct, dry, exposed. The sea was right there, giving you no psychological preparation.

Nha Trang's motorbikes were even more casual than Ho Chi Minh's. None of that "rule sense" from the big city, none of the mountain town's restraint. The motorbikes here were truly random—random lane changes, random stops, random detours, random horn honking at you.

But strangely, I felt a kind of relaxation here.

Maybe because of the sea. The sea doesn't care about rules; it always spreads out before you, whether you go or not, it doesn't matter.

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3.2 Two Hours of Doing Nothing

A seaside spot without signal, around 2 PM.

I sat there, doing nothing. Two hours.

Didn't open my phone, didn't record any notes, didn't think about any problems. Just sat, watched the sea, listened to the wind. A few children were chasing waves on the beach, a stray dog lazily lying on the reef, the sea breeze taking away some of the heat, but not enough, still sticky on the skin.

Those two hours were the quietest moment I had in Vietnam.

Not because I thought about anything important. But because in those two hours, nothing was recorded, nothing was optimized, nothing was output. Just—being there, existing.

The system we live in now is increasingly intolerant of this kind of existence.

Your attention is data, your time is an asset, your behavior can be predicted and guided. Every "two hours of doing nothing" is an efficiency gap in the system.

But those two hours were mine.

Not because I particularly hard "reclaimed" them, but because there was no signal, because there was a sea, because it just happened that way.

This was one of the most honest moments of this trip.

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3.3 Ichigo Ichie: Reunion with a Nepali Friend

August 10, a morning, I was working in an ordinary café in Nha Trang, when someone walked over beside me, I looked up—

It was a friend I had met in Kathmandu.

She was also traveling, passing through Nha Trang by chance.

When something like this happens, you freeze for a second. Not surprise, but that feeling that "the world is smaller and more interesting than you think."

We sat there and talked for four hours.

She said: "You're different from when I last saw you."

"How so?"

"You used to be introverted, didn't talk much. Now you speak up proactively."

I thought about it. What she said was true.

Last time I saw her, I felt depth required cooperation from both sides, most people's hearts are lonely, no need to proactively open up every time. Now it seemed different—not that I became extroverted, but I was more willing to speak out what was in my heart, not because the other person would necessarily understand, but because speaking it out was itself a way of existing.

Every person, every moment, every experience shapes a different version of us.

After four hours, she continued her journey, I continued mine.

This is ichigo ichie: because we know there won't be another coming, we are present.

We were the most honest witnesses to each other's growth—not because of particular closeness, but because there was enough time and distance between two meetings to see clearly what had happened to that person.

Distance and time are often the most honest filters.