Day one in Vitenam

I was sitting alone on one of those low, floor-level chairs you only see in small Vietnamese eateries, the kind that make you rethink your knees. The place was loud but not chaotic, metal spoons hitting bowls, scooters whining past outside, someone laughing in the kitchen. I was hungry, tired, and still not fully sure why I had flown all the way here.

The waitress came over, menu in hand. I scanned it and realized quickly I had no idea what I was looking at. I pointed at a random item and said, “This… but no pork.”

She looked confused.

So I escalated to what I now believe is the universal backup language of travel. I crossed my arms into an X, shook my head firmly, and said, loudly and clearly: “PORK. NO.”

That worked.

A few minutes later, a bowl of phở bò arrived. White rice noodles in a clear broth, thin beef slices, herbs on the side. Simple and comforting. Exactly what I needed. Light, warm, familiar enough not to scare my Indian taste buds on Day One.

I took a few bites before realizing I should probably take a photo. I always remember too late.

Looking at the bowl, I circled back to the question that had been following me since landing: Why Vietnam? Why now?

A few days earlier, I had been back in my hometown. Same roads, same routines, same days looping into each other. Work had started to blur together, and I felt restless in a way I couldn’t quite name. I didn’t plan much. No itinerary. No grand idea of transformation. Just a one-way ticket and a one-night hotel booking near the airport.

The plan, if you can call it that, was movement.

While I was eating, someone took the seat next to me. I glanced over. Backpack, casual clothes, relaxed posture. Another solo traveler by the look of it.

“Xin chào,” I said.

He smiled and replied, then asked, in a clear American accent, “Where you from?”

“India,” I said.

He nodded slowly. “England?”

We both laughed and kept talking.

He was American, passing through Vietnam, killing time before heading back. Nothing dramatic. No big story. Just traveling, playing pickleball, meeting people wherever he landed. He mentioned pickleball casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I told him I always found the name funny. Plastic paddles, weird court.

“It’s actually great for meeting people,” he said.

That stuck with me more than it should have.

We ate mostly in silence after that. Not awkward silence, the kind that feels earned. The kind you get when two strangers don’t feel the need to fill space just because they’re sharing it.

Outside, scooters kept flowing past like a river that never sleeps. Inside, the broth cooled, the noise softened, and the moment passed without asking anything from either of us.

Eventually, he finished his food, nodded goodbye, and left.

I stayed a little longer, paid the bill, and stepped back into the heat of Ho Chi Minh City. still unsure of where the next few days would take me, but strangely okay with not knowing yet.