For most of my travels, I don’t always think to include photos or a clear conclusion in my posts. I might do that later for this one—maybe as an update—since these 20 days in Vietnam have left such a deep imprint.

I originally set out with the idea that this journey could help me reconnect with my original self. I was searching for something—maybe something I’d left behind 20 years ago—and I wanted to update that vision of myself with the person I’ve become today: my experience, my qualities, my skills. Whether that would lead to a fusion or something else entirely, I didn’t know. But that was the starting point.

Over these 20 days, I encountered people every single day. There wasn’t one day without a human experience—sometimes brief, sometimes deep, but always meaningful. Traveling so far allowed me to live through things I simply couldn’t have experienced in Europe. Yet some of what I discovered might still echo things closer to home—things rooted not in distance, but in perception.

I had planned to bring my modular synthesizer and my guitar, to compose on the road—but in the end, I brought neither. Just a Tascam recorder. I stayed mostly around the Hoi An area, and whenever instinct allowed, I used the Tascam to capture sounds.

I thought I was seeking rest, but I realized that I didn’t truly need physical rest—perhaps only some psychological and, later, physiological realignment. I first stayed in the town center, then moved toward an island, and finally settled near An Bang, by what I call the Southern Sea—not the “South China Sea.”

I’ll probably write a second post listing some of the places I visited. What stands out is that I had the chance to be in a preserved place, surrounded by many people—especially Australians—who were incredibly relaxed and welcoming. I spent a few evenings with them, whether they were musicians or just passing through.

There, something happened—something that brought me back to that idea of the original self. It’s a kind of spontaneity in the way of living, combined with an ethical simplicity that goes beyond “respect.” It’s a way of being that accepts or refuses things without making life more complicated than it needs to be.

There wasn’t necessarily a constant sense of pleasure—more like a quiet unfolding of life. If I had stayed another 90 days, something new might have emerged. At the same time, I had to fight off a certain laziness. I met many travelers who stayed only three days in Hoi An before moving on to explore the entire country. I chose to stay put—to focus on one region and connect, without knowing how my body or mind would respond.

In the end, I landed in something indescribable—an inner emptiness that was actually freeing. Twice, I struggled briefly. When you travel alone, a lot comes up. But those difficult moments didn’t last. All it took was action—simply going outside. That lesson applies anywhere: don’t overthink it. Don’t let your mind, overloaded as it is, stop you from being spontaneous with others.

Each day, I made it a point to do one thing. Sometimes I planned it; sometimes it emerged. There were a couple of days where I had no idea what I’d do—I just improvised. One afternoon, I spent hours just watching dragonflies flying above.

Of course, being by the sea has its own magic. But that moment with the dragonflies felt important. I don’t yet know what it will bring into my life, but I’m certain these experiences will ripple into many directions—starting tomorrow.

I won’t dwell on how much cheaper life is in Vietnam—that would be missing the point entirely. Of course, that reality helps, but it wasn’t the purpose of my stay. I didn’t overindulge. If I wasn’t hungry, I didn’t eat. Sometimes just one meal a day felt right.

I’ll probably write two or three more posts about this trip—it was a very personal process. One thing that struck me was that many travelers weren’t necessarily individualistic, but they were solitary. Everyone seemed to be searching for something—or simply drifting, as if floating on a small cloud, following the line of the earth without being affected by it.

From a more analytical perspective, you could say people project things onto you—but the truth is much simpler: everyone walks their own path. What stood out for me in this place, and what I haven’t seen elsewhere, was the ease with which things could unfold. That simplicity brought me back to something instinctual and essential.

This is not a democratic landscape—it’s hard to describe exactly what I mean—but what happens there is natural, not dramatic.

From an artistic standpoint, I truly reconnected with the original self. I was able to write lyrics and titles effortlessly—not necessarily with the intention of performing them. I did play a few songs, mostly covers, including one by Popol Vuh. I also listened to Dr. John every morning—an iconic musician from New Orleans.

All of these details made these days feel real and natural.

So this is my first post about the journey. Others will follow. This trip created something inside me that might need more than words—it may need images, or silence, or time. But it marks a shift. And I will try to honor that shift, post by post.

zi