21june26
June 2026
This design is inspired by the iconic red plastic stools of Vietnam, my Adidas Sambas, Vietnamese coffee, my field notes journal writing, graffiti, photography (camera slung over the shoulder,) some of the places I’ve been fortunate enough to live in and travel to…and the masterpiece novel I just finished by Fernando Pessoa: “The Book of Disquiet.”
*Design 3 is ready, but production is on hold due to a weeklong Vietnam holiday and my impending departure to Cambodia. I’ll try to pick things up from there.
27aug26
Living this nomadic life has taught me to hold plans very loosely.
Some mornings, I have a place in mind. And then, somewhere along the way, I see something else. A little distraction. A different street. A place I haven’t planned on. And suddenly the original plan doesn’t matter anymore.
So I follow the new idea.
That may sound like a very small thing. It is. And somehow it’s not.
Because every once in a while, in the middle of these ordinary mornings, I’m reminded of just how much freedom there is in my life right now.
I can change my mind.
I can turn down a different street. I can sit on a little plastic stool or duck into a café I’ve never heard of. I can decide that the coffee I thought I wanted isn’t actually the coffee I want anymore.
There’s no schedule waiting for me around the corner. No one wondering why I’m late. No obligation to explain why I suddenly changed direction.
Just me, a city, and a morning that can become something different simply because I decide it can.
And when I actually stop to acknowledge that, gratitude washes over me.
Not the grand, dramatic kind of gratitude. Something quieter.
The kind that makes me look down at the coffee in my hand and think: Wow. I get to do this. 🥹
I get to wander around Saigon and discover things. I get to make arbitrary decisions about where to drink coffee. I get to follow curiosity instead of an itinerary.
And somehow, once I notice that, the coffee tastes even better.
Maybe that’s what these coffee mornings are really about.
Not finding the best coffee.
Not even finding the café I set out to find.
Sometimes the best part is realizing that I’m free to change my mind. And that the unexpected place I end up may be exactly where I was supposed to be all along. 🙇♀️
August 2026
22may26
Yi Kakada (often known as Kakada Yi) is a prominent, self-taught contemporary Cambodian street artist and muralist. Born in 1996 in Battambang province—historically the artistic hub of Cambodia—he has become a recognizable figure in the Kingdom’s flourishing urban art scene.
One of Kakada’s most famous physical talents is his ability to paint ambidextrously. He can draw different images with both hands simultaneously, a skill that often captivates audiences during live painting showcases. He is also recognized for creating “two-canvas” paintings that seamlessly merge to tell a singular story.
Kakada’s journey to becoming a full-time artist is marked by resilience. He lost both of his parents at an early age and faced severe financial hardship, which forced him to drop out of high school. He moved to Phnom Penh with his siblings to look for opportunities, relying entirely on his raw talent.
Without formal art school training, he mastered his craft through hands-on practice, initially using standard house paint because expensive spray cans were out of reach. His breakthrough came when he won first place in the “Asian Drawing Category” in a competition organized by UNESCO.
7june26
“I wake up.
I philosophize.
I existentialize.
I wander.”
©️Jackie Hadel, 2026
This thought came into existence on one of my wanderings during this current 6-month stint in Saigon. I tried to articulate what my life is like at the moment.
August 2026
August 2026
Yi Kakada (often known as Kakada Yi) is a prominent, self-taught contemporary Cambodian street artist and muralist. Born in 1996 in Battambang province—historically the artistic hub of Cambodia—he has become a recognizable figure in the Kingdom’s flourishing urban art scene.
One of Kakada’s most famous physical talents is his ability to paint ambidextrously. He can draw different images with both hands simultaneously, a skill that often captivates audiences during live painting showcases. He is also recognized for creating “two-canvas” paintings that seamlessly merge to tell a singular story.
Kakada’s journey to becoming a full-time artist is marked by resilience. He lost both of his parents at an early age and faced severe financial hardship, which forced him to drop out of high school. He moved to Phnom Penh with his siblings to look for opportunities, relying entirely on his raw talent.
Without formal art school training, he mastered his craft through hands-on practice, initially using standard house paint because expensive spray cans were out of reach. His breakthrough came when he won first place in the “Asian Drawing Category” in a competition organized by UNESCO.
7june26
There are weeks when coffee is mostly about the coffee.
And then there are weeks when coffee becomes a way of measuring a life.
This was one of those weeks.
Nine coffees. A little over 347,000 Vietnamese đồng. A ridiculous range of prices, places, textures and moods. Everything from a 13,000₫ cà phê đen đá in a District 3 hẻm to an 89,000₫ coconut coffee at a retro bar. And somewhere in between, I had one of those small realizations that seem insignificant until you realize they aren’t.
But let’s start with the coffee.
My week began with a cà phê sữa with salted foam from Mê Trà on Nguyễn Thị Minh Khai – 25,000₫. Silky, thick foam. Sweet, creamy, indulgent. The kind of coffee that makes you stop pretending coffee is merely a beverage and admit that sometimes it’s dessert wearing a caffeine costume.
Then there was a 20,000₫ cà phê đen đá from YO Coffee, served from a little cart on Nguyễn Văn Tráng. Sitting outside, watching the street do what Saigon streets do, I was reminded again that some of my favorite coffees here cost less than a bottle of water in plenty of places.
I found another little street stand in a District 3 hẻm and had a 13,000₫ cà phê đen đá. Later, near Lê Thị Riêng, a graffiti-covered backdrop provided the setting for a 20,000₫ cà phê sữa đá.
And that’s one of the things I love about drinking coffee in Saigon.
The setting doesn’t have to be impressive.
Sometimes the setting is the point.
A plastic chair. A metal table. A wall covered in graffiti. A narrow hẻm. Motorbikes passing a few feet away. Someone sweeping the sidewalk. Someone else arguing cheerfully over something that sounds very important.
And suddenly you’re sitting in the middle of somebody else’s ordinary Tuesday. And it feels extraordinary.
Then came the hazelnut latte.
The day before, I had walked past an advertisement for a beautiful hazelnut latte. I remember thinking, I’ll be trying that soon.
And the next day, I did.
This may sound like a ridiculously minor thing. But lately I’ve been thinking about how much freedom is contained in that little sentence: I’ll try that.
And then actually doing it.
So there I was at Cheese Coffee on Lê Thị Riêng, drinking a 75,000₫ bạc xỉu hazelnut coffee, enjoying the hell out of it.
It was really good.
And I realized that I’m increasingly grateful for the freedom. And the means to build a life out of these little things.
Not the big things.
The little things.
A coffee because I saw an advertisement and became curious.
A book because I happened to have it with me.
A shady sidewalk because the breeze feels good.
A neighborhood because I wandered into it.
A conversation because somebody happened to sit nearby.
A day that doesn’t have to justify itself.
That particular afternoon was especially good. I was sitting in the shade with a light breeze, reading Fernando Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet, and thinking that I could probably have stayed there all day.
Honestly, I could have.
There are worse ways to spend a life.
The next coffee took me to Phuong’s Retro Bar on Lý Tự Trọng, where I tried a coconut coffee for 89,000₫. Then another coconut coffee at Bò Cà Phê, a 60,000₫ phin dừa.
Because apparently this was the week I decided that coconut and coffee needed to become a major theme in my life.
I’m not complaining.
Sunday brought one of my favorite rituals: my neighborhood coffee.
I had started teaching online early, and afterward I wandered over to my usual spot. The guy who knows my order – or at least knows the general direction my order is headed, asked if I wanted more condensed milk.
“Yes.”
And on this particular Sunday morning, that was exactly right.
Rich. Sweet. Just the little kick in the ass I needed to start the day.
Monday morning, however, called for something different.
A 25,000₫ coffee at Passio on Bùi Thị Xuân, which I described in my notes as a “detox of sorts.”
After a week that included salted foam, hazelnut, coconut, condensed milk and enough sweetness to qualify as a minor health event, Monday’s coffee felt almost virtuous.
Almost.
Looking back at the week’s list, what strikes me isn’t really the coffee.
It’s the accumulation of small choices.
I can walk past a picture of a hazelnut latte and decide I want one.
I can sit in a hẻm for a 13,000₫ coffee.
I can spend 89,000₫ on something ridiculous and delicious.
I can take a book into the shade and disappear into it for an afternoon.
I can teach online in the morning and be sitting on a plastic chair drinking coffee in a neighborhood a few minutes later.
I can wander.
I can stop.
I can try things.
I can change my mind.
And I can build a life out of all those little things that, taken individually, don’t seem particularly important.
But that’s the trick.
The little things are the big things.
A life doesn’t have to be spectacular to be a good one.
Maybe it just has to contain enough moments when you look up from your coffee, feel the breeze, realize you’re exactly where you want to be, and think:
Yeah. This is pretty damn good.
And then take another sip.
August 2026
