A cĂ phĂȘ sữa ÄĂĄ on a busy median. Traffic whizzing by, but somehow, sitting on a tiny red stool with sweet coffee in my hand became the only thing I noticed. The coffee lady looked lonely out there in the middle of the chaos â cars, trucks, motorbikes rushing past with no pause, her little cart full of drinks waiting for customers. So I stayed a while. Maybe made her day a little less lonely. Maybe she did the same for me.
Sunday morning blog posting requires a little less chaos and a little more air conditioning. Highlands Coffee in Pham Ngu Lao.
On Monday mornings, I wake up before the church bells, before the roosters, and certainly before any coffee ladies. So, on those mornings, I have a canned coffee waiting in the wings of my arsenal (you may call it a mini fridge.)
This brand happens to be deeply tied to the “First Lady of Coffee” in Vietnam, Le Hoang Diep Thao.
To understand King Coffee, you have to look back at Trung Nguyen, the powerhouse brand founded in 1996 by Le Hoang Diep Thao and her then-husband, Dang Le Nguyen Vu.
âą TNI Label: Notice the “TNI” logo at the top, which stands for Trung Nguyen Internationalâthe entity Thao managed.
âą The Flavor Profile: It is designed to mimic the “Vietnamese Bold Style,” which typically uses Robusta beans for a high caffeine content and a distinct, smoky bitterness. Hello!
âą Cultural Iconography: The design featuring a woman in an Ăo dĂ i and a NĂłn lĂĄ (conical hat) is a deliberate choice to brand the coffee as an authentic cultural export of Vietnam. đ»đł
Lime Coffee: Strong Vietnamese drip coffee (cĂ phĂȘ phin) served over ice with a squeeze of fresh lime juice and sometimes lime zest grated on top. Some versions add a thin layer of salted cream or condensed milk. Zesty!
The flavor logic is straightforward. Mint cools. Vietnamese coffee is dark, bitter, and heavy. The mint lifts it, adds a cold brightness that hits your nose before it hits your tongue. đ
Between about 7:00 and 7:40 thereâs this brief window where Saigon feels almost gentle. A little breeze moving through the streets before the sun fully takes over. The more pleasant the weather, the longer I sit and read. Currently reading âA Naked Singularityâ by Sergio De La Pava.
But eventually the heat wins.
Thatâs usually when I go searching for my breakfast bĂĄnh mĂŹ from my favorite lady â the one who adds tomatoes without charging extra, then refuses to accept the extra 5,000 Äá»ng tip I want to give her because I appreciate the gesture. Itâs become our daily little battle. One I eventually win. đ
The best Banh mi lady at 13 Do Quang Dao in Pham Ngu Lao
Vietnam keeps giving. And I keep receiving with gratitude. đ
There are places that do not ask you to become someone new.
They simply show you what is already there.
The longer I move, the less I expect transformation from geography.
Sometimes a city does not change you.
It reflects you.
Bangkok, again.
The zebras and cobras are common in Thai shrines. Zebras often symbolize protection and watchfulness. Cobras carry power, guardianship, and sometimes danger. Together they create a perimeter. A quiet statement that this place is acknowledged, not taken for granted.
By the lake, the shrine becomes a reminder that human settlement is never fully separate from the natural world. It says: we build here, but we recognize what was here before us.
In Nonthaburi especially, where waterways shape daily life, such a shrine is less decorative and more relational. It reflects a worldview where coexistence matters more than dominance.
It is less about superstition and more about humility.
The first time you come to Thailand, you notice them everywhere.
Tiny temples at the edge of sidewalks. In front of banks. Outside 7-Elevens. Guarding construction sites. Sitting confidently in front of corporate headquarters as if they were always part of the blueprint.
They are called àžšàžČàž„àžàžŁàž°àž àžčàžĄàžŽ, spirit houses.
Pak Kret
They are homes.
Long before Buddhism took root here, animist beliefs shaped daily life. The land had spirits. The trees had spirits. The ground itself was inhabited. When you build on land, you displace something. The solution is not to ignore it. The solution is to provide a new residence.
So, you build a house. Elevated. Facing an auspicious direction. Installed with ceremony. Blessed by monks or Brahmin priests. Carefully placed according to astrology.
Inside you will see incense, marigold garlands, fruit, rice, jasmine water, and often bottles of bright red Fanta. Offerings for the guardian spirit of that land. A gesture of respect. A request for protection. A quiet negotiation between the visible and the unseen.
Sometimes pigeons visit the houses
What moves me is not the shrine itself. It is the coexistence.
A glass tower in Bangkok will still have a spirit house at its entrance. A multinational corporation with quarterly earnings reports and biometric scanners still pauses to light incense in the morning. A luxury condo will cast a shadow over a tiny gilded house that stands firmly in front of it.
Modernity here does not erase belief. It builds around it.
Mon heritage refers to the cultural traditions of the Mon people, an ethnic group from mainland Southeast Asia who migrated into central Thailand centuries ago.
On Koh Kret, Mon heritage is still visible in temple architecture, pottery, language traces, food, and religious art. It reflects a community that preserved its identity while blending into Thai society.
This photo series captures those living details. Not museum pieces, but everyday expressions of a culture that has endured along the river for generations.
The leaning pagoda on Koh Kret is at Wat Poramaiyikawas Worawihan, and itâs one of the islandâs most recognizable landmarks.
Itâs a white Mon-style chedi that tilts noticeably toward the Chao Phraya River. It wasnât built that way on purpose. Over time, riverbank erosion caused the structure to lean. The river literally reshaped the foundation beneath it.
The pagoda dates back to the 18th century, after Koh Kret was formed in 1722 when a canal was dug and later widened into what became the island. The Mon community that settled there built temples in their traditional style, and this chedi reflects that heritage.
What makes it powerful isnât just that it leans. Itâs that itâs still standing. It feels like a visual metaphor for Koh Kret itself. Formed by water. Shaped by migration. Adjusting, but enduring.
Jade Buddha inside Wat Poramaiyikawas Worawihan on Koh Kret.
This scene represents the Buddha in meditation, surrounded by symbols of protection, strength, and awakening.
The seated Buddha reflects calm awareness and liberation from suffering. His posture suggests meditation after enlightenment. The small altar in front holds offerings, which symbolize generosity and devotion rather than worship. In Buddhism, offering flowers, incense, or small Buddha images is a way of cultivating merit and gratitude.
The elephant in front carries deep meaning. In Buddhist tradition, a white elephant appeared in Queen Mayaâs dream before the Buddhaâs birth, symbolizing purity and the arrival of an enlightened being. The elephant also represents mental strength and discipline. A trained elephant is often used as a metaphor for a trained mind.
The serpent figure beside him likely represents a naga. After the Buddha attained enlightenment, the naga king Mucalinda sheltered him from a storm by spreading his hood over him. Nagas symbolize protection and the harmony between nature and spiritual awakening.
The parasol above the Buddha is a royal and spiritual symbol. It represents honor, protection, and the sovereignty of the Dharma.
Together, this scene is not about spectacle. It visually teaches key Buddhist ideas: discipline of the mind, protection through wisdom, generosity through offerings, and the calm stability of enlightenment amid the changing world.
Chit Beer on Koh Kret is one of Thailandâs original grassroots craft breweries.
Founded by a homebrewer named Chit, it began at a time when Thai alcohol laws made small-scale brewing extremely difficult. Instead of going corporate, he operated on a small, community-based model on Koh Kret, building a following among locals and expats.
Itâs widely considered a pioneer of Thailandâs craft beer movement. Today, itâs known for experimental small-batch beers served in a laid-back riverside setting, and for quietly challenging the countryâs restrictive brewing regulations.
The Peaceful Life
Reclining Buddha at Wat Klang Kret.
This reclining image represents the Buddha entering Parinirvana, his final passing beyond the cycle of rebirth.
This is a sacred tree on Koh Kret, covered in red and green cloth ribbons tied by visitors.
In Thai Buddhist culture, tying a ribbon or piece of cloth to a tree like this is a way of making a wish or asking for blessings. It can be for health, protection, success, or gratitude for something already received. The act itself is simple, but itâs symbolic. You tie your intention to the tree.
Often these trees are believed to house a protective spirit, sometimes referred to as a nang mai or local guardian spirit. Even in predominantly Buddhist spaces, Thailand blends animist traditions with Buddhist practice. The tree becomes a living focal point of faith.
Youâll also notice the small white stupa wrapped in red cloth nearby. Red fabric in Thai spiritual practice often signifies protection and sacredness.
On Koh Kret, where Mon heritage and river life shape the culture, this kind of scene reflects how belief isnât confined to temple walls. It spills outward. Into trees. Into courtyards. Into everyday space.
This is inside Wat Poramaiyikawas Worawihan on Koh Kret, the islandâs main temple and spiritual center for the Mon community.
The large golden Buddha in the center represents the historical Buddha in meditation, symbolizing calm awareness and enlightenment. The smaller ornate structure in front holds a revered Buddha image, often treated as the focal point for offerings and prayer.
Behind the statues, the mural depicts celestial realms. You can see heavenly beings floating in blue clouds around a central elevated structure. This represents Buddhist cosmology, particularly the heavenly realms where beings are reborn through good karma. Itâs not fantasy decoration. Itâs a visual map of the moral universe in Buddhist thought.
The layers matter. Buddha in the foreground represents enlightenment. The heavens behind represent the consequences of virtuous action. Offerings at the base represent merit-making by devotees.
On Koh Kret, this temple is deeply tied to Mon heritage. The art, structure, and iconography reflect both Thai and Mon traditions blended together.
This scene is essentially a full Buddhist worldview in one frame. Enlightenment at the center. Karma unfolding around it. Community devotion at its base.
A sacred tree wrapped in red cloth, honoring the spirit believed to dwell within it. A lone bicycle resting in the shade. The river just beyond the wall.
On this island, everyday life and quiet devotion share the same ground.
GETTING THERE:
Hereâs the clearest, easiest route from central Bangkok to Koh Kret that tourists can follow without stress:
đ Option 1: MRT + Taxi (Easiest & Most Reliable)
Take the MRT (Purple Line) to Khlong Bang Phai Station (end of the line). From the station, take a Grab or taxi to Wat Sanam Nuea Pier (about 15â20 minutes). At the pier, take the local ferry across to Koh Kret. Ferry ride: 2â3 minutes Cost: around 3â5 baht
This is the simplest route with minimal confusion. âïž đ đ đ„ïž
Mural in the marketThe Mon people are proud of, and known for, their pottery craftsmanship.
Standing above the road in Mo Chit, looking down the long stretch of asphalt, it hit me that Bangkok doesnât begin or end anywhere. It just extends. The lanes run forward like unfinished sentences. Motorbikes move steadily, not rushed, not slow. Itâs just forward motion.
That road felt like where I am in life right now. Not at a starting line. Not at an ending. Just in the middle of something wide and ongoing. Bangkok is very good at that feeling. Youâre never arriving. Youâre just continuing.
Mo Chit is a transit point, but itâs also a metaphor for in-between spaces. Itâs where people pass through, but no one really stays. I like places like that.
Bangkok doesnât separate the sacred from the everyday. It folds them together. Monks take the train. Office workers scroll their phones. Vendors sell grilled meat outside stations. Shrines sit in front of glass towers. It all functions in the same rhythm.
The blue building. Just life happening.
Thereâs something about Mo Chit that feels less performative than central Bangkok. Itâs working-class, transitional, functional. Itâs not trying to impress anyone. Itâs just moving.
I watched a woman hand over a plastic bag of food at a small street stall. No ceremony. Quick exchange. Efficient. Routine perfected through repetition.
This is what I mean when I say Bangkok wakes up slowly but deliberately. It doesnât explode into the day. It slides into it.
And then the mural behind the glass. Serendipitous reflection explosion đ„.
A small boat with a few people sitting quietly. High-rises in the distance. Leaves turning yellow above the surface. The city doesnât erase. It builds next to it.
This man is transporting workers and students across the river so that they can get to work and school on the other side. Chatuchak Market before it explodes into its daily chaos.
Today I walked Bond Street in Nonthaburi again. Half-built towers. Stairwells open. Electrical lines hanging. The kind of buildings that are in-between; not abandoned, not alive yet.
And the graffiti.
The walls are getting hit while theyâre still unfinished. Tags on bare cement. Quick spray jobs on columns that will absolutely be painted over in a few months. Itâs not elaborate murals; more like presence. âI was here before this became something else.â
Hereâs what Iâve noticed living in Thailand: space here isnât neutral. Itâs conscious. There are spirit houses outside condos, outside 7-Elevens, outside office parks. Offerings. Incense. Garlands. Even construction sites sometimes have their own small shrine tucked near the entrance. Thereâs an awareness that buildings arenât just structures â theyâre inhabited, protected, watched over.
So I have this theory â and Iâll say clearly, this is my observation, not a hard fact.
Writers hit buildings in progress because they know itâs temporary. The wall is unfinished. The paint isnât final. The tag will disappear. Itâs almost like tagging a draft version of the city. No one has spiritually claimed it yet. No tenants. No shrine out front. No blessing ceremony completed. Itâs still in limbo.
But once a building is finished? Once itâs open, occupied, lit up at night? The graffiti drops off dramatically. Especially on places that visibly have shrines or offerings outside. That feels like a boundary. Not just legal â cultural. Spiritual.
Iâve also heard â again, this is just what people have told me â that some writers avoid certain abandoned hotels or houses that have gone into disrepair. Not because they respect the property owner. But because you donât know whatâs lingering there. Did someone die there? Is the space âheavyâ? In Thailand, that question isnât abstract. Itâs real enough to influence behavior.
Whether thatâs universally true or not, I donât know. But walking these sites today, it felt clear: construction zones are fair game because theyâre unfinished, and therefore unclaimed. Once the building settles into its role â once the spirits are invited in and the people move in â it becomes something else.
And personally? Iâm drawn to this stage. I like the graffiti on raw concrete. It feels honest. Temporary city language on temporary surfaces. Itâs the only moment the structure shows its bones and its interruptions at the same time.
Work crews set up makeshift âkitchensâ to make lunch on their breaks
A few months from now, the paint will cover it. The lobby will shine. The shrine will stand outside with fresh marigolds.
The last week of April, melting into the first week of May (today, as I write this, it is 89âąF, feeling like 98âąF with a warning of âexcessive heatâ *31âąC, 37âąC) felt like it shouldâhot, loud, imperfect, and somehow full of small moments that mattered.
In the middle of a bustling, chaotic market, I sat down and drank my first cĂ phĂȘ sữa ÄĂĄ of the week. Not in paper, not takeaway, but in a proper glassâthe way I prefer it. Thereâs something about that glass that says we both understand the arrangement. Iâm not rushing anywhere. Iâm going to sit here, right at your cart, and drink this coffee the way it was meant to be drunk.
Street coffee in Saigon isnât about convenience. Itâs about presence.
Yoghurt coffee feels very Saigon to meâpractical and inventive. Someone looked at coffee and thought, âYes, but what if we made it colder, creamier, sharper?â And somehow it works. The bitterness of strong Vietnamese coffee against the cool tang of yoghurtâit shouldnât, but it absolutely does. It tastes like adaptation. Like a city constantly reinventing itself without losing its center. I still prefer Coconut Coffee as my specialty coffee here.
In that same alley, the following day, I had my first negative vibe of my entire tenure so far.
I was sitting, drinking, taking a few exterior photos of the space around meânot bothering anyoneâand the coffee lady gave me that unmistakable energy. You know the one. Suspicion mixed with disapproval, served without words. She didnât approve of my picture-taking, not understanding that it was nothing intrusive, just exterior. If she only understood the series Iâve been doing, đ.
She proceeded to stand in front of me and overtly take a photo of me, as though my mugshot would go up on her wall.
My first reaction was internal: Be zen. Donât let her strange behavior affect your day.
And honestly, it became a beautiful little meditation. I reminded myself: âyou are healthy, you are fortunate enough to be sitting in an alley in Saigon drinking coffeeâlet it go.â So I did. I even found myself grateful to her for the lesson. đââïž
As for having my photo taken? I donât mind at all. Daily life gets photographed here constantly. We are all part of someone elseâs background story. Just a weird experience.
Met a lovely married couple sitting next to me today and ended up being gifted something Iâd never tried before â BĂĄnh TrĂĄng Káșčo MáșĄch Nha đ„„đŻ
A light rice cake topped with coconut shavings and a sticky, sweet malt syrup drizzle⊠simple and absolutely delicious.
They told me it was their childhood snack, something they hadnât had in a long time, so today was a little treat for them, too.
Their phone translator helped us talk, and somehow that made it even better â strangers sharing stories, laughter, and food across languages.
For me, travel isnât about the big sights. Itâs a sidewalk table, kind people, and a sweet little rice cake Iâll never forget.
Saigon keeps giving me these moments. â€ïž Forever grateful.
Another reminder came at a corner draped in shade, protecting me from the intense heat already rising, near the intersection of LĂȘ Lai andâŠhonestly, I forgot the cross street, but Iâll find it again because the coffee lady there deserves remembering.
She got a kick out of my Vietnamese. đ
Iâve realized something: if I begin with one or two practiced phrasesâjust enough to show respectâtheyâll happily continue speaking Vietnamese the entire time I sit there. I nod, smile, and understand maybe twenty percent. They think I understand more than I do, but somehow thatâs enough.
And maybe thatâs the point.
Connection first. Perfect language later.
That first âHitâ from a Ca Phe Sua Da before the ice begins to meltâŠone of the things I live for.
She doesnât talk much, which I like. Coffee ladies understand the assignment. They give you space to sit quietly, to read, to write, to simply be. Sometimes she brings an extra cup of tea without a word. That kind of kindness says more than conversation.
