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 ศาลพระภูมิ, 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.
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 they’re still unfinished. Tags on bare cement. Quick spray jobs on columns that will absolutely be painted over in a few months. It’s not elaborate murals; more like presence. “I was here before this became something else.”
Here’s what I’ve noticed living in Thailand: space here isn’t neutral. It’s 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. There’s an awareness that buildings aren’t just structures — they’re inhabited, protected, watched over.
So I have this theory — and I’ll say clearly, this is my observation, not a hard fact.
Writers hit buildings in progress because they know it’s temporary. The wall is unfinished. The paint isn’t final. The tag will disappear. It’s 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. It’s still in limbo.
But once a building is finished? Once it’s 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 — cultural. Spiritual.
I’ve also heard — again, this is just what people have told me — that some writers avoid certain abandoned hotels or houses that have gone into disrepair. Not because they respect the property owner. But because you don’t know what’s lingering there. Did someone die there? Is the space “heavy”? In Thailand, that question isn’t abstract. It’s real enough to influence behavior.
Whether that’s universally true or not, I don’t know. But walking these sites today, it felt clear: construction zones are fair game because they’re unfinished, and therefore unclaimed. Once the building settles into its role — once the spirits are invited in and the people move in — it becomes something else.
And personally? I’m drawn to this stage. I like the graffiti on raw concrete. It feels honest. Temporary city language on temporary surfaces. It’s the only moment the structure shows its bones and its interruptions at the same time.
Work crews set up makeshift ‘kitchens’ 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 89•F, feeling like 98•F with a warning of “excessive heat” *31•C, 37•C) felt like it should—hot, 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 cà phê sữa đá of the week. Not in paper, not takeaway, but in a proper glass—the way I prefer it. There’s something about that glass that says we both understand the arrangement. I’m not rushing anywhere. I’m going to sit here, right at your cart, and drink this coffee the way it was meant to be drunk.
Street coffee in Saigon isn’t about convenience. It’s about presence.
Yoghurt Coffee
One of my favorite stops this week was for yoghurt coffee—cà phê sữa chua—down Phạm Ngũ Lão alley. That one always carries nostalgia for me because I spent so much time in that alley over twenty years ago at the Bread and Butter Bar. Walking back there now feels like stepping into an older version of myself.
Yoghurt coffee feels very Saigon to me—practical and inventive. Someone looked at coffee and thought, “Yes, but what if we made it colder, creamier, sharper?” And somehow it works. The bitterness of strong Vietnamese coffee against the cool tang of yoghurt—it shouldn’t, 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 me—not bothering anyone—and the coffee lady gave me that unmistakable energy. You know the one. Suspicion mixed with disapproval, served without words. She didn’t approve of my picture-taking, not understanding that it was nothing intrusive, just exterior. If she only understood the series I’ve been doing, 😆.
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. Don’t let her strange behavior affect your day.
And honestly, it became a beautiful little meditation. I reminded myself: “you are healthy, you are fortunate enough to be sitting in an alley in Saigon drinking coffee—let it go.” So I did. I even found myself grateful to her for the lesson. 🙇♀️
As for having my photo taken? I don’t mind at all. Daily life gets photographed here constantly. We are all part of someone else’s background story. Just a weird experience.
Cô Ba Thì CaféWriting so much this week
Met a lovely married couple sitting next to me today and ended up being gifted something I’d never tried before — Bánh Tráng Kẹo Mạch Nha 🥥🍯
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 hadn’t 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 — strangers sharing stories, laughter, and food across languages.
For me, travel isn’t about the big sights. It’s a sidewalk table, kind people, and a sweet little rice cake I’ll never forget.
Saigon keeps giving me these moments. ❤️ Forever grateful.
Another reminder came at a corner draped in shade, protecting me from the intense heat already rising, near the intersection of Lê Lai and…honestly, I forgot the cross street, but I’ll find it again because the coffee lady there deserves remembering.
She got a kick out of my Vietnamese. 😆
I’ve realized something: if I begin with one or two practiced phrases—just enough to show respect—they’ll 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 that’s enough.
And maybe that’s the point.
Connection first. Perfect language later.
That first “Hit” from a Ca Phe Sua Da before the ice begins to melt…one of the things I live for.
She doesn’t 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.
Reunification Day brought me to TABAC on Phạm Ngũ Lão for a straight black cà phê đen đá and some quiet writing. Saigon during holidays has its own rhythm—reflective, but still moving.
Saigon moves in its own way. I’m learning to be comfortable moving in my own way. The daily lessons from the coffee help…
This wall says kindergarten and shit in the same breath. A dog pees on a heart/diamond. A body slips downward. Numbers float without explanation. Nothing here is subtle—and that’s the point. Thai street art loves childlike language when it wants to insult power. Not poetic. Not symbolic. Blunt. Bodily. Embarrassing. The vocabulary of early childhood turned into a verdict on what we’re taught from the start. If innocence is the story institutions tell themselves, this wall replies with reality: what’s labeled pure is already treated like waste. Bangkok doesn’t dress critique up. It hands it back to you exactly as it was given— crude, public, unavoidable. 🔴 Red text อนุบาล Translation: Kindergarten This word is very clear and standard Thai. It refers specifically to pre-school / early childhood education. ⸻ 🔵 Blue text ขี้ ขี้ Translation: Poop, poop (or more naturally: “pooping” / “shit”, repeated for emphasis)
Some people build their lives by accumulating—addresses, routines, long-term plans that stretch neatly into the future. Mine has moved differently. Sideways. Forward. Then somewhere unexpected.
I’ve spent years crossing borders, resetting calendars, learning the rhythm of new cities just long enough to feel them under my skin. I’ve learned how to arrive without unpacking everything. How to be present without pretending permanence is required.
The Old City
Beginnings used to feel temporary to me—something to get through on the way to “real life.” Somewhere along the way, I realized this is my real life.
Beginnings are sharp. They ask questions. They strip you of assumptions. They don’t let you hide behind habit. Every new place demands attention: How do people move here? Where does the day slow down? What matters?
Following the “Way.”
Living this way has taught me to stay light, curious, unfinished. I don’t measure time by how long I stay anymore, but by how awake I am while I’m there.
These photos aren’t souvenirs. They’re markers of presence. Proof that I showed up, looked closely, and let a place change me—even briefly.
Hang on loosely… – Chao Phraya River Boat
I don’t know where I’ll be next. I rarely do. But I trust beginnings now. I trust the open space before things are defined.
Some lives are about continuity.
Mine has been about permission.
Permission to start again.
Permission to live between chapters.
Permission to stay in motion without apology.
I’ve stopped waiting for the moment when things finally feel settled.
