I landed in Saigon at the end of June 2025 and left around the end of July — one complete month, not a weekend raid. Remote contract in my bag, reunion on the calendar, monsoon season opening overhead like a curtain. This was the Vietnam chapter that mattered most that year: not the October coast I would meet later, but the city where I lived inside the rain — and inside a version of myself I can only call thằng điên in hindsight: the shameless one, the raw one, not yet rebuilt.
Diary of a thằng điên
In Vietnamese a thằng điên is not a clinical case — it is the guy on the corner who laughs too loud, eats at wrong hours, chases noodles at midnight, argues God on plastic stools, rides pillion without dignity, shows up to standups with wet hair and no apology. I was him for thirty-one days. Not performative chaos — honest chaos. Career break without costume. Reunion without script. Monsoon as accomplice.
I did not curate the month for LinkedIn. I ate standing in alley rain. I let Malvin drag me to a fourth bowl when the third was already obscene. I let Master Dong's bike teach me that traffic is theology. I skipped the polished nomad pose — no aesthetic desk, no “morning routine” reel — just hotel fan, phở steam, and a body that had decided shame was too expensive for a July in Saigon.
Wild, in the small ways expatriates allow themselves when no one from home is watching: spontaneous xe ôm, opera-house nights still smelling of fish sauce, Quan Âm incense on a Tuesday because grief and gratitude share a drawer. Raw, because the breakup residue and the Guan Yin dream and the Myanmar boy still inside me were all unfiltered, spoken aloud to friends who did not need me to be impressive.
This essay is that diary — not sanitized. Someone was going to transform later; Bali and the long arc would refine what Saigon cracked open. But in June and July I was still the mad notebook version: thằng điên, writing in rain, not asking permission.
Monsoon and banh mi mornings
July rains were not poetic; they were operational. Streets became rivers by 3 p.m.; sandals never dried; you learned which awning meant shelter and which meant dripping edge. Mornings after downpour were banh mi mornings — baguette crackle, pâté and pickles at stalls that already knew your nod, coffee đá while the sky still threatened. Some days com tam replaced banh mi: broken rice, grilled pork, egg sun-side up, fish sauce sharp enough to wake the brain before standup.
I ate standing. I ate on plastic stools. I ate between merge requests. That rhythm — cheap plate, full calendar — was the month in miniature. The thằng điên eats like he has nothing to prove and everything to burn off.
Phở shops as office
Remote work in Saigon does not always mean a WeWork. It often means a corner phở shop at 10 a.m., steam lifting off broth, laptop angled away from splatter, earbuds in for a ceremony held in another time zone. The aunties refilled broth without fuss; I refilled tickets without drama. Phở as conference room is underrated: warm, anonymous, forgiving of long silences while someone else shares their screen.
Afternoons were for deeper focus — hotel desk, fan high, curtains drawn against heat. Evenings back to the street. The hybrid was never 50/50; it was whatever the rain allowed.
Motorbike routes with Master Dong
Master Dong did not only talk over tea. He rode — and I rode pillion through District 3 and beyond, helmet tight, his hand signalling left through traffic that reads like chaos if you have not learned its grammar. He showed me how a city teaches patience: merge without drama, honk without anger, arrive without proving anything.
Between intersections we talked about discipline, the career break that still ships code, the Guan Yin dream I carried from January without needing to win arguments about it. He said faith is maintenance, not fireworks. I believed him more when the bike was moving.
Malvin: noodles, yogurt, and Christianity on the road
Malvin was the other pole — younger weather, louder laugh, gospel and doubt debated across noodle hunts that never found a single best shop, only a best night. We rode for bún bò, for hủ tiếu, for places with no English menu and perfect portion size. Roadside yogurt drinks — yaourt, cold bottle, sweet against heat — became our communion between topics: Christianity, travel, pride, the roads we had taken from Myanmar to here.
Nothing was settled. Everything was companionable. That was the reunion: not agreement, but presence on the same plastic chairs, same traffic roar, same God argued gently while rain planned its return. Two thằng điên adjacent — shameless in appetite, raw in confession.
Opera House nights and things on the road
Weekends earned architecture. Saigon Opera House at night — Municipal Theatre glowing cream and gold, scooters orbiting, tourists photographing what locals pass daily. Nguyen Hue walking street, Book Street, the cathedral square quiet after rain. I was a worker-tourist: plausible on the pavement because I had been there all week, not parachuting for a photo.
Things on the road accumulated: a poncho bought in panic, a motorbike taxi when legs refused, a Quan Âm visit with incense and Google Translate mercy, Guan Yin named beside the goddess from the dream. Faith without proof, but with practice.
End of July
By the last week of July the month had done its work. Bags packed dry between showers, flights booked toward August Bali, friendships logged like successful deploys. Saigon closed wet and complete — Master Dong's routes, Malvin's yogurt stops, phở shops that witnessed standups, banh mi that witnessed mornings.
I left the city still remote-employed, still on break — but not the same person who landed. The thằng điên diary closes here: shameless enough to need the rain, raw enough to admit it, wild enough to think Bali might finish what Saigon started. Transformation was not July's job. July was the crack. The rain did not ask me to stay. It only asked me to respect it, and I did — soaked through, laughing, unready, honest.