It rained a lot on Saturday night in Hatinh, my hometown. In fact, it poured. The kind of heavy rain that turns roads into rivers and whispers quietly of change. By morning, I learned from the news that many farmers had lost their crops to the unexpected flood. Flooding isn’t typical for this time of year in April, and people weren’t prepared. It felt like another signal of how unpredictable our climate is becoming.
Before my trip, friends had warned me that Hà Tĩnh was unbearably hot, peaking at 36°C. But by the time I arrived, the skies had changed. It rained for two whole days. I welcomed the coolness. But alongside the relief came sadness—for the farmers who suffered losses and for the unpredictable future that lies ahead for communities so closely tied to the land.
A Morning of Noodles and Nostalgia
Despite the somber news, Sunday morning brought a simple joy. I had breakfast with my parents and some of their old friends at a cozy bún chả spot. For those unfamiliar, bún chả is a traditional Hanoi dish—grilled pork served with rice noodles, fresh herbs, and a flavorful dipping sauce. It’s warm, flavorful, and reminds me of the Northern roots of Vietnamese cuisine.
I always love sitting with elders. Their stories stretch across decades. They speak slowly and carry a sense of grounded wisdom that modern life often leaves behind. After breakfast, we made our way to a nearby café for traditional Vietnamese coffee—thick, strong, sweetened with condensed milk. That moment of calm, coffee in hand, surrounded by familiar voices, was one I hadn’t realized I missed.
We started early, around 7 a.m., and by 9 a.m., I was already home and doing some work. But something about that morning stayed with me—perhaps the cool rain, the laughter from breakfast, or the echo of wisdom shared over sips of coffee.
A Lunch Made with Love
Lunchtime brought even more warmth. My mom, as always, cooked with so much care and love. On the table were dishes I adore: sweet and sour shrimp, a hearty chicken soup (a favorite since childhood), a flavorful squid dish, and even some fresh crab. I’ve always had a soft spot for seafood, and my mom knows exactly how to make it comforting.
After lunch, we sat together for a while, chatting and resting before I had to leave. My flight was in the afternoon, so I’d booked a car to take me to the airport—about an hour away. As we drove, the rain continued to fall steadily.
Through the car window, I watched the green fields pass by, wet with rain, sparkling. The road wound past mountains and paddy fields, misty and calm. There’s a unique peace to watching the countryside in the rain—it makes the world feel softer. I put on some music by Jon Hopkins, a musician I’ve loved since my university days. His ambient, cinematic soundscapes matched the mood perfectly.
On the Plane: Clouds, Colors, and Contemplation
After some quiet time at the airport, I boarded the flight back to Ho Chi Minh City. I was lucky to get a window seat. There’s something magical about flying—watching the clouds roll by, seeing the earth from above. As we ascended, the sun broke through the rain clouds, and I felt a wave of gratitude.
Looking out, I saw clouds painted with rainbow hues—red, green, blue, yellow. I’d never seen clouds like that before. It felt like nature was offering a small gift, a reminder of wonder.
Moments like these remind me how small I am in this vast, beautiful world. It’s humbling, in the best way. They also remind me that life is short—and that I want to live mine with more love, more intention, and more reverence for the Earth and the people around me.
I took a short nap and woke up just as we were about to land. From above, Ho Chi Minh City looked golden in the fading light. I messaged my parents as soon as we landed. I already missed them.
A Bittersweet Goodbye
I later learned that my hometown’s airport will undergo renovation for six months. That means I won’t be able to fly home again for a while. The thought stung a little more than I expected.
This weekend—just two short days—gave me something I didn’t realize I needed. A quiet reset. A reminder of where I come from. A reminder of who I love.
Sometimes, amidst the rush of life, we forget the healing power of being home. We forget the value of simply sitting with people we love, eating food that nourishes more than just the body, listening to stories that shape how we see the world.
What the Rain Taught Me
The rain this weekend brought a mix of feelings. It was unexpected. It was destructive for some. And yet, for me, it was also gentle, calming, and deeply reflective.
It made me think about climate change—not as a distant concept, but as something personal, affecting my hometown, my people. It made me think about the beauty of our planet—the colors of the clouds, the lush green fields, the sound of rain hitting the window. And it made me think about how I want to live.
I want to live with gratitude.
I want to live with purpose.
I want to take care of my planet and the people I love.
Because life is short. And moments like this—rainy weekends, shared meals, rainbow clouds—are too precious to take for granted.