Today, I returned to an old café—Tiny’s Café on Nguyen Tri Phuong Street. It’s the place where Nhan and I used to sit together, again and again, discussing how to open an art class. More than three years have passed, and the café remains unchanged. And somehow, it still feels familiar.

That’s the origin of Hong Xiem.

Back then, Nhan and I sat down to come up with a name. Nhan said, “Pick a fruit.” And then he started rattling off a list—apples, apricots, persimmons, sapodilla…

“Yeah, Hong Xiem sounds good. It has that tipsy feel—just the right kind of daze to stir love and longing in the heart.”

Later on, Nhan left. He had bigger dreams. But he still visited every weekend, looking at what we had built together in that most difficult time. We weren’t making any profit back then. I was still stretching my hand to ask my mom for monthly allowance. Only close friends came to learn.

If you do something only for money or prestige, it probably won’t become the guiding knight of your faith—for the foggy journey that is life.

Less than a year after founding Hong Xiem, I stopped teaching and moved to Sai Gon to practice law—the thing I’d studied for four years in college. And now I have to tell you about my boss, Bảo Anh.

The story’s a strange one. In my third year of college, I did a scientific research project with Giang and Viet Anh, under the guidance of Mr Ha. It was a fun experience. We won a national prize and got to travel to many places together. But more importantly, while gathering materials, I stumbled upon an article by Bao Anh. It was his master’s thesis—and I was instantly pulled in by the clarity of his writing and the tightness of his arguments. The piece stood out like a light, so different from others writing on the same topic. I even Googled his name and stalked him for days. Turned out he’d written plenty more, on various themes—often about the human condition. His prose was lyrical, a bit melancholic, yet full of heroic spirit.

And I thought, “So it’s possible to be a brilliant lawyer and still dream about beautiful things.”

I emailed him, asking if I could work part-time at his firm. He was in Sai Gon. We did a video interview, and he accepted me. Thinking back now, it was a strange interview. He didn’t care about my GPA or academic achievements. He asked me odd questions to test my thinking, like: “Foreign Trade students often think of themselves as elite—what do you think about that?”

I started working at the Ha Noi branch. Later, I asked to transfer to Sai Gon. I wanted more challenges, more independence—and truthfully, I needed a reason to break up with my ex. The office was small, but the workload was massive. The temperature was always kept at 18 degrees Celsius to keep everyone sharp. Bao Anh—the boss I admired and had longed to meet—turned out to be cold, stern, and kept an intimidating distance from his staff. If anyone messed up, he’d scold them like a storm, in this sharp-edged, very Northern, market-style kind of way. No one dared joke with him. He looked more like a Hong Kong gangster than someone who wrote lyrical essays about soldiers far from home.

But it turned out he had to be that way. The office was like a hospital for VIPs with urgent, life-threatening legal problems. If a VIP had a severe case, they’d bring it here—and he’d fix it. The pressure was immense. One small misstep could ruin everything.

Bao Anh trained his staff rigorously. He held long video calls connecting branches across the country to criticize and analyze mistakes. Sometimes, the office would fall into a heavy silence between his yelling—so oppressive that even a junior staffer like me felt suffocated.

After a few months, I felt like I didn’t quite belong. The system was like a giant wheel—powerful, unstoppable. Inside it, talented, brilliant people moved furiously. I should’ve been grateful for the opportunity. But I was tired. I couldn’t sleep well. Every night, I sat hugging my knees, copying Tang poems by Li Bai and Du Fu in a pitch-dark room lit by a single flickering candle. “Just to feel alive,” I thought. “Otherwise everything feels so numb.” But the next morning, I’d be exhausted, foggy-headed in the office, even after downing two cups of coffee a day.

Later, Bao Anh told me he thought I was clubbing and partying all night. But no, boss, it was just that my spirit was too weak.

So I quit. He called me in and talked for four hours straight—mostly him talking, analyzing everything, skipping lunch. From work, the conversation drifted to life, to people. He didn’t try to persuade me to stay—he just shared his thoughts. And I realized, “So this man… he longs to talk. On my last day at his firm, he finally revealed a glimpse of his real self.”

I returned to Ha Noi and didn’t want to go back to a law office just yet. I reopened Hong Xiem because so many of my students kept asking. From the first session, the class was full. And I felt reborn after all those high-tension training sessions at my old job. My lessons became sharper, more concise, more informative. I researched better. I understood my students better. And I indefinitely postponed my old dream of becoming a lawyer. I thought, well, if it’s the right path, then let’s go with it.

Bao Anh came to visit me twice, checking out my little art class—back when it was perched on the rooftop of an old homestay, rented at 50.000 vnd an hour. And this time, this was the real Bao Anh: talkative, passionate, discussing metaphysics, astrology, art, literature. Still sharp-tongued as ever. Maybe he just wanted to keep that biting Northern edge after years of surviving the Sai Gon business scene. He said, “Of all the things people fake in life, faking happiness is the hardest. Looks like you’re actually happy.”

I’ve never dared to thank him properly for everything he gave me. I feel embarrassed—I took so much and gave so little back to the firm. But if I’ve built anything of value, a big part of it is thanks to Hong Xiem. And without his training, Hong Xiem would’ve turned out very different.

I’m also grateful to my university. Even if I was never destined to become a lawyer or work in import-export, at least I got to understand a part of how the business world works. Without that knowledge, people might hesitate at every crossroads forever.

Sometimes people spread this self-help mantra: “Just keep trying, work hard, push forward blindly—and success will come.” Oh, please. Life doesn’t work like that. First, you have to ask whether you’re on the right path. If you’re not, life will chew you up and spit you out. Some people get it right from the start, some don’t. You could blame fate—maybe you’re lucky, maybe not. But one fair truth is this: anyone has the right to look back at the path they’re on and make a clear-eyed decision—right now.

“There are eighty-four thousand gateways to the Way,” someone once said. My boss’s path, my teacher’s, my friends’—they’re all gateways to the Way. Some people are far ahead. Some wander or zigzag. For me, this little Hong Xiem class, this pursuit of art—this must be the right path. I don’t know how to explain it—it feels like something beyond ordinary experience. Maybe it’s just what life has given me.

I’m grateful for all the fateful threads that pulled me into the right current. In this current, everything feels as gentle as amniotic fluid. Knowing that, even when storms rage, I’ll keep going with faith.