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'Kitsungi' is a centuries-old art form of repairing broken pottery with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. It's unusual to reminisce about my experience in Vietnam, while I begin this story with a Japanese expression. Even so, I couldn't think of a better way to describe the Vietnamese people as vessels of precious scars, which, despite all odds, have mended their hearts and found beauty and hope during harrowing times. Bao Khanh Lane is in the Old Quarter of Hà Nội, a bustling narrow street near the famous Hoàn Kiếm Lake. At first glance, I couldn't help but notice the archipelago of people who, unbeknown to me, for one reason or another, seemed free, unburdened, if not, happily consumed by daily life. The tumultuous street laughter, the perfumed mist of mint, chili, and gasoline, struck me immediately. Then and there, I fell into a slow-moving state of blissful amnesia. The only bit of self remaining at that moment was my footsteps and my unrestful soul – which would eventually lead me to Mai and Hien. Mai, to see. I'd noticed I had forgotten my travel adapter at the visa counter at Noi Bai airport. I immediately asked the concierge for the nearest Circle K, a popular convenience store in Vietnam. A few hand gestures here and a couple of words there, I found myself on the back of a scooter with my arms around a mysterious Vietnamese lady named Mai. She navigated through the narrow streets, the boulevards, and maze of stalls, as though she had choreographed her own secret map. As it often does, once my world fills with sensory overload, I turn to the majestic sounds of opera. This time, Luciano Pavarotti's La Donna È Mobile melody played in my mind, which in English translates to the woman is fickle – and she was. Mai took swift, sudden turns, which slowly uncovered the charming trails of Hà Nội. Instantaneously, I began to take snapshots with my mind, I gazed from one place to another, and no matter where my gaze landed, I saw gold. At that moment, it became clear to me that in Vietnam, broken objects are not something to hide but to display with pride. This notion seeped down to the tarnished French architecture, the cracks in the buildings, the stained streets, and the erosions in the sky-blue ceramic bowls. Brokenness, it seemed, was the gateway to hope. Hien, to be. My insatiable quest for overly romantic ideals and heart-racing ventures led me to a nearby travel agency nestled between Hanoi's abundant art galleries and restaurants. Naturally, I was looking for adventure. Instead, by luck, I found Hien. Hien was a young man who moved from his rural village to work as a travel consultant in the city. He had a beautiful round face, sharp eyes, and a gentle spirit. I wanted to know his story. Where was he from? Who were his family? How did he spend his days? He came from Lệ Thủy village, 500km south of Hà Nội. His family worked in agriculture, mainly in the rice fields. Time went by, and we spoke about the remnants of war, ancestral altars, existentialism, family, money, and food - he even let me in on a few real southern-style Phở secrets. Simple cooking, he said, reminded him of overcoming trials and tribulations. Moments later, as I headed back to my hotel, he said, "nhớ nhìn cuộc sống đơn giản," which meant "remember to look at life simply." I'll never forget his stoic, calm-natured manner– and once again, I saw gold. It was clear that people and places are incessantly connected, and nowhere was this more evident than in Vietnam. Mai and Hien's parallel lives reminded me of Graham Greene's words, "You could be forgiven for thinking there was no war; that the gunshots were fireworks; that only pleasure matters. And then, something happens, as you knew it would. And nothing can ever be the same again." The Vietnamese people, as they've always done, mended their hearts with gold. And gold was hope.