dirk ottenheym

I'm up early. Not on purpose. It just happens. Sometime around three I was awake. A deep, full sleep lay behind me, and the need to get up came not from the head but from the body.

At half past four I head out. The promenade stretches before me like an unwritten page. Da Nang is still asleep. No honking, no crowds, no noise. The air is soft, the light not yet there. Just a few mopeds in the distance. Maybe 0.3 on the light scale. I love this moment.

A few people are already moving. Silhouettes walking or already in the water. Gymnastics enthusiasts stretching and reaching. A couple of SUPs being inflated. I'm not the first early bird in Da Nang this morning.

At the temple, where I usually turn around, today I keep going. The pavement changes — new tiles, new colors. Beige, rosé, gray. A new section I've never set foot on. I walk a few more minutes, and suddenly I'm standing before a living scene: fishermen. Boats. Water tanks. Compressors. Men pouring out their catch. It hisses, clatters, drips, calls. I smell the salt, the metal, the early life.

A little further on, she glows: Lady Buddha. Lit from below. She stands quietly above everything, and I stand still, look up at her, and notice the light slowly arriving. The horizon begins to glow.

Then: road cyclists. First one, then two, then groups. They ride up toward Son Tra. Bodies in motion, focused faces. The road belongs to them. No honking, no cars. Just them and the morning gray. I'm a little envious — but the good kind. I walk. They ride. We're all on the move.

Somewhere around half past five, the question rises in me: Coffee? Now? Later? Salted coffee at the stand? Or 3-in-1 in a glass first? An inner guardian speaks up — the voice that watches out when it comes to pleasure. The one that keeps an eye on old patterns. But I'm clear. I decide: 3-in-1 now. Later, at the café, a salted. In dignity.

I return. Shower. Look out the window. Below, the man sets up his stand. Routine. Quiet. Like every day. And I notice: this, too, is part of the morning.

At 7:12 I sit in the café. The premium spot on the leather couch is free. Everything empty. The digital nomads are still sleeping. And me? I sit. With my coffee. With my body. With my morning.

And I write this sentence:

The morning belongs to the athletes. But I'm also here. And that's enough.