Nong Khai : The Pause Before Crossing

Sometimes life gives you a waiting room disguised as a border town.

Ours was called Nong Khai — a sleepy stretch of northern Thailand pressed against the Mekong River, where we sat still for a weekend while waiting for a piece of paper that would let our motorbike cross into Laos.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just quiet. And maybe that’s why it mattered.

There’s a temple that sits high above the Mekong, looking out across two countries that feel almost like mirror images of one another.

Climbing that mountain road felt symbolic — the stillness, the sweat, the slow unraveling of thoughts that had nowhere else to be.

When I reached the top, the view wasn’t loud or breathtaking. It was… steady.

Golden spires catching sunlight, the river moving like time itself, monks laughing somewhere behind me. I realized how rarely I stand still long enough to notice what isn’t rushing.

The path below the temple was lined with giant bamboo — the kind that stretches toward the sky like it knows exactly where it’s going.

I stood there for a long time, looking up through the green and gold light, and it hit me how much of my life I’ve spent waiting. For timing, for clarity, for permission, for something to begin.

But standing there, between those bamboo giants, I didn’t feel behind anymore. I just felt present.

Like maybe the pause itself was the point.

That weekend in Nong Khai became a mirror.

We drank iced coffee, watched the river breathe, listened to scooters hum down narrow streets. And somewhere between sunrise and sunset, I stopped treating stillness like punishment.

There’s a mood that comes with waiting — equal parts restlessness and release. It teaches you to notice. To soften. To stop sprinting toward what’s next.

When Monday came and the permit finally cleared, we packed up and rolled toward Laos.

But part of me stayed in Nong Khai — in the sound of temple bells, in the sway of the bamboo, in the gentle reminder that waiting isn’t wasted when you’re awake for it.