I arrived in Germany in early March. It was already spring, yet the cold clung to everything, unwilling to let go.

By sheer luck, it happened to snow that day - my first time ever seeing snow. I stood there, entranced by the soft, delicate flakes drifting down, like the fine drizzle back home just after Tet.

As our car pulled into the residential complex where many Vietnamese lived, I was greeted by a courtyard covered in golden flowers. They looked like daffodils, blooming brightly across a lush green lawn.

The sight struck me - so strange, yet oddly familiar.

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Author Hung Ly in Germany.

Later I learned that this flower only blooms in March, like the snowdrop: pushing through the frost and blooming boldly, a herald of spring.

Just like us - the Vietnamese who strive to survive and rise up in a foreign land, pushing through the cold, the unfamiliar, the hard.

Now, more than 30 years later, whenever I see those yellow blossoms, I’m taken back to my earliest days here.

I was 37 when I moved to Germany - old enough to be resilient, but not too old to feel the sting of disorientation.

Back in Vietnam, aside from a few hard years in the army, I had lived a quiet life - studying, then working at a language and literature institute. I earned little, but life was peaceful.

I was content, not ambitious. I disliked competition or envy. It was a mindset shared by many Hanoians who came of age during the subsidy era: we accepted poverty and hardship, so long as life was calm.

But in this capitalist country, I had to face the real question: how do I survive?

I asked those who had arrived before me.

“Just look around,” they said. “Do what others do. If you’re willing to work, you’ll make money.”

So I looked. And I got scared.

In my area, at train stations, bus stops, outside supermarkets - I saw people selling contraband cigarettes.

It was the most common job back then. Fast, easy money.

Clueless and desperate, I joined a friend and tried selling.

But on my first attempt - still walking down the street, with the cigarettes still tucked under my coat - I got caught by the police and tax agents.

I hadn’t even made a sale.

The goods were confiscated, I lost my investment, got fined, and worst of all - was handed a 90-day suspended sentence.

Though I never spent a day in jail, the suspended sentence caused years of trouble: my residency permit was frozen, my status uncertain, and everything became more expensive and complicated.

At the time, I felt cursed. But looking back, maybe it was a blessing.

Getting caught so early kept me from sinking deeper into the smuggling trade.

So I turned to cooking.

Back then, there was no internet, no smartphones. I didn’t know how to cook professionally.

To learn how to make pho, bun, or stewed beef, I had to use a public payphone to call home. Family members would dictate recipes while I scribbled down notes, watching the meter tick up with every passing second.

A few minutes could cost a lot. It hurt, but I had no choice.

The apartment I rented to sell food had no kitchen or sink. I had to use the shared kitchen in the dormitory.

To avoid disturbing others and make the most of the space, I cooked either before dawn or after everyone was asleep.

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The author opens a food stall in Germany.

Each morning, I’d creep down the dim corridor, its yellow light cold and hospital-like.

I would simmer broth and stew meat as quietly as possible, terrified of waking anyone with the clang of pots.

Sometimes I’d look out the window and see snow covering everything - sky and ground alike. I would miss home terribly.

At night, I’d haul my pots and dishes to the sink and wash everything under freezing water.

Alone in the large, echoey kitchen, surrounded by cookware, I felt small and exhausted.

There were nights I cried quietly while scrubbing.

But selling food in the dormitory began to bear fruit.

Every night, after closing shop, I’d sit down at the table, open my cash box, and count.

One day’s earnings could equal several months of my old salary.

Suddenly, all the fatigue vanished.

I knew I was on the right path.

It was hard, but honest work. It suited my love for cooking.

And though it didn’t bring in as much as selling cigarettes, it was safe.

Eventually, with some savings, I opened a small restaurant on the street, catering to Western customers.

At first, I served Chinese and Thai food.

Later, as Vietnamese cuisine grew in popularity, I switched to pho and bun.

The place got busy, so I opened a second one.

At one point, I had a team of over ten employees.

From there, life gradually stabilized.

I had money saved, supported my family, and we traveled once or twice a year - if not back to Vietnam, then across Europe.

We weren’t rich, but we were comfortable and peaceful.

Compared to those more fortunate, we were modest. But compared to many others, we were lucky.

Coming to a strange land in my late 30s - with no skills, poor language, no connections - yet managing to build a life like this, I suppose you could call that a success.

A kind of success that smells of early morning bone broth, the sound of midnight dishwashing, dim yellow corridor lights, and the silent gold of daffodils on that first day I arrived in Germany.

Hung Ly