SOLO in Vietnam Day 14: The Last Recepi Of The Year

 

31st Dec 2025

New Year’s Eve carries a heavy weight. We are conditioned to think it needs to be loud, momentous, and shared with a crowd. But in Hoi An, on the final day of 2025, I decided to celebrate with a practical kind of magic: a cooking class.

I didn't book it because of a burning passion for culinary arts. I booked it because I am a pragmatist. For one price, I got a market tour, a coconut boat ride, a meal, and—crucially—company. It was a calculated value for a solo traveler.

The Coconut Boat and the Solo Tax The morning began at 9 AM in the market. Our guide taught us how to judge the freshness of vegetables, a skill I will likely forget but felt important in the moment. Then, we moved to the famous coconut boat village.

Being the only solo traveler in a sea of couples usually stings, but today it had its perks. I got an entire round boat to myself. I was spun through the palm-lined canals by an elderly man who handled the boat with the grace of someone who has lived on the water his whole life.

The downside of solitude, however, is the photography. My boatman was a master of the paddle, not the iPhone. He couldn't frame a shot to save his life. But travel has a way of balancing the scales. The other tourists in the group saw me alone, snapped photos of me spinning in my basket, and AirDropped them to me later. I did the same for them. We were a temporary tribe of strangers, documenting each other’s joy.

The Sugar Incident Back in the kitchen, I learned a lesson in humility. The chef gave us a simple ratio for the sauce: One tablespoon of sugar to two tablespoons of fish sauce. I looked at the spoon. I thought about my health. I thought, “I know better.” I quietly reduced the sugar. The result? My sauce lacked the punch, the balance, the soul of the original. It tasted like hesitation. Lesson learned: Don't argue with the chef. Sometimes, the recipe exists for a reason. You have to trust the process before you can improvise.

As we finished, discussing the aesthetics of the giant cooking chopsticks we used, the chef surprised us. He gifted each of us a pair. It was a serendipitous little wink from the universe—I had just admired them, and now they were mine.

The Lantern Release The evening brought the ritual I had been waiting for. My homestay owner had arranged a private lantern boat for me at 6:30 PM. It was cheaper than the tours online, and felt more personal.

An older auntie fetched me and led me to the riverbank. The boat was small, strung with just a few lanterns, piloted by an older man. It wasn't the flashy, neon-lit tourist barges cruising the center; it was quiet. The auntie offered to take my picture. Click. Blurry. Click. Dark. Click. Trash bin. I sighed. The curse of the bad photo struck again.

We drifted to the middle of the river. The boatman lit two paper lanterns for me. The flame caught, illuminating the thin paper from within. I held them in my hands, feeling the heat. I didn't worry about the photo this time. I closed my eyes. I had two wishes, but they carried the same intention. I set them onto the black water and watched them drift away, joining the thousands of other lights bobbing toward the sea. "I release what I could not keep. I keep what belongs to me. May peace follow me wherever I am."

The Banana Pancake Countdown I ended the year in the most backpacker way possible: at the Night Market, ready to be scammed. I bargained for souvenirs, knowing I was probably overpaying but enjoying the game. I bought a banana pancake with peanut butter—my final snack of 2025—and walked back through the crowded streets.

I stopped at a cafe filled with books, a cozy refuge from the noise. Sitting there, surrounded by stories, the familiar anxiety crept in. I counted my remaining VND. I mentally converted my Ringgit. The money was getting tight.

But I didn't let it ruin the night. I didn't go to the Old Town for the fireworks. I didn't push through the sweaty crowds to count down the seconds. instead, I went back to my homestay. I lay in bed, listening to the distant booms of the fireworks and the cheering of the city. I was alone, but I wasn't lonely. 2025 ended not with a bang, but with a quiet, satisfied exhale.

Reflection: The Recipe for Letting Go

What I Learned: Today was about Surrender.

• In the kitchen, I tried to control the outcome (less sugar) and spoiled the sauce.

• On the boat, I couldn't control the photos, so I had to rely on strangers.

• On the river, I released the lanterns, literally letting go of the light into the dark.

The Green Flag:

• Adaptability: I didn't get the "perfect" photos of the lantern moment, and I didn't get the perfect sauce. But I accepted both with grace. I am learning that the memory is more important than the evidence.

The Red Flag:

• The "I Know Better" Syndrome: My instinct to change the recipe in the cooking class is the same instinct that makes me stubborn in life. I need to learn to follow the guidance of those who know more than me, instead of assuming my way is safer.

The Wish: As I move into 2026, I want to carry the spirit of those lanterns. I want to stop clutching so tightly to things (money, control, the past) and trust that what belongs to me will stay, and what drifts away was meant to go.

Happy New Year.

Date: 31st Dec 2025 [ Hoi An ]

SOLO in Vietnam Day 13: Deja Vu on Two Rusty Wheels

 

30th Dec 2025

​I arrived in the ancient city at 7:00 AM, expecting the shock of the new. Instead, I stepped into a mirror.

​The Grab car couldn't navigate the narrow alleyways of my homestay, so I walked the last five minutes. The morning air was crisp, and my welcome committee was waiting: a guard dog who announced my arrival with a sharp bark, and an owner who waved me in like family. Since I couldn't check in until noon, I dropped my bags and stepped out to greet the city.

​That’s when the glitch in the matrix happened.

I looked at the yellow heritage buildings with their tiled roofs. Am I in Penang?

I walked by the riverside, watching the boats bob in the water. Is this Semporna?

I wandered into the bustling market, smelling the wet pavement and fresh greens. Am I back in my hometown?

​Hoi An feels like a remix of my life. It is a mash-up of every place I have ever loved. The only reminders that I was actually in Vietnam were the stacks of metal coffee filters and the piles of purple perilla leaves for sale. Everything else felt like a memory I hadn't lived yet.

​The Pâté Betrayal

Hunger broke the spell. I grabbed a Banh Mi and a black coffee, expecting magic.

I got disappointment.

They used beef pâté. It was heavy and gamey. I am a pork pâté girl—I need that savory, fatty hit. I chewed with regret. Note to self: Ask before you bite.

​But the afternoon offered redemption.

I spotted a street stall swarmed by locals—the universal sign of good food. I pulled up a plastic stool and ordered a bowl of noodle soup with special chewy noodles and pork. 45,000 VND. One sip of the rich, clear broth, and the beef pâté tragedy was forgiven. It was cheap, honest, and delicious.

​The Buffalo and The Leg Workout

After checking in, I borrowed the owner’s bicycle.

"Bicycle" is a generous word. It was a relic of a bygone era, rattling and groaning with every rotation. The roads were narrow, and pedaling required a full athletic effort.

But I pushed the rusty machine out toward the edge of town, and suddenly, the heritage buildings vanished.

I was in the paddy fields.

​I watched a water buffalo grazing lazily in the mud. I watched farmers bent over the green stalks. It was a scene straight out of my Kampung (village). It was difficult to pedal, but easy to breathe. Watching the slow rhythm of the farm, I felt a deep sense of peace settle over me.

​The Wardrobe Malfunction

I ended the day with a mission: find white pants to match my pink Ao Dai. I found a pair for 150,000 VND and walked back to the homestay feeling triumphant.

I tried them on.

They didn't fit.

I sighed, looking at the fabric that refused to cooperate. I went to bed early, resting my legs and plotting my return to the shop tomorrow.

​Reflection: The World is a Mirror

​We travel to see how the world is different. We want to see strange architecture, hear foreign languages, and taste exotic foods.

​But today, Hoi An taught me that the most powerful moments are often the ones that feel familiar.

Seeing the heritage walls didn't make me feel far away; it made me feel grounded. Seeing the buffalo in the field reminded me that whether it’s a paddy field in Sabah or a paddy field in Vietnam, the rhythm of life is the same. The earth is worked, the food is cooked, and the neighbors wave you in.

​The world is not a collection of strangers. It’s just one big Kampung spread out over different borders. And sometimes, you have to ride a rusty bicycle to realize how small it really is.

Date : 30th Dec 2025 [Hoi An]

SOLO in Vietnam Day 12 : The Styrofoam Saint & The Spaceship

 

29th Dec 2025

​There is a specific kind of heartbreak that belongs only to travelers: Finding the perfect restaurant on your very last day.

​I checked out at 10:00 AM, intending to be loyal. For three days, I have eaten noodle soup at the same spot. I was a regular. I was committed. But wandering aimlessly to kill time, I saw it—a shop right around the corner serving the same soup, at the same price, but with a mountain of fresh vegetables.

I stood there, staring at the greens, feeling a pang of betrayal. If I had found this place on Day 1, I would be 50% noodle and 50% healthy vitamin by now.

Lesson learned: Loyalty is noble, but in travel (and maybe in love), exploring is better.

​The Man with the Extra Rice

I spent my final hours in Da Lat in "lazy mode" at the bus station, nursing one last Salted Coffee—my farewell toast to the city. I sat there, typing on my phone, watching the world go by, wearing my invisible "Tourist Shield." You know the one. It’s that armor we wear that says, Don't scam me. Don't talk to me. I know what you want.

​And then, Da Lat dismantled my shield with a styrofoam box.

​A local man sat at the next table, digging into a lunch that looked suspiciously like the "Economy Rice" (Nasi Campur) we have back home in Malaysia. A wave of nostalgia hit me. I dropped the cool tourist act and leaned over.

"That looks amazing," I said. "Where did you get it?"

He looked up, surprised. He told me the shop was a kilometer away. But then—and this melted me—he pointed to a second, unopened packet on his table.

"I have extra," he said. "You want? Take it. No pay."

​He thought I was hungry.

He didn't know me. He didn't want my money. He just saw a human asking about food, and his instinct was: Let me feed you.

I politely declined—I was full of regret-noodles—but the moment stuck with me. Two days ago, a woman at the church offered me her food. Today, this man.

I came here looking for views, but I found a different truth: The world is not trying to scam you. Mostly, it’s just trying to feed you.

​The Capsule Hotel on Wheels

At 6:30 PM, the adventure shifted gears.

I had heard the horror stories about Vietnamese sleeper buses—the smell of strangers' feet, the cramped limbs, the chaos. So, I paid extra for the "22-Cabin Private Sleeper."

Best. Money. Spent.

​Stepping onto the Futa bus wasn't like boarding public transport; it was like entering a spaceship. My cabin was decked out in orange and grey leather. It had a TV, a USB charger, a thick blanket, and enough room to stretch my legs fully. I zipped the curtain shut. I was no longer on a bus; I was in a private cocoon, hurtling through the night.

​The Spaghetti Road

As we left the city lights, the road turned into dropped spaghetti. We had hit the famous Khanh Le Pass.

I watched the GPS map on my phone. The line twisted and turned like a snake. Outside, it was pitch black. Inside, I was gently jostled side to side, a baby being rocked by gravity.

Deep sleep was impossible—the movement kept me in a half-dreaming state—but it was peaceful. Just me, my music, and the dark world blurring past.

​Reflection: The Art of the Unclenched Jaw

​There is a specific anxiety that comes with mountain roads at night. You feel the bus tilt. You know there is a cliff on one side and a rock wall on the other, and you can see absolutely nothing.

​In my normal life, I am the CEO of Control. I want to know the plan, the route, and the outcome.

But tonight, lying horizontal in my leather capsule, I realized that my anxiety was useless. My gripping the handrail wouldn't help the bus steer. My worrying wouldn't clear the fog.

The driver does this route every night. He knows every pothole and every hairpin turn on the Khanh Le Pass. He is the professional; I am just the cargo.

​So, somewhere in the dark between Da Lat and the coast, I made a choice. I unclenched my jaw. I loosened my grip.

I learned that sometimes, the safest thing you can do is close your eyes and let someone else drive.

Date: 29th Dec 2025 [Transit Dalat - Hoi An]

SOLO in Vietnam Day 11: The Art Of Dissolving

 

28th Dec 2025

​There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from doing absolutely nothing for eight hours. It is a heavy, boneless feeling, where your limbs feel like jelly and your mind feels like a blank sheet of paper.

​That is how I spent my birthday: Dissolving.

​Most birthdays demand noise. They ask for cake, candles, and the forced laughter of a crowd. But this year, I gifted myself the opposite. I arrived at Suoi May Onsen before 10:00 AM, checking my shoes and my stress at the door. I had nothing to lose and everything to heal.

​For the next eight hours, I was not a traveler, a daughter, or a tourist. I was just a body in water.

I drifted through fourteen different mineral baths, letting the heat soak into bones that had grown weary from climbing Da Lat’s hills. I sat in the steam room, inhaling the scent of crushed herbs, sweating out the cold mountain air. I ate lunch in silence, staring at the pine trees, feeling a luxury I rarely allow myself: the luxury of being completely alone.

​By 4:00 PM, after massages, facials, and hair washes, I walked out feeling physically perfect. My skin was glowing. My muscles were loose. I was ready for a celebratory dinner.

​But the universe had other plans.

​The Divine Cancellation

The church lady I met yesterday—the one who offered me the warmth of a home-cooked meal—texted to reschedule. I missed the message. By the time I saw it, the timing was dead. We canceled.

A younger me would have felt rejected. Eating alone on my birthday?

But the me who turned a year older today just smiled. It felt like a divine nudge. Not tonight, the universe seemed to say. Tonight is not for small talk. Tonight is for the truth.

​The Ambush in the Pew

I grabbed a quick dinner and walked to Thanh Tam Church for the 7:00 PM English Mass. I sat in the pew, physically light from the spa, ready to offer a polite prayer of thanks for my life.

​But God didn't want my politeness. He wanted my tears.

​The reading was about the Holy Family. Then, the choir began to sing. The lyrics weren't about birthdays or celebrations; they were about parents. They sang about sacrifice, about the weight of raising a child, about the silent, breaking labor of love.

​The melody bypassed my brain and went straight to my throat.

I sat there, surrounded by strangers, and felt a sudden, crushing wave of guilt.

I have always wanted the best for my parents. I work hard. I try to be a "good daughter." But sitting in that church in Vietnam, thousands of miles from home, the truth whispered to me:

I don't know how to love them.

​Not really. Not in the way they need.

Like so many of us, I am trapped in the "Asian Silence"—that awkward cultural box where love is felt deeply but never spoken. I want to hug them, but I freeze. I want to say "I love you," but I buy them things instead. I use money as a language because words feel too dangerous.

​I walked out of the church trembling. My body had been pampered for eight hours, but my soul had just been stripped bare.

​I ended the night with a cup of coffee and light xiao mai (shu mai)—my comfort food. I sat in my hotel room, packing my bags for Hoi An, checking my pedometer.

13,450 steps.

Even on the day I promised to rest, I kept moving. Perhaps I am running away from the silence. Or perhaps, I am finally walking toward it.

​Reflection: The Labor Day

​We spend our birthdays waiting for wishes. We want the notifications to pile up; we want to feel seen.

​But today, listening to that choir, I realized I have it backward. My birthday isn't my day. It is my mother's Labor Day. It is the anniversary of the day she broke her body to give me the world. It is the anniversary of my father's first day of lifelong worry.

​I don't need wishes from people who don't know my name. I need to learn how to speak to the people who gave me my name.

Today, I am grateful for the life they gave me. My birthday wish is simple: Next year, I hope I don't just feel the love. I hope I find the courage to speak it.

Date: December 28, 2025 (My Birthday)

Location: Da Lat

State: Body like water, Heart like stone.

SOLO In Vietnam Day 10 : The Maze, The Fried Rice, and The Open Door

 

27th Dec 2025

​A plan is a cage. Today, I decided to open the door.

​At 10:00 AM, the thermometer reads 17°C—the kind of weather that begs you to walk. So, I do. No tours, no guides, no schedule. Just me, a bowl of Siu Mai noodle soup for breakfast, and a vague mission to book a spa appointment for my birthday tomorrow.

​I debate taking a Grab bike to the Suoi May Onsen, which is 30 minutes away. But my feet make the decision for me. Why rush through a painting? I walk.

And because I walk, I see.

I spot gardens exploding with flowers that would have been a blur from a motorbike window. I find myself crossing the chaotic streets with the confidence of a local now—no hesitation, just flow.

And then, I find the hidden gem: Tiệm Cà Phê Mây Nhớ Hoài. It’s a café perched on a hill, wrapped in pine trees, overlooking the lake and mountains. I stop for coffee and end up playing with the owner's dogs. The owner, seeing a solo traveler trying to capture the moment, kindly steps in to take my picture.

If I had taken that Grab bike, I would have missed the dogs, the view, and the kindness.

​I reach the Onsen, book my "Birthday Treatment" for tomorrow, and discover a shortcut back down to the lake. The city is unfolding itself to me like a secret map.

​By evening, I drift toward Lam Vien Square. From the outside, it looks like a giant glass artichoke. But inside, I discover the secret: an underground labyrinth. A mall, a theater, a food court—it’s a subterranean city. I feel like a mouse in a maze, wandering deeper into the belly of Da Lat.

​Emerging from the underground, a smell stops me in my tracks.

Wok hei. The breath of the wok.

I have been avoiding rice on this trip—too heavy, too familiar. But the scent of salted fish fried rice pulls me into a street-side café. I surrender. It is my first proper plate of rice in days, and it tastes like heaven.

​But the real hunger I’ve been feeling isn’t for food; it’s for connection. And tonight, I finally find it.

I decide to visit Thanh Tam Church, a place close to my hotel that I had somehow ignored. It is 9 minutes away.

I step into the courtyard and am immediately hit by a wall of warmth. The Christmas decorations are dazzling, but the people are brighter. There is an event happening—music, laughter, a lucky draw.

I mingle. I meet the priest. And then, a woman approaches me. She is there with her mother, and she offers me food.

Here it is. The warmth I missed on Christmas Eve. The vibe is electric, positive, welcoming.

​She tells me the magic words: "English Mass tomorrow at 7:00 PM."

My birthday. An English mass. It feels like a gift wrapped just for me.

We exchange Facebook Messenger contacts (WhatsApp isn't her thing). I impulsively invite her to a hotpot dinner tomorrow to celebrate my birthday. She agrees.

​As I walk back to the hotel, my phone pings.

It’s her.

"My husband would love to cook for you at our house. We are 18 minutes away."

​I stare at the screen. A stranger inviting me into her home? A home-cooked meal?

I don't promise anything yet—I leave it to the wind—but I go to bed with the biggest smile of the trip. The connection I have been craving has finally arrived.

​Reflection: The Speed of Connection

​For ten days, I have been chasing sights—clouds, waterfalls, crazy houses. I moved fast, booked tours, and ticked boxes.

But connection doesn't happen at 60km/h on a motorbike. It happens at walking speed.

​Because I walked today, I found the café on the hill. Because I lingered at the church, I found a friend.

We think we need to make things happen when we travel. But sometimes, you just have to walk slowly enough for the world to catch up to you.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I am turning a year older in a foreign land, but for the first time on this trip, I don't feel like a stranger.

Date: December 27, 2025

Location: Da Lat

Temperature: 17°C (Chilly perfection)

SOLO in Vietnam Day 9: The Google Maps Betrayal and The Taste Of Home

 

26th Dec 2025

​A planless day is a dangerous luxury. Without a schedule, you are left alone with your thoughts—and your legs.

The lie I told myself this morning was simple: Today is a recovery day. I woke up late, defiant against the alarm clock, nursing a mild cold. I had no plan. I had no guide. I just had a bowl of hot noodle soup and a vague desire to secure my exit strategy.

My first mission was practical. I walked to An Phu Travel to book my ticket to Hoi An. I compared the apps, I did the math, and I settled on a "Luxury Coach" sleeper bus. They promised 22 cabins—a significant upgrade from the coffin-style bunks that brought me here. Ticket in hand, I felt lighter. The escape route was secured.

But the wind in Da Lat today was aggressive. It whipped through the streets, pushing me toward the lakeside and triggering an itch for caffeine. I ducked into a café—a tourist trap, I knew, but my legs needed a chair. I ordered my obsession, Salted Coffee, and glanced at the menu. I laughed out loud. Cha Kui. There it was, in black and white: Malaysian Fried Dough Sticks. I am thousands of miles from home, in the central highlands of Vietnam, staring at the same breakfast I grew up with. It felt like a glitch in the culinary matrix. I ate it with a grin. It tasted like a joke, but it felt like a hug.

The Blue Line of Doom Fueled by dough and salt, the "lazy day" evaporated. The cool air of Da Lat is a cheat code; it tricks you into thinking you can walk forever. I trekked 30 minutes to Domaine de Marie, the famous pink church. I snapped the photos. I looked at the view. But the itch to move remained. Next stop: Ngoc Yen Hill. Google Maps said it was another 30 minutes. It offered a grey line—a "shortcut." Never trust a shortcut in Vietnam.

I followed the blue dot off the main road and into a maze of residential backstreets. Suddenly, the soundtrack of the city changed. The honking scooters faded, replaced by a much more primal sound. Barking. Territorial, angry, neighborhood dogs. I froze. The "shortcut" had led me straight into a local housing cluster where tourists clearly do not belong. My heart hammered against my ribs. I walked faster, navigating the chorus of barks, eyes forward, trying to project confidence I didn't feel.

But in the adrenaline, I saw it. The real Da Lat. I saw families sitting on the floor, sharing lunch with their doors wide open. I saw laundry dancing violently in the wind. I saw life happening in the raw, unfiltered spaces where the tour buses never go.

I didn't stop for a "Yelp-reviewed" lunch. I ate like a wanderer. When I saw steam, I stopped. When I smelled spices, I sat on a plastic stool. I didn't know the names of what I was eating, I just trusted my nose.

The Sanctuary and The Slapstick By evening, my feet carried me to a second sanctuary: St. Nicholas Church. I slipped into the back pew just as the evening mass began. After the chaos of the barking dogs and the endless asphalt, the rhythm of the liturgy was a soothing balm. I didn't need to understand the Vietnamese words to feel the peace settle into my bones.

I returned to the hotel and checked my watch. 19,000 steps. My legs were vibrating. My "recovery day" had turned into a marathon. I didn't go out for a cocktail. I didn't look for a party. I ended the night in the most unglamorous, wonderful way possible: curled up in bed, watching Mr. Bean and Jackie Chan clips on YouTube. Sometimes, after walking 19,000 steps through the unknown, the only thing your soul wants is a laugh you know by heart.

Reflection: The Map vs. The Territory

We spend so much of our lives trying to avoid the "wrong turns." We want the direct route, the fastest career path, the most efficient relationship. We treat life like a Google Map, terrified of the grey lines.

But today, the best moment wasn't the destination. It wasn't the pink church or the hill view. It was the shortcut that went wrong. If I had stayed on the main road, I would have missed the adrenaline. I would have missed the dogs. I would have missed the glimpse into those living rooms. Google Maps can show you the road, but it can't show you the life that happens on it.

Sometimes, you have to get a little lost—and maybe a little chased by dogs—to really see where you are. And sometimes, the perfect ending to a day of exploration isn't a grand epiphany; it's just Mr. Bean getting his head stuck in a turkey. 

Date: December 26, 2025 Location: Da Lat Steps: 19,000 (So much for a "Rest Day")

SOLO in Vietnam Day 8 : Screaming for Christmas & The Hills Of Home

 

25th Dec 2025

​Christmas morning usually begins with hymns or gifts. Mine begins with a scream.

​I am strapped into an Alpine Coaster at the Datanla Waterfall, hurtling down a track at breakneck speed. The wind tears at my face, the pine trees blur into green streaks, and for a few glorious seconds, I am not a solo traveler worrying about her budget. I am just a blur of noise and joy.

Merry Christmas to me.

​The day started with a lesson in "Vietnam Time." My guide, scheduled for 8:00 AM, texted to say he’d be late. So, I sat at a stall opposite my hotel and accidentally ordered a feast: Salted Coffee and two Banh Mi. I forgot how huge the portions are here—stuffed with meat, eggs, and veggies. I ate like a queen, fueling up for the mountains.

​Our first stop was Robin Hill. I paid the 120,000 VND for the cable car and found myself suspended high above the pine forests. I shared the cabin with a guy from the UK and another from Korea. We dangled our feet over the canopy, talking about monkeys and jungles, while the lake glittered below us.

​Then came the "Tourist Tax" reality check.

After the coaster (another 130,000 VND), we hit the Strawberry Farm. I’ve been eating strawberries for two days straight, so I skipped the picking.

Then lunch. I sat with a lovely couple from Myanmar, but I made a rookie mistake: I ordered two dishes. The bill hit 188,000 VND. As I stared at the uneaten food, the guilt set in.

​By the time we reached Langbiang Hill (another 120,000 VND entrance fee), the math started to terrify me. Everywhere needs money. I confessed my fears to the Myanmar couple: "I thought Vietnam would be cheap, but my spending habits are as bad as they are back home in Malaysia." They nodded in agreement. We were all feeling the pinch.

​But then, a moment of pure grace.

The Korean traveler in our group—let’s call him "Oppa Korea"—saw us sweating in the heat. Without a word, he walked into a grocery shop and bought ice cream for the entire group. It was a small gesture, but on a hot, expensive day, that cold sweetness tasted like kindness.

​As we ascended Langbiang, a wave of nostalgia hit me. The cool air, the rolling hills, the majestic pine trees... I wasn't just in Vietnam anymore. I felt like I was back in Kundasang, Sabah. The resemblance was uncanny. For a moment, looking at the trees that mirrored my homeland, I didn't feel so far away.

​The day ended at the Crazy House. The name is accurate—the architecture is melting and twisting—but the crowds were the real madness. I abandoned the tour there and walked the 750 meters back to my hotel, needing silence.

​The Broken Toy and The Silent Beggar

At 5:15 PM, I returned to the church. The crowd was dense, everyone locked in their own bubbles. I accidentally stepped on a plastic toy dropped by a child. Crunch.

The kid looked up, eyes welling. I didn't hesitate. I bought him a brand-new toy. His tears turned to a smile.

I waited for someone to wish me Merry Christmas. Silence.

Fine, I decided. If you want the spirit, you have to bring it.

I walked down to the Christmas tree and started beaming at strangers. "Merry Christmas!" I told them. They looked surprised, then smiled back.

​But my charity has a limit.

Outside the church, a beggar approached me. I looked at him, and I walked away.

Yesterday, at the café, I saw a young boy begging. An English gentleman gave him money, but I refused.

Some might call me cold, but I come from Sabah, where we wrestle with this issue daily. Normalizing begging, especially for children, feels like trapping them in a cycle. That kid needs school, not my spare change. I gave a toy to a crying child today because it was an accident I caused. But I won't pay to keep a child on the street.

​Reflection: The Cost of Connection

​Christmas is often about giving, but solo travel forces you to be selfish. You have to hoard your energy, your safety, and yes, your money.

​Today was a balance sheet of the soul.

I spent money recklessly on roller coasters and food, but I withheld it from a beggar.

I felt poor when looking at my wallet, but rich when "Oppa Korea" handed me an ice cream.

I felt lonely in the crowd, until I realized the hills looked just like home.

​We judge ourselves for how we spend our money and our kindness. But I am learning that generosity doesn't always have to be cash. Sometimes, it’s an ice cream. Sometimes, it’s a "Merry Christmas" to a stranger. And sometimes, it’s just recognizing that the pine trees in Vietnam wave the same way they do in Borneo.

Date: December 25, 2025 (Christmas Day)

Location: Da Lat

Mood: High Altitude, Empty Wallet.

SOLO in Vietnam Day 7: Chasing Clouds and Christmas Ghosts

 

24th Dec 2025

​3:00 AM. The alarm cuts through the dark. On any other day, this would be torture. But today is Christmas Eve, and I am going hunting.

​I booked a "Cloud Hunting" tour two days ago, hoping to see the famous sea of clouds that Da Lat is known for. Our group is a mini United Nations: two from Singapore, two from Bangladesh, one elegant woman named Elle from Vienna, three from China, and me.

​Our guide, Chau, is a revelation. Unlike my guide in Saigon, Chau is an artist with an iPhone. She doesn't just take photos; she directs them. When I freeze up, awkward and stiff, she roasts my posture with savage precision. "Chin up! Shoulder down! No, not like that!" She is brutal, but she is brilliant. The resulting photos make me look like a model.

​We arrive at Cau Dat, shivering in the cold. The landscape is breathtaking—rolling hills, misty valleys, the endless green tea terraces. But the guest of honor is missing. The famous clouds do not show up.

We stand there, nine strangers staring at a clear view, united by a shared disappointment that quickly turns into laughter. We didn't catch the clouds, but we caught the vibe.

​The Sweetness of the Earth

The tour pivots. We visit a persimmon factory, where thousands of orange fruits hang drying in the wind . They look like festive lanterns suspended in the air. It feels like walking into an autumn painting. Next is a strawberry farm. The fruit here isn't the sour, supermarket kind; it is candy-sweet. I pick 145g of strawberries myself, paying 58,000 VND for the privilege of eating pure sugar from the earth.

​Our final stop is a coffee shop owned by the same man who runs the cloud hunting spot. The place is a masterpiece of flowers and views—a true "Instagram trap," and he knows his business well.

I spot Elle, the Austrian traveler, looking out over the garden. The light is perfect. I secretly snap a candid photo of her—she looks serene, like a painting. I AirDrop it to her later, and she smiles.

Connection.

​The Drop

The tour ends at 10:00 AM. And just like that, the high evaporates.

I return to the hotel, change clothes, and the silence rushes back in. The morning was full of voices and laughter. The afternoon is just... me.

​I eat Chicken Rice with salad at a small café, scrolling through my phone. I wander the flower market, but the colors blur together. I end up at Ollin Café, sipping coffee not because I want it, but because I need a place to sit.

​Then, the reality check. I visit a gold shop to exchange money. My wallet feels lighter than it should be. Vietnam feels cheap day by day, but when you add up the Grab rides, the tours, the coffees, and the strawberries, the numbers climb. I feel a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. I need to stop spending.

​The Silent Night

Evening falls. It is Christmas Eve.

Back home, my family is gathering for dinner. My friends are posting photos of feasts and gifts. Here, the churches are full, but the mass is in a language I cannot understand. I debate going. What is the point of sitting in a pew if the words mean nothing to me?

​I choose the hotel room.

​It is the lowest moment of the trip. I put on a playlist of Christmas songs, but instead of feeling festive, they just make the room feel emptier. I scroll through Facebook, liking posts, typing "Blessed Christmas Eve" to people thousands of miles away.

​Then, I open my gallery. I scroll through the photos from this morning—the mist at Cau Dat, the flowers at the café, the stunning shots Chau took of me.

I look at the beauty in those images, and a sudden, sharp thought pierces me.

It would be so good if I were sharing this view with someone.

Not just friends, not just family. But a partner. The love of my life.

I imagine him standing there next to me in the tea terraces, holding my hand, seeing what I see. The view was perfect, but it lacked a witness. It is a fleeting imagination, but it leaves an ache.

​I pull the blanket up. I close my eyes. Life must go on, I whisper. I hope tomorrow brings a surprise. I hope tomorrow brings a friend.

​Reflection: The Empty Chair

​Christmas is a magnifying glass. When you are with family, it magnifies the love. When you are alone, it magnifies the silence.

​Today taught me that you can have a "successful" travel day—great photos, new friends, sweet strawberries—and still go to bed with a heavy heart. And that is okay. You don't have to be happy every single second of a solo trip.

​Loneliness is not a failure of the trip; it is just part of the price of the ticket. It reminds you of what you value. I value the freedom to wake up at 3:00 AM and hunt clouds. But tonight, looking at those photos of beautiful places, I realize I also value the idea of a shared witness.

​I will sleep through this silent night. The clouds may have missed their cue this morning, but the sun will still rise tomorrow.

Date: December 24, 2025 (Christmas Eve)

Location: Da Lat

Mood: Surrounded by people, yet alone.

SOLO in Vietnam Day 6 : The Silence Of The Saints

 

23rd Dec 2025

​Breakfast is a return to the fire. I find myself back at the street stall, eating the rice flour cakes with quail eggs (Bánh Căn). Dipping the crispy, hot cakes into the fish sauce broth, I feel like I am slowly cracking the code of this city's morning ritual. It is a taste I have never found in Malaysia—simple, smoky, and perfect.

​To walk off the meal, I join the locals for a lap around Xuan Huong Lake. It is the heart of Da Lat, a mirror reflecting the pine trees and the slow pace of life here. I am just another figure in the landscape, walking without a destination, pretending for a moment that I belong.

​My wanderings lead me to the Bao Dai Summer Palace, a relic of faded grandeur. I sip a Salted Coffee afterward, the salty foam cutting through the sweetness—a reminder that every good thing has a bit of an edge.

​Then, the Da Lat Railway Station. It costs a small fee to enter, a preserved slice of French colonial history. It is here, amidst the vintage locomotives, that I decide to buy an Ao Dai. I find a beautiful tunic, but there is a catch—the pants don't fit. My size is elusive here. I leave the pants behind and take just the top.

I know I should haggle. The vendor expects it. But I look at the price, and I look at her hands. It seems reasonable. I pay the asking price.

Why fight over a few dollars? I think. If I can afford to travel, I can afford to be fair.

​Lunch is a happy accident. I spot a small eatery and point to a picture of fish soup. What arrives is a garden in a bowl—fresh herbs, greens, and a broth that sings. To my own surprise, I finish every leaf. Vietnam is turning me into a vegetable lover.

​As the afternoon light fades, I find myself at St. Nicholas Cathedral. It is 5:15 PM, and the bells are ringing for mass. I step inside.

The service is entirely in Vietnamese. I stand there, surrounded by the murmur of prayers I cannot understand. I try to follow the rhythm—the kneeling, the standing—but I am an outsider looking in.

​After mass, I approach a nun. I struggle with Google Translate and hand gestures, asking if there is an English mass for Christmas.

She shakes her head gently. "No English mass in Vietnam," she indicates.

​The words hit me harder than I expect.

I came here for the cool weather. I came for the adventure. But I also came to celebrate my birthday and Christmas. Standing in the church courtyard, the language barrier feels like a physical wall. I want to connect. I want to share this season with someone. But the words are missing.

​A wave of loneliness washes over me. I wonder if I made a mistake booking a hotel instead of a hostel. A hotel offers privacy, but a hostel offers a tribe. Today, I don't want privacy. I want a friend.

​I walk back to my hotel carrying a red meat bun (like a Malaysian Char Siu Pao) and a fish-shaped bread filled with mozzarella and chocolate. Comfort food for a quiet night.

​Reflection: The Sound of One Voice

​We romanticize solo travel. We talk about the freedom, the "me time," the empowerment. But we rarely talk about the silence.

​Today, the silence was loud. The language barrier in Da Lat is not just about ordering food; it is about the inability to say, "I am here, and I am lonely."

​But perhaps this is part of the pilgrimage. To be stripped of conversation, of familiar comforts, even of a church service in my own tongue. It forces me to find connection in other ways—in the smile of the soup vendor, in the nod of the nun, in the taste of the bread.

​I am learning that you can be surrounded by people and still be alone. But I am also learning that it is okay to sit with that feeling, to eat my bun, and to wait. The right connection will come. Until then, I will be my own best company.

Date: December 23, 2025

Location: Da Lat

Mood: Lost in Translation

SOLO in Vietnam Day 4 : The beggar, The Massage , and The Moving Bed

21st Dec 2025

​The morning is slow, a deliberate pause before the chaos of travel resumes. I check out at noon, leaving my luggage in the hotel lobby, and drift toward the park.

​I am sitting on a bench, watching the city breathe, when a shadow falls over me. A man. He holds out his phone. I expect a map; I expect “Where is the Post Office?”

Instead, the screen reads: Please help. I need money for food.

​He is a foreigner. He looks like a backpacker who simply ran out of road. I stare at him, confused. I am traveling on a calculated budget, counting every dong, terrified of overspending. And here is a man who has fallen off the edge completely. I shake my head, unable to help, but the image sticks with me. It is a jarring reminder of how fragile we are when we are thousands of miles from home.

​I need to shake off the unease. I return to Little Hanoi, my first "hidden gem," for a bowl of grilled pork noodles and coffee. Comfort food. Then, I decide to invest in my body.

​I book a two-hour session: one hour of hot stones, one hour for my feet. The cost is 500,000 VND, but the value is incalculable. The masseuse is small, but her hands are made of iron. She kneads the tension of the last three days out of my shoulders. When it’s over, I feel light, almost floating. I hand her a 250,000 VND tip—a huge amount relative to the bill—and her face lights up.

​I do the same at dinner. After a bowl of sour saba fish soup (sweet pineapple, tart tomato, pure comfort), I tip the 21-year-old waiter. It feels good to give. I might be budget-conscious, but I am not poor. Sharing the wealth makes the travel feel lighter.

​The sun sets, and the real journey begins.

​I drag my luggage to the Futa Bus Line shuttle station. It’s a ten-minute walk, and the Saigon humidity hugs me one last time. I am sweating, but I feel alive. I grab a cup of ice coffee from 7-Eleven—the universal lifeline of the traveler—and wait.

​The logistics of the Vietnamese night bus are a well-oiled machine.

9:00 PM: The minivan collects us.

9:30 PM: We arrive at the massive main terminal.

9:45 PM: The Ritual of the Plastic Bag. The driver hands us bags for our shoes. We enter the bus barefoot.

​The interior is like a spaceship designed for hobbits. Three rows of bunk beds stacked two high. I squeeze into my lower bunk. It is a capsule. A coffin. A cocoon.

​For once, my height is a superpower. At 155cm, I stretch my legs out fully and fit perfectly. I look at the 6-foot-tall European tourist in the next aisle, his knees crunched against his chest, and I send a silent prayer of gratitude for being small.

​The engine rumbles. The lights go out. We are moving toward the mountains.

​The Reflection: Letting Go of the Wheel

​Lying in the dark of the sleeper bus, watching the streetlights of Saigon flicker past the window, I realize that this bunk bed is the ultimate exercise in trust.

​For the next eight hours, I have zero control. I don't know the route. I don't know the driver. I can't steer, I can't brake, and I can't see the road ahead. All I can do is lie here, wrapped in a blanket, and trust that I will wake up in Da Lat.

​Life, I suppose, is just like this Futa bus. We spend so much time worrying about the budget, the map, and the destination. We stress about the traffic and the weather. But eventually, you have to take off your shoes, climb into the dark, and trust the driver.

​The city heat is behind me. The mountain breeze is ahead. I close my eyes and let the road take me there.

Route: Ho Chi Minh City → Da Lat (Night Bus)

SOLO in Vietnam Day 5 : The City of Eternal Spring and Suprise Kindness

 

Day 5: The City of Eternal Spring and Surprise Kindness

22nd Dec 2025

​The bus rolled into Da Lat at 4:15 AM, and the city greeted me not with a hug, but with a bite.

​Gone was the sticky, humid embrace of Saigon. In its place was a crisp, shivering cold that woke me up faster than caffeine ever could. The station was pitch black, yet buzzing—a hive of aggressive taxi drivers swarming the exhausted arrivals. I stood there, shivering and defensive, waving them off.

​I waited until 5:00 AM, the cold seeping into my bones, when a local man approached. He didn't shout. He didn't grab my arm. He just looked at me and offered advice instead of a ride.

"Too early for hotel," he said, gesturing toward the town center. "Go to café near market. Chill. Watch morning."

​It was perfect advice. I booked a Grab Bike, and immediately witnessed a feat of Vietnamese physics. My driver, Ti, took one look at my 20kg suitcase, my carry-on bag, and my 155cm self, and somehow arranged us all onto a single motorbike. I don't know how we didn't tip over. As we tore through the misty streets, balancing on two wheels, I realized I had found my first friend in the mountains. We exchanged contacts before he dropped me at a 24-hour café.

​I sat on the balcony, wrapping my hands around a hot drink. As the sky turned from bruised purple to gold, the wind hit my face—clean, sharp, and smelling of pine.

"Mea," I whispered to the sunrise, "Welcome to the real adventure."

​The Hills and the Helpers

​By 7:00 AM, the sun had broken through, and I began the trek to my hotel. I quickly learned a hard truth: Da Lat is not flat. It is a vertical challenge.

​I was dragging my 20kg life down a steep, punishing flight of stairs when a hand suddenly appeared. A foreigner, seeing my struggle, grabbed the handle without a word and helped me carry the weight down. I consider myself strong, but in that moment, I let myself be helped.

​Ten minutes later, I was stuck at a chaotic roundabout, the traffic swirling like a dangerous river. I hesitated, frozen by the flow of bikes. Suddenly, an elderly woman on her morning jog stopped. She didn't just wave; she marched into the traffic, raising her hand like a commander, and shepherded me across.

​Two strangers. Two acts of kindness. I hadn't even checked in yet, and Da Lat was already carrying me.

​Ancient Fires and Market Lessons

​Breakfast was a discovery. I found a woman cooking over hot charcoal (arang) on the street corner. The language barrier was thick, but hunger is universal. With the help of Google Translate and some pointing, I ordered Bánh Căn—quail eggs cooked in rice flour molds. Crispy, smoky, and dipped in warm fish sauce, it was love at first bite.

​I spent the afternoon wandering. The weather was a dream—windy and chill—and I walked along the river, watching people exist in their own peaceful bubbles.

​Then came the market, and with it, the "Tourist Tax."

The strawberries and black grapes shone like jewels. I bought a bag from a smiling "aunty," only to realize later that the price was steep and the grapes beneath the top layer were old. In the past, I would have fumed. I would have felt foolish.

But today, I just shrugged.

It’s a donation, I told myself. She needs it more than I need perfect grapes.

​Dinner was a recommendation from my AI travel agent: Tien An Da Lat Pho. I feasted on grilled pork and vegetables, discovering a new type of rice paper that was soft and ready-to-eat without water. I washed it down with my daily ritual—another Salted Coffee—and walked back to the hotel.

​I had walked 18,000 steps. My legs ached. My wallet was a little lighter. But as I fell asleep, I realized I hadn't carried the weight alone.

​A Reflection: The Doorway of Vulnerability

​Today taught me that vulnerability is a doorway to kindness. If I hadn't been struggling with that heavy bag, or freezing at that crosswalk, I never would have met the people who helped me. We try so hard to be independent solo travelers, but sometimes, admitting we are stuck is exactly what connects us to the humanity around us.

​And as for the grapes? Mindset is everything. You can choose to feel scammed, or you can choose to feel generous. One makes you bitter; the other keeps you light. And when you’re carrying 20kg up a mountain, you need to be as light as you can be.

Location: Da Lat

Steps: 18,000+ (mostly uphill)

Lesson: Physic is optional ; kindness is essential.

SOLO in Vietnam Day 3 : Saigon Hot & Crowded Charm

20th Dec 2025

​The fantasy of the Ao Dai is elegant: a woman gliding through the streets of Saigon, silk fluttering in the breeze, looking like a frame from a vintage movie.

​The reality, however, is a heat index of 35°C and a body that feels like it is being slow-cooked inside a silk casing.

​I meet Phung, my local guide, with high hopes. Her texts had been crisp and professional, but as we navigate the crowds at the Pink Church and the Independence Palace, I realize I have miscalculated. The spots are not just busy; they are a crushing sea of tourists and locals. There is no room to glide. There is only room to sweat.

​And then, there are the photos.

​I strike a pose in front of the Saigon Post Office, trying to look effortless despite the heat. Phung clicks away. I check the phone. Blurry. Cropped feet. Eyes closed.

I try again. Click.

Worse.

​I look at Phung. She is young, a student doing this part-time. She is trying, but she is clearly out of her depth. The heat is making me irritable, and looking at my "Phone Bin" filling up with unusable photos, I feel a spike of frustration. I paid for a guide, but I am essentially leading myself.

​But then I look at her wiping sweat from her forehead, clearly nervous. The "Angry Tourist" inside me wants to complain. But the "Older Sister" inside me takes over.

​Let it go, I tell myself.

​Instead of scolding her, I pivot. I take her to the Café Apartment. I order myself another Salted Coffee (my new addiction) and get her a tea, since she can't handle the caffeine. We sit. I ask about her studies. I tip her not for the photos—which were terrible—but for the hustle. I send her off with encouragement rather than criticism. Sometimes, the souvenir isn't the photo; it's the patience you learn in the process.

​Free of the tour, I wander the Café Apartment alone. I stumble upon a small stall selling scents and find it: Na Nue Rose. It smells divine. I hesitate, my budget mindset kicking in, and buy the small 100ml bottle. Ten minutes later, I am already regretting not buying the big one.

​The regret follows me to the Saigon Centre. Uniqlo here is cheaper—mostly because the clothes are made right here in Vietnam. I stand before a mirror, torn between sensible black pants and a bold mustard jacket.

Be practical, my brain says. I buy the pants.

You fool, my heart whispers later. You should have taken the jacket.

​I end the day with the unglamorous, grounding rituals of solo travel. I scout the route to the bus station for tomorrow—always one step ahead. I do my laundry for 60,000 VND, watching my clothes spin in the dryer.

​Dinner is at the hotel. I get a 15% discount, so naturally, I order Spring Rolls. Again.

I am clean, I am fed, and I am ready to leave the city.

​A Moment of Reflection

​Today was a lesson in managing expectations versus reality. The perfect Instagram photos in the Ao Dai didn't happen, and the tour was chaotic. Yet, the highlight wasn't a landmark; it was choosing kindness over frustration with my young guide. Being an "older sister" felt better than being a demanding tourist. The regrets over the small perfume and the mustard jacket are nagging, but they teach me a simple truth about travel and life: when you find something that truly sparks joy, don't hesitate. Buy the bigger bottle. Take the jacket. Don't let practicality steal your joy. And finally, doing laundry in a foreign hotel room is a grounding reminder that even in exotic places, the mundane necessities of life continue—and there's comfort in that routine.

Regrets: One mustard jacket, one small bottle of perfume, and fifty deleted photos. 

SOLO in Vietnam Day 2 : Saigon Adventure

19th Dec 2025

​Crossing the street in Saigon is not a walk; it is an act of faith.

​I step out of the Na Nue Hotel and into the river of motorbikes. I quickly learn the rule: Don’t stop, don’t flinch, just walk. If you hesitate, you are prey. If you walk with purpose, the sea parts around you.

​I navigate by Google Maps and pure adrenaline, hunting for my first target: a hidden gem opposite the cooking school. I order an Egg Coffee. I stare at the cup suspiciously—how does an egg belong in a coffee?—but the first sip answers me. It is rich, creamy, like drinking liquid tiramisu. It is the perfect primer for the gluttony to come.

​9:30 AM is when the real work begins at M.O.M. Cooking Class. This isn’t a demonstration; it is boot camp with aprons. We tackle the "Friday Menu," a tour of Northern and Central Vietnam.

• ​The Crunch: Banh Tom Ho Tay (West Lake Shrimp Cakes)—crispy sweet potato nests topped with whole shrimp.
• ​The Sizzle: Bun Cha—we grill the meat patties ourselves, the smoke rising into our faces.
• ​The Pride: Goi Cuon (Fresh Spring Rolls). When I finish mine, it stands up perfectly straight on the plate, translucent wrapper gleaming. I feel a ridiculous surge of accomplishment.

​By noon, after polishing off a jar of Coconut Cream Caramel Pudding, I am full. Dangerously full.

​After a short collapse at the hotel, I head out again, confident in my navigation skills. Too confident. I stride into a building for my afternoon workshop, ready to brew. I look at the table. Carrots. Cabbage. Greens.

​I blink. "Where is the coffee?"

​The instructor looks at me. I look at the vegetables. It is a moment of pure slapstick comedy. I am in the wrong class. I back out, laughing at my own confusion, and find the right place: Province Coffee.

​If the morning was about food, the afternoon is about vibration. We learn to make four types of coffee: Egg, Coconut, Salt, and Latte. The class is buzz—literally. My caffeine intake hits critical levels. My hands are shaking, my heart is racing, and everyone is grinning.

​And there, amidst the smell of roasted beans, is the Polish guy.

​He is a gentleman—polite, curious, with kind eyes. We get to talking. He mentions he is planning to visit East Malaysia, Sabah, and Sarawak next year. My home. I light up, sharing tips about the Borneo jungles and the culture. We connect. It is one of those effortless travel conversations that flows perfectly.

​And then, the class ends. We wave goodbye.

​Walking back, through the shadow of the Notre Dame Cathedral and the bustling aisles of Ben Thanh Market, the realization hits me harder than the caffeine crash. I didn't get his Instagram. I didn't get his number.

​I walked 13,000 steps today. I mastered four dishes and four coffees. But I let a potential friend walk away into the Saigon traffic.

​I skip dinner. My stomach is too full of food, and my mind is too full of "what ifs."

A Moment of Reflection

​Today was a sensory overload, a reminder that life is meant to be tasted, smelled, and walked through—not just observed. The mix-up with the cooking classroom taught me the value of humility and humor; sometimes you just have to laugh when you're the confused tourist. But the lingering thought of the day is the missed connection with the Polish traveler. It’s a bittersweet lesson: travel, like life, is fleeting. If you connect with someone, seize the moment. Be brave enough to ask for the contact, because opportunities rarely circle back.

SOLO in Vietnam Day 1 : The Cold Palms Of A Spontaneous Jump

18th Dec 2025

​The panic didn't hit me when the alarm screamed at 4:00 AM. It didn't hit me in the dark quiet of the Grab car ride to the airport.

​It hit me in the middle of the terminal at KLIA, halfway between a coffee shop and the departure gate.

​I was walking to kill time—my layover stretching out for hours—when my body suddenly rebelled. A chill shot down my spine. My palms, usually warm, went ice-cold and dry. My stomach twisted into a hard knot.

​I am actually doing this.

​I looked at the departure board. Vietnam. Twenty-two days. Alone.

​This wasn't a carefully plotted vacation with a safety net. This was a spontaneous free-fall I had booked last minute. The question that had been nagging me for days finally shouted in my ear: Do you even have enough money for this? I felt like I was jumping off a cliff, hoping to build a plane on the way down.

​The international boarding gate felt less like a travel checkpoint and more like an interrogation. Belt off. Water out. Shoes off. The strictness of it stripped away my last layer of comfort. By the time I landed in Saigon at 6:30 PM, I was exhausted, thirsty, and defensive.

​But then, the chaos of Vietnam offered a lifeline.

​While waiting for a Grab car in the thick, humid air of District 1, I met her—a 23-year-old girl from India, looking just as lost as I felt. In a city of nine million people, we found each other. We shared a car to save money (my budget breathed a sigh of relief), and I watched her drop-off location on my app like a hawk until I knew she was safe. One hour in the country, and I already had a new friend on Instagram.

​I ended the night at the Na Nue Hotel. It was 10:00 PM—late for dinner, deadly for a diet—but I sat there devouring spring rolls and a pancake with salted coffee. As I wiped the crumbs away, I realized I had to haul my luggage up to the third floor. No elevator.

​Panting on the stairs, my legs burning, I laughed for the first time that day. So this is the secret, I thought. This is why everyone in Vietnam is so slim.

​I am tired. I am broke. But I have arrived.

Life Reflection: The Leap of Faith

​Lying in bed that night, the city humming beneath me, I realized that the hardest part of any adventure isn't the journey itself; it's the moment of commitment. That paralyzing cold sweat in the airport was just fear trying to keep me safe, trying to keep me home. But the moment I stepped on the plane, the fear didn't vanish—it just changed into fuel.

​Meeting the girl from India taught me that I am never truly alone, even when I am solo. The world is full of people on their own similar journeys, just waiting to connect. And the stairs? Well, they taught me that sometimes, the only way up is a hard, sweaty climb, and you might as well laugh while you're doing it. I am here, imperfectly prepared, but perfectly present. The free-fall has begun.

SOLO TRIP 2024

Hey There, 

If someone asks you, " What are the things you enjoy doing that make you happy?" My answer would be: Travelling!! I realized that Traveling (locally / overseas) actually increases the level of my Dopamine, the Happy hormone!! 

Never would I imagine myself wandering around the land of Europe alone solely dependent on my own two feet on a really tight budget. Solo Traveling is common nowadays but without proper planning and budgeting, it could be a big NO. Now that I am back in my home country and able to write this, I am amazed and proud of myself (Opps I'm not being a narcissist yeah). 

To be a story, My Brother-In-Law's (BIL) younger sister's fiancé is a French man. When I heard that my sister and BIL were planning to attend their wedding in Toulon France, considering it'll be my first visit to European Countries, I couldn't help not put my mind on the idea of visiting and traveling around Europe. That was when I decided to let myself experience a 27-day Europe Trip (22-day Solo trip). My solo trip started when I parted ways with my sister and BIL after the wedding in Toulon, France. Here are the overviews of my trip:-

13th June 2024 - 08th July 2024

When someone asked me why I chose to travel solo? 

My answer: Next time when I travel, will you join me on my trip? 

Real reason: NO specific reason!! I am just being Authentic to myself Waiting for no one to make me happy (*~*). 

Here's how I planned my Journey:-

For me, planning is essential in one trip. For this trip, it took me six (6) months of non-stop reading and researching before coming up with my itinerary with details information on things to do, what the weather was like, where to stay, how to commute from one place to another, and so on.  Since my trip will be covering France, Switzerland, and the United Kingdom, I need to fully prepare myself mentally, physically, and financially. 

Malaysia - Istanbul - Toulon - Annecy - Geneva - Interlaken - Zurich - Paris - Cambridge - Great Yarmouth - London - Doha - Malaysia

In this entry, I will focus to look into my reflections on my trip, particularly focusing on moments of solitude, self-discovery, and tips for safety and confidence.

moments of solitude

Traveling solo through Europe allowed me to experience a deep sense of freedom and reflection that I hadn’t anticipated. While I knew there would be moments of solitude, what surprised me most was how empowering and transformative those moments were. Instead of feeling isolated, I began to embrace the quiet time alone as a space for self-reflection and personal growth.

Self Discovery

One of the most profound aspects of traveling alone was how much I learned about myself. Without the distraction of a group or a companion, I was forced to sit with my thoughts, to be fully present in each moment, and to reflect on what I truly wanted out of the journey. I found joy in simply wandering through the streets of a foreign city, taking in the sights, sounds, and energy around me while being fully in tune with my own thoughts. The silence that accompanied my solo travel gave me time to think deeply about who I am, where I’m headed, and what truly brings me peace. It was in these moments of solitude that I found clarity and started to build a deeper sense of inner confidence.

Safety

The experience of being alone in a foreign country also presented challenges, especially in terms of safety. I quickly realized that when traveling solo, being aware of my surroundings and taking proactive steps to stay safe were crucial. I made sure to keep copies of important documents, such as my passport and travel insurance, in a separate place from the originals. I also made it a habit to inform a friend or family member of my whereabouts every day, just to ensure someone knew where I was in case of an emergency. These small precautions gave me peace of mind and allowed me to focus on enjoying the experience without unnecessary worry.

Trusting My Gut Feeling

Confidence also played a significant role in my journey. There were moments when I felt uncertain or overwhelmed, whether it was navigating an unfamiliar train station, communicating in a language I didn’t speak, or simply finding my way around a new city. But as the trip progressed, I began to trust myself more. I gained confidence in my ability to solve problems, whether it was figuring out directions or handling unexpected changes in plans. Each time I overcame a challenge on my own, I felt a little stronger and more capable. The more I embraced these moments, the more I learned to trust my instincts and approach life with greater self-assurance.

Finding Connection

There were also moments of connection with others that were made even more meaningful because I was traveling solo. Whether it was striking up a conversation with a local in a café or meeting fellow travelers on a walking tour, the sense of shared humanity that emerged from these interactions left a lasting impact. Being alone didn’t mean I was disconnected from the world—it meant I was more open to engaging with it in an authentic way. Those moments reminded me that even in solitude, there’s a connection to something greater, whether it’s other people, the places we visit, or our own sense of purpose.

Conclusion

Looking back on this trip, I’m grateful for the time spent alone and for the self-discovery that came with it. I learned to appreciate solitude as a space for reflection, creativity, and growth. I gained a greater understanding of myself and my capabilities, which I now carry with me in both my travels and daily life. Above all, this journey taught me that confidence comes from within, and that when we step out into the world alone, we open ourselves up to not only new experiences but to a deeper connection with who we are.