22 days SOLO in Vietnam (Day 5)

 

The City of Eternal Spring and Surprise Kindness

22nd Dec 2025

​December 22, 2025

​The bus rolled into the Da Lat coach station at 4:15 AM. The air that greeted me wasn't the humid embrace of Saigon, but a crisp, chilling bite. It was still dark, and the station was a hive of early-morning activity.

​I waited until 5:00 AM, fending off the aggressive wave of taxi drivers and motorbike riders who approached me, their offers lost in translation. I held my ground, unsure of where to go until a local man approached. Instead of pushing a ride, he offered advice: "It's too early for hotels. Go to a 24-hour cafe near the market. Just chill."

​It was perfect advice. I booked a Grab Bike, and that’s when I witnessed a feat of physics. My driver, Ti, managed to balance me, my 20kg suitcase, and my hand-carry luggage on a single motorbike. I sat behind him, holding my breath and my bags, as we zoomed through the waking streets. We exchanged contacts—my first friend in the mountains.

​The Hill, The Stranger, and The Grandma

​Ti dropped me off near the market, but the journey to the hotel was a physical battle. Da Lat is a city of hills and stairs. As I dragged my luggage down a steep flight of steps, struggling with the weight, a foreigner stepped in without a word and grabbed the handle. "Let me help," he signaled. I consider myself strong, but in that moment, I was incredibly grateful for the extra hands.

​The obstacles weren't over. At the bottom of the hill, I faced a busy roundabout, the traffic swirling like a whirlpool. Just as I hesitated, an elderly woman on her morning jog noticed my plight. She stopped her workout, walked into the street, and shepherded me across like a crossing guard. Two acts of kindness before sunrise—Da Lat was already welcoming me with open arms.

​Ancient Cooking and The Scam that wasn't

​After dropping my bags at the hotel, I roamed the streets, light and free. I found a small local stall where an old woman was cooking over hot charcoal (arang). The language barrier was thick, but Google Translate bridged the gap. I sat on a low stool and watched as she poured rice flour into small clay molds, cracking a quail egg into each one.

​It was Bánh Căn. Served with a warm bowl of fish sauce and meatballs, it was love at first bite—crispy, savory, and warming.

​I checked in at 11:00 AM, refreshed, and headed out to capture the city. The weather was a dream—windy and chill, a stark contrast to the heat of the south. I walked along the lake, watching people exist in their own little bubbles of peace.

​Later, I ventured into the market. Strawberries and black grapes looked like jewels on the stalls. I bought a bag of grapes from an "aunty," only to realize later they were expensive and far from fresh. In the past, I might have been angry. Today, I just shrugged. It’s a donation, not a misfortune, I told myself. She needs the money more than I need perfect grapes.

​Dinner by ChatGPT

​For dinner, I put my trust in AI again. ChatGPT recommended Tien An Da Lat Pho, known for its affordability. I ordered a platter of grilled pork and vegetables, served with a type of rice paper I had never seen in Malaysia—soft, pliable, and ready-to-eat without dipping in water. It was a DIY feast (Nem Nướng), wrapping the savory pork and fresh herbs into perfect rolls. And of course, I washed it down with my daily ritual: another Salted Coffee.

​I returned to the hotel with 18,000 steps on my tracker. My legs were tired, but my heart was full.

​A Moment of Reflection

​Today taught me that vulnerability attracts kindness. If I hadn't been struggling with my heavy bag or hesitating at that busy crosswalk, I never would have experienced the generosity of the foreigner or the jogging grandmother. We often try to be so strong and independent when we travel alone, but sometimes, needing help is exactly what connects us to the humanity around us. Even the "scam" at the market felt different today; I realized that resentment is a heavy bag I don't need to carry. Letting it go—viewing it as a donation rather than a loss—kept my spirit light. Da Lat is cool, but its people are warm.

22 days SOLO in Vietnam (Day 4)

 

The Art of Letting Go and The Sleeper Bus

21st Dec 2025

December 21, 2025

​They say the best way to leave a city is slowly. My final morning in Ho Chi Minh City began not with a rush, but with the familiar comfort of the 8:00 AM breakfast at Na Nue Hotel. Knowing it was my last meal here made the coffee taste a little richer.

​After checking out at noon and storing my luggage, I drifted to the nearby park. The city was moving at its usual frantic pace, but I was stationary, just watching. Nature has a way of grounding you, even in a concrete jungle.

​It was there, amidst the greenery, that a stranger approached me. At first, I assumed he needed directions—the universal look of a lost tourist. Instead, he held out his phone, a translated message asking for money for food. He was a foreigner, like me. A wave of confusion washed over me. What brings someone to a foreign land without the means to feed themselves? It was a jarring reminder of how easily plans can crumble, or perhaps, how differently we all define "adventure."

​Shaking off the heavy thoughts, I returned to where it all started: Little Hanoi Coffee, the hidden gem from my first morning. The grilled pork with noodles and fresh salad, washed down with their signature coffee, felt like a proper goodbye to District 1.

​The Gift of Restoration

​The afternoon was dedicated to pure indulgence. I booked a two-hour session: one hour of hot stone body massage and one hour for my feet. It cost 500,000 VND, a bargain for the bliss that followed. The masseuse was small but possessed incredibly strong hands, working the knots out of my travel-weary muscles.

​When it ended, I felt lighter, almost floating. Impressed by her skill and hard work, I tipped her 250,000 VND—half the cost of the service itself. Her eyes lit up, and seeing her genuine happiness gave me a rush of joy that matched the relaxation of the massage.

​I returned to the hotel for an early dinner—Saba fish soup with pineapple and tomatoes, a sweet and sour comfort dish. Before leaving, I tipped the 21-year-old boy working there, another small gesture of gratitude for the hospitality.

​The Night Ride to Da Lat

​The transition began. I grabbed my luggage and walked ten minutes to the FUTA Bus Lines shuttle station. The night was humid, and I was sweating, but it felt good—like the city was hugging me one last time. A quick stop at 7-Eleven for a cup of ice and coffee quenched my thirst as I waited.

​The station worker told me the shuttle would arrive at 21:15 PM. True to the rhythm of travel, a minivan pulled up just before 9:00 PM to transfer us to the main bus station, a 30-minute ride away to the Mien Tay Bus Station.

​The logistics of the sleeper bus were a well-oiled machine. Luggage tagged, seats rechecked, shoes placed into plastic bags. The FUTA bus was a "sleeping giant"—32 berths packed into three narrow rows.

​I had wisely requested a lower bunk earlier. I shimmied into my pod. It was cozy—bordering on tight. At 155cm, I could just comfortably stretch my legs. I lay there, looking at the ceiling, wondering how anyone taller manages to fit without folding themselves like origami.

​As the engine rumbled to life for the eight-hour journey, I felt a surge of excitement. The heat of Saigon was behind me; the mountain coolness of Da Lat awaited. I closed my eyes, trusting the driver to carry us through the dark.

​A Moment of Reflection

​Today was a study in contrasts and the power of generosity. In the park, I saw a traveler who had nothing; in the spa and hotel, I met locals working hard for everything they had. It made me realize that "budget travel" doesn't mean being stingy. The joy I felt from tipping the masseuse and the waiter—giving back to the people who make the journey comfortable—was worth more than saving a few dollars.

​As I lie in this small bus bunk, squeezing into a space that barely fits me, I am reminded that travel requires us to be malleable. We must fit into small spaces, adapt to foreign schedules, and trust strangers to steer the wheel. I am leaving the heat behind, ready for the cold, and fully open to whatever Da Lat has to teach me.

22 Days SOLO in Vietnam (Day 3)

SAIGON HOT & CROWDED CHARM

20th Dec 2025

December 20, 2025

​The morning began with high hopes and a traditional dress. After breakfast at the hotel, I met Phung, my local guide for the day. We were set to tour the city's icons while I wore the Ao Dai, Vietnam’s elegant but unforgiving national dress.

​From our initial texts, Phung seemed like a seasoned professional. In person, however, the reality was different. She was a student doing a part-time gig, sweet but inexperienced. Whether it was my bad luck in picking a Saturday or just her lack of skill, the tour felt like a struggle against the city itself.

​Saigon was boiling. The Ao Dai, usually a symbol of grace, felt like a layer of trapped heat as we navigated the crowds. And the crowds were relentless.

• ​The Pink Church (Tan Dinh): Packed.
• ​The Independence Palace: A sea of people.
• ​The Central Post Office: Shouldor-to-shoulder tourists.
• ​Notre Dame Cathedral: Still shrouded in renovation scaffolding.

​We skipped Ben Thanh Market—I didn’t have the energy to fight more crowds—and headed to the Apartment Cafe instead.

​The photos were the biggest letdown. Phung didn't quite have the photographer's eye I had hoped for. Most of the shots were unflattering angles or blurry messes that went straight to my "Recently Deleted" folder. It was frustrating, but looking at her—young, trying her best to earn money while studying—my annoyance softened into empathy. I channeled my "older sister" energy. I tipped her for her time, and before we parted ways at the Apartment Cafe, I treated us to drinks. I had yet another Salted Coffee (my new addiction), while Phung, unable to handle the caffeine, opted for tea.

​Scents and Regrets

​Alone again, I wandered the spiraling floors of the Apartment Cafe (42 Nguyen Hue). It was here, away from the heat and the crowds, that I found a small stall selling fragrances.

​I fell in love with a scent called Na Nue Rose. It was delicate and distinct. I bought a 100ml bottle, but as I walked away, a pang of regret hit me—I should have bought the big bottle. That scent is going to be the memory of this trip, and 100ml won't last forever. I definitely have to come back for it.

​My shopping dilemma continued at Saigon Centre. I headed to Uniqlo, knowing it's often cheaper here than back home since so many of their products are "Made in Vietnam." I stood in front of the mirror, torn between a practical pair of black pants and a stylish mustard jacket.

​Practicality won. I bought the pants.

Almost immediately, regret won. I should have taken the jacket.

​The Quiet Evening

​I stopped by the Liberty Central Saigon Centre to snap a photo of the building, then found a spot for a late lunch. I ordered Canh Chua Cá (Fish Tomato Soup) and more spring rolls (shrimp and pork this time). The sour, savory soup was exactly what I needed to wash away the dust of the day.

​The evening was about logistics. I walked to the bus station to scout my route for tomorrow, snapping pictures of the streets as the sun went down. The chaotic energy of the day faded into a rhythmic hum.

​Back at the hotel, reality called in the form of laundry. 60,000 VND for a wash and dry—a small price for fresh clothes. I ate dinner at the hotel restaurant, taking advantage of a 15% discount. More spring rolls? Why not.

​I went to sleep early. The Ao Dai was back in the suitcase, the photos were deleted, but the scent of Na Nue Rose lingered on my wrist. Tomorrow is a new departure.

​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.

22 Days SOLO in Vietnam (Day 2)

SAIGON CULINARY ADVENTURE

19th Dec 2025

​December 19, 2025

​The anxiety of yesterday had settled into a cautious curiosity. I started the day with the complimentary breakfast at the Na Nue Hotel—budget travel rule number one: never skip the free meal—but my stomach was barely ready for the marathon of flavors awaiting it.

​I stepped out into the District 1 morning, navigating by Google Maps and sheer will. The traffic here hits different; it is a living, breathing organism. Crossing the street requires a leap of faith, a steady pace, and hyper-awareness as a river of motorbikes and cars flows around you like water around a stone.

​The Hidden Gem & The Friday Menu

​At 9:00 AM, with thirty minutes to spare before my class, I stumbled upon a hidden gem opposite the cooking school. It was time for my first real Egg Coffee. I sat there, staring at the creamy, meringue-like foam, wondering, How on earth do they put an egg in a drink without it tasting like breakfast omelet? It was rich, sweet, and surprisingly smooth—a prelude to the feast ahead.

​By 9:30 AM, I was tying on an apron at M.O.M. Cooking Class. This wasn’t a lecture; it was a hands-on dive into the "Northern & Central" Friday menu.

​We worked for our lunch. I meticulously wrapped the Thua Lam Shrimp Rolls, tying them with green onion ribbons until they looked like little gifts on a banana leaf. I marveled at the crunch of the West Lake Shrimp Cakes (sweet potato nests that are pure texture). The air filled with smoke and savory scents as we grilled the meat patties for the Bun Cha, Hanoi style. And, of course, the Fresh Spring Rolls—mine stood proudly upright, translucent wrapper showing off the shrimp inside. We finished with a silky Coconut Cream Caramel Pudding, a sweet seal on a heavy meal.

​The Vegetable Mix-Up & The Gentleman Scholar

​Bloated but happy, I rolled back to the hotel for a short rest before venturing out again. My destination was a coffee workshop, but in my food coma, I wandered into the wrong building. I found myself staring at a table piled high with leafy greens.

​"Where is the coffee?" I asked, confused.

The realization hit us all at once—wrong class. I laughed it off, backing out of the room. It was one of those funny, lost-in-translation moments that make solo travel memorable.

​After a brief stop at the Catholic Church in District 1 at 2:00 PM—a moment of architectural beauty amidst the noise—I finally found the right place: Province Coffee.

​High on Caffeine and Regret

​The 3:00 PM workshop was a buzz in every sense of the word. We learned the holy trinity of Vietnamese specialty drinks: Egg Coffee (now I know the secret), Coconut Coffee, Salt Coffee, and a classic Latte. The class was filled with laughter, but my body was vibrating. Between the morning brew and the workshop samples, my caffeine intake was dangerously high.

​There was a Polish guy in the class—a true gentleman. We got to talking, and he mentioned his plans to visit East Malaysia, specifically Sabah and Sarawak, next year. My eyes lit up. I shared tips about my side of the world, feeling a surge of pride. But in the haze of conversation and caffeine, I made a rookie mistake: I didn't ask for his Instagram. We parted ways, and I realized too late that I had let a potential friend disappear into the city. What a waste.

​13,000 Steps

​By 5:00 PM, I was roaming Ben Thanh Market, but the energy was frantic and I bought nothing. I was simply walking off the energy.

​I returned to the hotel as the sun set. Dinner was out of the question; the four-course lunch and the liquid diet of heavy coffee had done me in. I checked my pedometer: 13,000 steps. My feet ached, my brain was buzzing, but my heart was full. I was no longer just watching Vietnam from the sidelines; I was cooking it, drinking it, and walking it.

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.

22 Days SOLO in Vietnam (Day 1)

The Weight of a Spontaneous Departure

18th Dec 2025

December 18, 2025 ] Ho Chi Minh City

​4:00 AM comes with a specific kind of silence, the kind that amplifies every rustle of a jacket and the click of a suitcase latch. Kuching was still asleep when I woke, but my mind was already racing toward the finish line of a day that hadn’t yet begun. Passport check. Keys check. The mantra of the traveler.

​By the time I hopped into the Grab car at 5:00 AM, the streetlights were blurring past—a prelude to an exhausting marathon. My 6:45 AM flight to Kuala Lumpur was just the commute; the real journey was the waiting game that followed.

​KLIA is a city unto itself, a place where time distorts. With hours to kill before my 5:30 PM connection to Ho Chi Minh City, I walked endlessly, trying to outpace my own thoughts. Somewhere between a mindless lap of the terminal and a solitary meal, the reality of what I was doing crashed down on me.

​Twenty-two days.

​I stood there in the air-conditioned hum of the airport, and suddenly, I felt a distinct chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. My palms turned clammy; the sweat vanished, replaced by a cold, dry nervousness. My stomach knotted. This wasn't a carefully curated holiday years in the making; this was a spontaneous leap I had booked at the last minute. The questions I had been suppressing began to bubble up: Do I have the budget for this? Can I really handle three weeks entirely alone?

​Crossing the Threshold

​International boarding is the sober reality check of travel. It is strict, humorless, and final. As I tossed my water bottle into the bin—the universal sacrifice of the modern traveler—I took a deep breath. There was no turning back.

​The flight to Vietnam was a blur of anticipation, landing at Tan Son Nhat International Airport at 6:30 PM local time. If I thought the airport was chaotic, the immigration line was a test of endurance. Forty-five minutes of shuffling forward, inch by inch, surrounded by a babel of languages.

​But travel has a funny way of balancing isolation with sudden connection. Amidst the chaos of finding a ride, I met a 23-year-old Indian traveler, also navigating the bewilderment of arrival. We were two strangers in a foreign land, and in that moment, allies.

​"Let’s share a Grab," I offered.

​The ride to District 1 took another 45 minutes, the car weaving through the legendary, river-like traffic of Saigon. We put two locations into the app. I got out first at the Na Nue Hotel, but I couldn't fully relax until I watched the little car icon on my phone complete its journey to drop her off safely. Another travel acquaintance added to Instagram; a small, shared victory against the unknown.

​The Taste of Saigon

​By the time I checked in, it was 10:00 PM. In Malaysia, my body clock screamed that it was 11:00 PM—far too late for a heavy meal. But the hunger was undeniable.

​I sat down to my first taste of Vietnam: Spring rolls, a crispy pancake, and the famous salted coffee. The flavors were vibrant, a sharp contrast to the sterile airport food from earlier. However, as the caffeine and heavy dough settled in my stomach, regret wasn't far behind. Late-night eating is a vice I usually avoid, knowing the toll it takes on the body.

​To top it off, my room was on the third floor. No elevator. As I hauled my luggage up the stairs, lungs burning and legs aching, I had a sudden epiphany: No wonder the Vietnamese have such slim figures. Every day here is a workout.

​Lying in bed, exhausted but safe, the cold anxiety from KLIA had faded, replaced by the heavy fatigue of arrival. I was alone, over-budget, and tired—but I was here. Day one of twenty-two was in the books.

​A Moment of Reflection

​Lying in bed on that first night, the physical exhaustion finally overtook the mental anxiety. Today taught me that the hardest part of any journey is often just the threshold—that chilling moment in the airport where fear whispers that you aren't ready. But I also learned that "alone" doesn't have to mean "lonely." The simple act of sharing a cab with a stranger proved that the world is full of potential allies if you’re brave enough to open the door. I am here, over-budget and under-prepared, but I have taken the leap. That is enough for day one.