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| 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]
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