The Art of Letting Go and The Sleeper Bus
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| 21st Dec 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.
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