SOLO in Vietnam Day 19 : The RM58 Emperor and the Museum of Snacks

5hb Jan 2025

There is a specific kind of joy in feeling like you have robbed a hotel—legally.

I woke up expecting a "sad hostel breakfast"—you know the kind: dry toast, questionable jam, and a banana that has seen better days. Instead, I walked into a banquet fit for an emperor. I stood in the dining hall of the Cordial Grand, plate in hand, doing the math. I paid RM58 (approx. $13 USD) for this room. How? The spread was insane. There were mountains of fresh passion fruit (liquid gold back home, but abundant here), creamy yogurts, and—to my absolute delight—pork skin dishes I haven’t seen in years. I didn't just eat; I dined. I fueled up with the determination of a woman who knows a good deal when she sees one. If I accomplish nothing else today, I thought, at least I won breakfast.

The Body Strikes Back But while my stomach was cheering, the rest of my body was waving a white flag. I wanted to go out. I wanted to conquer the Dragon Bridge again. But the adrenaline of the last 18 days finally crashed. My legs felt heavy, my head felt floaty, and my energy bar was blinking red. So, I surrendered. I spent the afternoon by the pool, not swimming, but sitting. I opened my laptop and looked at my blog. It’s messy. The grammar isn't perfect. The layout is simple. But I realized: I don't care. This isn't for the Pulitzer Prize. This is for Future Me. It is proof that I was here, that I lived this.

The Lie of the Weather App By evening, cabin fever set in. The app said 22°C. Manageable, I thought. Pleasant, I thought. I threw a jacket over my short pants and headed to the beach.

Mistake. The wind off the East Sea doesn't just blow; it bites. Within minutes, my exposed knees turned into icicles. I walked along the shoreline, shivering but stubborn, refusing to turn back immediately. The beach was wide and sandy, but let’s be honest—it doesn't hold a candle to the beaches back home in Sabah. Sorry, Da Nang. Borneo wins this round. But the view wasn't about the sand; it was about the humans. I saw families building castles in the gale. I saw couples fighting their hair for a selfie. And I saw the other solo walkers—hands deep in pockets, staring at the horizon. We are the "Silent Club," us watchers. We nodded at each other, united by the cold.

The Mini-Mart Crawl Too frozen to stay, I retreated. To warm up, I invented a game: The Mini-Mart Hop. I stopped at every WinMart, Circle K, and local bodega I passed. I didn't need anything. I just wanted to look. There is a strange comfort in foreign convenience stores. It is a "Museum of the Mundane." I browsed the weird soda flavors, the endless aisles of instant noodles, the chips that don't exist in Malaysia. It was a small adventure, but it was enough.

I returned to my room, thawed out, and ready to sleep. I didn't climb a mountain today. I didn't see a temple. But I fed my body like a queen and gave it permission to rest. And sometimes, that is the biggest victory of all.

---

Reflection: The Art of the "Zero Day"

In the hustle of travel, we often feel guilty if we aren't "doing" something. We think every day needs to be a highlight reel of temples, tours, and treks. We fear that resting is "wasting time."

Today taught me the value of the "Zero Day." The day where the only thing you conquer is a plate of passion fruit. My body forced me to slow down, and in that slowness, I found gratitude. I didn't need a grand adventure today; I just needed to be present. I am thankful for the opportunity to see the world, even if today, the world was just a windy beach and a shelf of potato chips.

Sometimes, the most important journey isn't to the top of a mountain; it's the journey back to yourself, when you finally give yourself permission to just be.

Date: January 5, 2026 Location: Da Nang (Cordial Grand Hotel) Mood: Stomach Full, Battery Empty.

SOLO in Vietnam Day 18 : The Imaginary Son, The Male Gaze, and The Dragon's Breath

 

04th Jan 2026

There is a special kind of embarrassment reserved for travelers who think they are communicating perfectly, only to realize they have been having a conversation with themselves.

I started my morning in Hoi An with a "Last Supper"—one final Salted Coffee and a Bacon Banh Mi. My private car to Da Nang arrived at 12:00 PM sharp. For the hour-long drive, I was the perfect guest. I chatted with the driver, convinced he was the son of my homestay owner. "Your mother is such a wonderful host," I told him. He nodded and smiled. "And congratulations on the newborn baby! How is the wife?" He nodded and smiled again. I spent the ride praising his family, asking about his life, and feeling a deep connection. What a nice son, I thought.

We arrived at the Cordial Grand Hotel. As he unloaded my bags, he pulled out his phone, typed into Google Translate, and showed me the screen: "I am not the son. I am just the driver she hired."

My jaw hit the pavement. I had spent an hour sending love to a stranger’s imaginary baby. Later, the real son sent me photos of the actual baby celebrating its first full moon. I looked at the pictures and laughed. Language barriers are tricky, but at least the vibes were positive.

Little Korea and The Chill Down My Spine Da Nang is not Hoi An. Hoi An is yellow walls and lanterns; Da Nang is skyscrapers and... Hangul? Walking through the streets, I was disoriented. Am I in Vietnam or Seoul? The sheer number of Korean signs and BBQ shops is overwhelming. It feels like "Little Korea" dropped into the tropics.

It was Sunday, so I made my pilgrimage to Da Nang Cathedral. As a Catholic, I always look for a church in a new city—it’s my way of checking in with the community. The walk was 45 minutes, and the streets were eerily quiet. I usually feel safe, but today, the silence felt heavy. I noticed men—mostly older, in their 50s—staring. Not a friendly glance, but a linger. It gave me a chill down my spine. This is the dark side of solo female travel. Your intuition sharpens. You learn to walk with purpose, to not make eye contact, to listen to the "danger" signal in your gut. I reached the church safely, but the walk was a reminder: You are alone here. Pay attention.

The Dragon and The Swedes At night, the mood shifted from creepy to magical. I went to the famous Dragon Bridge. On weekends at 9:00 PM, the metal beast breathes fire and water. I arrived 2.5 hours early. Was it stupid to stand in the cold wind for that long? Maybe. But I wanted the front row. I wanted to see the monster wake up.

And I wasn't alone. Standing next to me was a disgustingly cute couple from Sweden. They were so full of love it was contagious. We started talking, and suddenly, the long wait flew by. We exchanged Instagrams, and I found myself adding Sweden to my bucket list just because of their warm energy.

Then, the show began. The dragon roared. Fire blasted into the night sky, warming our frozen faces. Then came the water, spraying the screaming crowd. It was fantastic. It was silly, grand, and communal.

I took a Grab bike back to the hotel. The driver drove fast, weaving through traffic, and I felt that familiar rush. Trust the driver, I told myself. Even if he isn't who you think he is.

---

Reflection: The False and The Real

Today was a day of illusions. The driver wasn't the son. The streets weren't Korea, even if they looked like it. The dragon wasn't real, but the fire was hot.

But amidst all the confusion and the uncomfortable stares, the connection was real. I misunderstood the driver, but we still shared a smile. I felt unsafe on the walk, but I found sanctuary in the church. I stood in the cold with strangers, but I left with new friends.

Da Nang feels different—more solitary, colder, harder to read. But as I sleep tonight, I realize that even in a city of illusions, you can still find real magic if you are willing to wait 2.5 hours for it.

Date: January 4, 2026 Location: Da Nang (Cordial Grand Hotel) Mood: Confused, Cold, but Awed.

SOLO in Vietnam Day 17 : Aging - Budget Out - Shrank - Spiritual Tug of war

03rd Jan 2026

At 8:00 AM, I sat down for a simple breakfast of bread, eggs, and coffee. But as I packed my bag for the day, I stopped. I held up my blister pack of medicine. The paracetamol? Half gone. The allergy pills? Half gone.

I stared at the foil wrappers. In my "real life," I rarely swallow pills. I pride myself on being healthy. But on this trip, medicine hasn't been a "just in case"—it has been a necessity. It hit me hard: I am getting old. I am dragging my body up mountains and through rainstorms like I am still a teenager, but my cells are checking their watches. My spirit is young, but my knees are keeping score. I made a silent vow to the mirror: From now on, I have to take better care of this vessel.

The Abundance Paradox The realization of mortality was followed by a check on reality. I walked to the money changer to exchange my stash of Malaysian Ringgit for VND. Let me be clear: I am not broke. Abundance always flows to me in unexpected ways. But my travel budget? That is bleeding out. My spending habits have followed me across the border like a bad ghost. Breaking into my emergency fund feels like a defeat, but I choose to see it as a blessing—I have the funds to break into. I am safe. God provides.

But the universe has a wicked sense of humor. Moments after I exchanged my cash, desperate for a good deal, I walked past a street vendor. Salted Coffee: 20,000 VND. I froze. For days, I have been paying 40,000 or 50,000 VND. And here, on my very last day in Hoi An, I find the cheapest, most authentic cup in the city. I felt cheated, but mostly I felt the irony. The deal was always there; I just found it too late.

The Silent Asian In the afternoon, I joined a sunset tour to Marble Mountain. Our guide, Thien, was excellent—his English was sharp, his storytelling vivid. But the group dynamic was heavy. I was the only Asian. The rest were Europeans. As we climbed the caves, the conversation shifted to the heavy stuff: The Vietnam War, global politics, religion, and the recent news about Trump. They were loud, opinionated, and articulate. And me? I shrank.

I realized I know very little about global politics. While they debated, I just listened, terrified someone would ask for my opinion. I feel small, I thought. They weren't being mean; they were just educated and confident. I felt the "Asian Awkwardness"—that instinct to stay quiet. But deep down, I knew it wasn't just culture. It was a lack of knowledge. I sat there, resolving to upgrade myself. I want to be the woman who can stand in a circle of strangers and speak her mind without fear.

The Spiritual Tug-of-War We visited the Lady Buddha on Monkey Mountain (though the monkeys were hiding). Thien told us how she faces the sea, her hand raised to protect the fishermen from typhoons. She is a symbol of safety.

But at Marble Mountain, my safety was tested. We stood before a statue—a "Cupid" figure known for blessing love lives. Thien told the group: "If you want to find a partner, bow three times and pray." My heart jumped. Yes, it whispered. I long for a partner. I stepped forward, ready to bow. But my soul pulled me back. I am Catholic. My loyalty belongs to Lord Christ Jesus and Mother Mary. I cannot bow to another god just because I am lonely. It was a violent internal struggle. The desire for love against the fidelity of faith. The confusion gave me a physical headache. In the end, I stepped back. I walked away, breathing in the fresh air outside the cave. I chose my faith, but the ache of the un-bowed head lingered.

The Drunken Philosopher I escaped the pressure cooker and went for a quiet dinner near my homestay. I was sitting alone when a French lady wobbled over and joined my table. She was intoxicated—eyes glassy, smile loose—but coherent. We talked over food. She didn't talk about Trump. She didn't ask me to bow to statues. She just talked about life in broken English. It was messy, it was random, and it was exactly what I needed. After feeling "not smart enough" on the tour and "not faithful enough" on the mountain, it was nice to just be "human enough" with a tipsy stranger.

I am packing tonight. Hoi An is done. The medicine is half empty. But my spirit is full of lessons.

---

Reflection: The Upgrade

Travel exposes your gaps. It exposed the gap in my physical stamina (the pills). It exposed the gap in my intellectual confidence (the politics). It exposed the gap in my heart (the longing for a partner).

Today was uncomfortable. I felt old, I felt uneducated, and I felt spiritually conflicted. But discomfort is just the sound of growing. I am leaving Hoi An with a new list of goals. I need to take care of my body. I need to read more history so I can speak up. And I need to trust that God has a plan for my love life that doesn't involve bowing to statues in a cave.

I am not broke; I am investing in a newer version of myself.

Date: January 3, 2026 Location: Hoi An (Last Day) Mood: Growing Pains

SOLO in Vetnam Day 16 : The Graveyard of Drafts and The Art Of Dissapearing

02nd Jan 2026

At 8:30 AM, I sat down for breakfast prepared by the owner of The Cherry Garden. The coffee was strong, which was good, because today I had a ghost to confront.

I opened my laptop and stared at a digital graveyard. I created this blog in 2011. That is 14 years ago. For over a decade, this space has been a collection of good intentions and half-written stories. My life is sitting in the "Drafts" folder, hidden away because I was too busy, too lazy, or perhaps too scared that it wasn't "perfect" enough to show the world.

But Day 16 of solo travel changes you. It makes you brave. I decided that this trip—this Vietnam memoir—would not die in the drafts. Yes, I am using AI to help me polish the grammar. But the heart? The "Sauce Rebellion"? The "White Pants Crisis"? That is all me. Writing is hard, but today, I don't care about the difficulty. I only care about the truth. So, I started typing. I started resurrecting the days.

The Rule-Breaker on Two Wheels By 3:00 PM, my brain needed a break from the screen. I borrowed the owner’s bicycle again. I had no destination. I just pedaled. I found myself cycling near areas that looked slightly prohibited. Now, I am not a criminal, but I am an adventurer. I operate in the grey areas. I’m the type who breaks the rules only when I feel it’s "right" to do so. I stopped to take a picture of the sky. It was glowing with a strange, beautiful shine—a golden hour so perfect it felt like a painting. I didn't know it then, but the sky was lying to me. It was smiling before the slap.

The Ultimate Camouflage In the evening, I went hunting for the "Day 1 feeling." I returned to the street where the locals eat, looking for the comfort of plastic stools and street noise. I ordered Papaya Salad with Pork Skin and Baked Rice Paper. It was crunchy, spicy, and texturally confusing in the best way.

As I ate, a local man turned to me and started rattling off sentences in rapid-fire Vietnamese. I blinked. "I am not Vietnamese," I said in English. He stopped, looked at me in shock, and laughed. "I thought you were Vietnamese! You look just like us." "We look alike, yes," I smiled. "But I am Malaysian."

I walked away feeling a strange sense of victory. Well done, Mea. On Day 1, I was a tourist with a shield. On Day 16, I have camouflaged so well that I am confusing the locals. I am no longer just watching the painting; I have blended into the canvas.

The Rain Check I wanted to extend my walk to get my steps in, but the sky—the one I admired earlier—betrayed me. The rain didn't sprinkle; it dumped. And of course, this is the Law of Travel: When I carry an umbrella, the sun blazes. When I leave it, the floods come. I didn't care about my clothes getting soaked—water dries. But I clutched my sling bag to my chest like a baby. My passport. My money. My life. I ran home wet, shivering, but safe.

"What a day," I whispered to the empty room. I dried off, changed clothes, and went back to the laptop. The prompts are written. The drafts are opening. The story continues.

---

Reflection: Living Outside the Drafts

Today I realized that life is too short to live in the "Drafts" folder.

For 14 years, I held back my stories because I wanted them to be perfect before I hit publish. For days, I held back from walking in the rain because I didn't have an umbrella.

But perfection is a trap. If I wait for the writing to be perfect, I will never publish. If I wait for the weather to be perfect, I will never walk. The rain today taught me that you can't foresee everything. You can check the forecast, you can pack the umbrella, and you can still get soaked. And that’s okay. The documents are dry. The story is being told. The drafts are finally becoming real.

I am writing this not because it is perfect, but because it happened. And that is enough.

Date: January 2, 2026 Location: The Cherry Garden Homestay, Hoi An Status: Camouflaged.

SOLO In Vietnam Day 15: Ruins & Resurrection

1st Jan 2026

Most of the world sleeps in on January 1st, nursing hangovers and regrets from the night before. But in Hoi An, I woke up with the sun.

It felt appropriate, somehow, to start the New Year not by looking forward, but by looking back—way back. I had booked an early morning tour to My Son Sanctuary, the ancient spiritual capital of the Champa Kingdom.

But before the history began, I had to deal with a modern crisis: The White Pants. I pulled them on—the pair I had painstakingly exchanged yesterday—and looked in the mirror. Disaster. They felt "buggy." Baggy. A fabric failure. I felt a "long-distance relationship" forming between my legs and the linen. It was the first morning of the New Year, and my confidence plummeted. My instinct was to run back to the shop, demand a second exchange, and start the year looking perfect. But I stopped. I thought of the seller lady. Is it fair to her? To start her New Year with a picky tourist returning the same item twice? No. I made a decision. I would keep the pants. I would bring them home, and if I never wear them, I will donate them. I walked out the door in my old clothes, leaving the white pants—and my vanity—in the suitcase.

The Kingdom in the Jungle My day immediately shifted from frustration to gratitude. The owner of my homestay, knowing I had an early start, was up before me. At 7:30 AM, she had a hot breakfast ready. There was no obligation for her to do this, but she did. At 7:45 AM sharp, my tour van arrived. In a travel world often plagued by "island time," the punctuality felt like a good omen for 2026.

Our group was small and intimate—just eleven of us from Malaysia, Singapore, Australia, and India. We were a microcosm of the world, bouncing along a Vietnamese road together.

Our guide was a storyteller, weaving the tragic and majestic history of the Cham people as we drove toward the jungle. He spoke of the Champa Kingdom, of the wars, and of the princesses who sacrificed themselves to die with their husbands—a heavy, haunting history of loyalty and loss. He told us how these magnificent red-brick towers were swallowed by the jungle for centuries, only to be rediscovered by French hunters who stumbled upon them while chasing game.

Walking into the sanctuary in the morning light was pure bliss. The air was cool, and the ruins stood silent and imposing against the green mountains. These weren't just piles of bricks; they were a map of the universe. We walked through the meditation halls, passed the crumbling gates, and stood in the prayer rooms where kings once worshipped Shiva.

To stand among ruins that have survived wars, bombings, and centuries of neglect on the very first morning of a new year puts things into perspective. My morning worry about my "baggy pants" felt incredibly small in the shadow of these towers.

Rice Paper and Rituals After the heavy history, we lightened the mood with a stop at a local farm. We learned to make rice paper the traditional way. Spreading the wet batter over the steaming cloth required a delicate touch I wasn't sure I had, but it was fun. There is something grounding about making food with your hands—it connects you to the earth in a way that just eating never does.

The Ride to Mass The day ended with another reminder that I am being watched over. In the evening, I found a restaurant owned by a Catholic family. As I ate, I mentioned I wanted to go to church for the New Year's Mass. Without hesitating, the owner offered me a ride on her motorbike. "I am going anyway," she insisted. "You can join me if you want." And I did. I sat in the church, surrounded by a new community, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude. On January 1st, I had touched the ancient bricks of a Hindu temple in the morning and prayed in a Catholic church in the evening. I had been fed by my host and driven by a stranger.

I went to bed not just happy, but full. The New Year had begun not with fireworks, but with grace.

 

Reflection: The Architecture of Grace

The Lesson: Today showed me that History is resilience. My Son Sanctuary was bombed, abandoned, and overgrown, yet it still stands. It is a UNESCO World Heritage site now, celebrated for its beauty. I want to carry that energy into 2026. No matter what "bombings" or failures I faced in 2025—or what pants didn't fit me this morning—I am still standing. I can still be beautiful in my resilience.

The Green Flag: Receiving Help. In the past, I might have refused the ride from the restaurant owner, fearing I was imposing or that there was a catch. Today, I simply said "Thank you" and accepted the blessing.

The Wish for 2026: To be like the My Son ruins: strong enough to weather the storms, but open enough to let the light in. And to be like the restaurant owners: kind enough to offer a bike ride to a stranger just because we are heading in the same direction.