 |
| 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
No comments:
Post a Comment