SOLO in Vietnam Day 14: The Last Recepi Of The Year

 

31st Dec 2025

New Year’s Eve usually comes with heavy expectations. It demands to be loud, momentous, and shared with a crowd.

But here in Hoi An, on the final day of 2025, I decided to celebrate with a very practical kind of magic: a cooking class.

I didn't book it because of a burning passion for culinary arts. I booked it because I am a pragmatist (and let's be honest, a budget traveler). For one price, I got a market tour, a coconut boat ride, a full meal, and—crucially—company. It was calculated value.

The morning kicked off at 9 AM in the market. Our guide taught us how to judge the freshness of vegetables—a skill I will definitely forget by next week, but it felt important in the moment. Then, we moved to the famous coconut boat village.

Being the only solo traveler in a sea of couples usually stings a little, but today it had its perks. I got an entire round boat to myself. I was spun through the palm-lined canals by an elderly man who handled the boat with the grace of someone who has lived on the water since birth.

The downside of solitude, however, is the photography. My boatman was a master of the paddle, not the iPhone. He couldn't frame a shot to save his life.

But travel has a way of balancing the scales. The other tourists saw me alone, snapped photos of me spinning in my basket, and AirDropped them to me later. I did the same for them. We were a temporary tribe of strangers, documenting each other’s joy so no one went home without proof.

The Sauce of Hesitation

Back in the kitchen, I learned a hard lesson in humility.

The chef gave us a simple ratio for the sauce: One tablespoon of sugar to two tablespoons of fish sauce.

I looked at the spoon. I thought about my health. I thought, “I know better. That’s too much sugar.”

So, the "CEO of Control" I quietly reduced the sugar.

The result? My sauce was trash. It lacked the punch, the balance, and the soul of the original. It tasted like hesitation.

Lesson learned: Don't argue with the chef. Sometimes, the recipe exists for a reason. You have to trust the process before you earn the right to improvise.

As we finished, discussing how cool the giant cooking chopsticks were, the chef surprised us. He gifted each of us a pair to take home. It was a little wink from the universe—I had just admired them, and now they were mine.

The Lanterns and the Blur

The evening brought the ritual I had been waiting for. My homestay owner arranged a private lantern boat for me at 6:30 PM. It was cheaper than the tours online, and felt more personal.

An older auntie fetched me and led me to the riverbank. The boat was small, strung with just a few lanterns, piloted by an older man. It wasn't one of the flashy, neon-lit tourist barges cruising the center; it was quiet.

The auntie offered to take my picture. Click. Blurry. Click. Dark. Click. Trash bin.

I sighed. The curse of the bad photo struck again.

We drifted to the middle of the river. The boatman lit two paper lanterns for me. The flame caught, illuminating the thin paper from within. I held them in my hands, feeling the heat. I didn't worry about the photo this time. I closed my eyes.

I had two wishes, but they carried the same intention. I set them onto the black water and watched them drift away, joining the thousands of other lights bobbing toward the sea.

"I release what I could not keep. I keep what belongs to me. May peace follow me wherever I am."

The Quiet Countdown

I ended the year in the most backpacker way possible: at the Night Market, ready to be scammed.

I bargained for souvenirs, knowing I was probably overpaying but enjoying the game. I bought a banana pancake with peanut butter—my final snack of 2025—and walked back through the crowded streets.

I stopped at a cafe filled with books, a cozy refuge from the noise. Sitting there, surrounded by stories, the familiar anxiety crept in. I counted my remaining VND. I mentally converted my Ringgit. The money is getting tight.

But I didn't let it ruin the night.

I didn't go to the Old Town for the fireworks. I didn't push through the sweaty crowds to count down the seconds. Instead, I went back to my homestay. I lay in bed, listening to the distant booms of the fireworks and the cheering of the city.

I was alone, but I wasn't lonely. 2025 ended not with a bang, but with a quiet, satisfied exhale.

New Year's Reflection: The Recipe for Letting Go

What I Learned: Today was about Surrender.

• In the kitchen, I tried to control the outcome (less sugar) and spoiled the sauce.

• On the boat, I couldn't control the photos, so I had to rely on strangers.

• On the river, I released the lanterns, literally letting go of the light into the dark.

The Green Flag: Adaptability. I didn't get the "perfect" photos of the lantern moment, and I didn't get the perfect sauce. But I accepted both with grace. I’m learning that the memory is more important than the evidence.

The Red Flag: The "I Know Better" Syndrome. My instinct to change the recipe in the cooking class is the same instinct that makes me stubborn in life. I need to learn to follow the guidance of those who know more than me, instead of assuming my way is safer.

The Wish: As I move into 2026, I want to carry the spirit of those lanterns. I want to stop clutching so tightly to things—money, control, the past—and trust that what belongs to me will stay, and what drifts away was meant to go.

Happy New Year.

Date: December 31, 2025 Location: Hoi An Vibe: Less sugar, more trust.

SOLO in Vietnam Day 13: Deja Vu on Two Rusty Wheels

 

30th Dec 2025

​I arrived in the ancient city at 7:00 AM, expecting the shock of the new. Instead, I stepped into a mirror.

​The Grab car couldn't navigate the narrow alleyways of my homestay, so I walked the last five minutes. The morning air was crisp, and my welcome committee was waiting: a guard dog who announced my arrival with a sharp bark, and an owner who waved me in like family. Since I couldn't check in until noon, I dropped my bags and stepped out to greet the city.

​That’s when the glitch in the matrix happened.

I looked at the yellow heritage buildings with their tiled roofs. Am I in Penang?

I walked by the riverside, watching the boats bob in the water. Is this Semporna?

I wandered into the bustling market, smelling the wet pavement and fresh greens. Am I back in my hometown?

​Hoi An feels like a remix of my life. It is a mash-up of every place I have ever loved. The only reminders that I was actually in Vietnam were the stacks of metal coffee filters and the piles of purple perilla leaves for sale. Everything else felt like a memory I hadn't lived yet.

Hunger broke the spell. I grabbed a Banh Mi and a black coffee, expecting magic.

I got disappointment.

They used beef pâté. It was heavy and gamey. I am a pork pâté girl—I need that savory, fatty hit. I chewed with regret. Note to self: Ask before you bite.

​But the afternoon offered redemption.

I spotted a street stall swarmed by locals—the universal sign of good food. I pulled up a plastic stool and ordered a bowl of noodle soup with special chewy noodles and pork. 45,000 VND. One sip of the rich, clear broth, and the beef pâté tragedy was forgiven. It was cheap, honest, and delicious.

After checking in, I borrowed the owner’s bicycle.

"Bicycle" is a generous word. It was a relic of a bygone era, rattling and groaning with every rotation. The roads were narrow, and pedaling required a full athletic effort.

But I pushed the rusty machine out toward the edge of town, and suddenly, the heritage buildings vanished.

I was in the paddy fields.

​I watched a water buffalo grazing lazily in the mud. I watched farmers bent over the green stalks. It was a scene straight out of my Kampung (village). It was difficult to pedal, but easy to breathe. Watching the slow rhythm of the farm, I felt a deep sense of peace settle over me.

​The Wardrobe Malfunction

I ended the day with a mission: find white pants to match my pink Ao Dai. I found a pair for 150,000 VND and walked back to the homestay feeling triumphant.

I tried them on.

They didn't fit.

I sighed, looking at the fabric that refused to cooperate. I went to bed early, resting my legs and plotting my return to the shop tomorrow.

​Reflection: The World is a Mirror

​We travel to see how the world is different. We want to see strange architecture, hear foreign languages, and taste exotic foods.

​But today, Hoi An taught me that the most powerful moments are often the ones that feel familiar.

Seeing the heritage walls didn't make me feel far away; it made me feel grounded. Seeing the buffalo in the field reminded me that whether it’s a paddy field in Sabah or a paddy field in Vietnam, the rhythm of life is the same. The earth is worked, the food is cooked, and the neighbors wave you in.

​The world is not a collection of strangers. It’s just one big Kampung spread out over different borders. And sometimes, you have to ride a rusty bicycle to realize how small it really is.

Date : 30th Dec 2025 [Hoi An]

SOLO in Vietnam Day 12 : The Styrofoam Saint & The Spaceship

 

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’ve been eating noodle soup at the same spot. I was a regular. I was committed.

But while 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. Instead, I’ve been eating carbs and loyalty.

Lesson learned: Loyalty is noble, but in travel (and maybe in love), you really should shop around first.

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, 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 Nasi Campur (Economy Rice) 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 blue line twisted and turned like a snake. Outside, it was pitch black. Inside, I was gently jostled side to side, like 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.

Transit 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 white-knuckling 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: December 29, 2025 Route: Da Lat → Hoi An Status: Cargo, but comfortable.

SOLO in Vietnam Day 11: The Art Of Dissolving

 

28th Dec 2025

​There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from doing absolutely nothing for eight hours.

It’s a heavy, boneless feeling, where your limbs feel like jelly and your brain feels like a blank sheet of paper.

That is how I spent my birthday: Dissolving.

Most birthdays demand noise. They ask for cake, candles, and the forced laughter of a crowd. But this year, I gifted myself the opposite. I arrived at Suoi May Onsen before 10:00 AM, checking my shoes and my stress at the door. I had nothing to lose and everything to heal.

For the next eight hours, I wasn't a traveler, a daughter, or a tourist. I was just a body in water.

I drifted through fourteen different mineral baths, letting the heat soak into bones that were wrecked from climbing Da Lat’s hills. I sat in the steam room, inhaling crushed herbs, sweating out the cold mountain air. I ate lunch in total silence, staring at the pine trees, enjoying a luxury I rarely allow myself: the luxury of being completely alone.

By 4:00 PM, after massages, facials, and hair washes, I walked out feeling physically perfect. My skin was glowing. My muscles were loose. I was ready for a celebratory dinner.

But the universe had other plans.

The Divine Cancellation

Remember the church lady I met yesterday? The one who offered the home-cooked meal?

Yeah, that fell apart. We missed each other's texts, the timing got messy, and we had to cancel.

A younger me would have felt rejected. Eating alone on my birthday? Really?

But the me who turned a year older today just smiled. It felt like a divine nudge. Not tonight, the universe seemed to say. Tonight is not for small talk. Tonight is for the truth.

The Ambush in the Pew

I grabbed a quick dinner and walked to Thanh Tam Church for the 7:00 PM English Mass. I sat in the pew, feeling floaty and light from the spa, ready to offer a polite little prayer of thanks for another year of life.

But God didn't want my politeness. He wanted my tears.

The reading was about the Holy Family. Then, the choir began to sing. The lyrics weren't about birthdays or celebrations; they were about parents. They sang about sacrifice, about the weight of raising a child, about the silent, breaking labor of love.

The melody bypassed my brain and went straight to my throat.

I sat there, surrounded by strangers, and felt a sudden, crushing wave of guilt.

I have always wanted the best for my parents. I work hard. I try to be a "good daughter." But sitting in that church in Vietnam, thousands of miles from home, the truth whispered to me:

I don't know how to love them.

Not really. Not in the way they need.

Like so many of us, I am trapped in the "Asian Silence"—that awkward cultural box where love is felt deeply but never spoken. I want to hug them, but I freeze. I want to say "I love you," but I buy them things instead. I use money as a language because words feel too dangerous.

I walked out of the church trembling. My body had been pampered for eight hours, but my soul had just been stripped bare.

I ended the night with a cup of coffee and light xiao mai (shu mai)—my ultimate comfort food. I sat in my hotel room, packing my bags for Hoi An, checking my pedometer.

13,450 steps.

Even on the day I promised to rest, I kept moving. Maybe I’m running away from the silence. Or maybe, finally, I’m walking toward it.

Birthday Reflection: The Labor Day

We spend our birthdays waiting for wishes. We want the notifications to pile up; we want to feel seen.

But today, listening to that choir, I realized I have it backward. My birthday isn't my day. It is my mother's Labor Day. It is the anniversary of the day she broke her body to give me the world. It is the anniversary of my father's first day of lifelong worry.

I don't need wishes from people who don't know my name. I need to learn how to speak to the people who gave me my name.

Today, I am grateful for the life they gave me. My birthday wish is simple: Next year, I hope I don't just feel the love. I hope I find the courage to speak it.

Date: December 28, 2025 (My Birthday) Location: Da Lat State: Body like water, Heart like stone.

SOLO In Vietnam Day 10 : The Maze, The Fried Rice, and The Open Door

 

27th Dec 2025

​A plan is just a cage with a schedule. Today, I decided to leave the door open.

At 10:00 AM, the thermometer read 17°C—the kind of weather that practically begs you to be outside. So, I listened. No tours, no guides, no itinerary. Just me, a bowl of Siu Mai noodle soup for breakfast, and a vague mission to book a spa appointment for my birthday tomorrow.

I debated taking a Grab bike to the Suoi May Onsen, which is about 30 minutes away. But my feet made the decision for me. Why rush through a painting? I walked.

And because I walked, I actually saw things.

I spotted gardens exploding with flowers that would have been a blurry smear from a motorbike window. I crossed chaotic streets with the confidence of a local—no flinching, just flowing.

And then, I stumbled on a hidden gem: Tiệm Cà Phê Mây Nhớ Hoài. It’s this little café perched on a hill, wrapped in pine trees, overlooking the lake and mountains. I stopped for coffee and ended up playing with the owner's dogs. The owner saw me trying to take a selfie with the view and kindly stepped in to take a proper photo for me.

If I had taken that Grab bike, I would have missed the dogs, the view, and the kindness.

I reached the Onsen, booked my "Birthday Treatment" for tomorrow, and even found a shortcut back down to the lake. The city was finally unfolding itself to me like a secret map.

By evening, I drifted toward Lam Vien Square. From the outside, it looks like a giant glass artichoke. But inside? It’s an underground labyrinth. A mall, a theater, a food court—it’s basically a subterranean city. I felt like a mouse in a maze, wandering deeper into the belly of Da Lat.

Emerging from the underground, a smell stopped me dead in my tracks.

Wok hei. The breath of the wok.

I’ve been avoiding rice on this trip—too heavy, too familiar. But the scent of salted fish fried rice pulled me into a street-side café. I surrendered. It was my first proper plate of rice in days, and it tasted like heaven.

But the real hunger I’ve been feeling isn’t for food; it’s for connection. And tonight, I finally found it.

I decided to check out Thanh Tam Church, a place close to my hotel that I had somehow ignored. It was only 9 minutes away.

I stepped into the courtyard and was immediately hit by a wall of warmth. The Christmas decorations were dazzling, but the people were brighter. There was an event happening—music, laughter, a lucky draw.

I mingled. I met the priest. And then, a woman approached me. She was there with her mother, and she started offering me food.

Here it is, I thought. The warmth I missed on Christmas Eve. The vibe was electric.

Then she told me the magic words: "English Mass tomorrow at 7:00 PM."

My birthday. An English mass. It felt like a gift wrapped just for me.

We exchanged Facebook Messenger contacts (WhatsApp isn't really her thing). I impulsively invited her to a hotpot dinner tomorrow to celebrate my birthday. She agreed.

As I walked back to the hotel, my phone pinged.

It was her.

"My husband would love to cook for you at our house. We are 18 minutes away."

I stared at the screen. A stranger inviting me into her home? A home-cooked meal?

I didn't promise anything yet—I left it to the wind—but I went to bed with the biggest smile of the trip. The connection I have been craving has finally arrived.

Reflection: The Speed of Connection

For ten days, I’ve been chasing sights—clouds, waterfalls, crazy houses. I moved fast, booked tours, and ticked boxes.

But connection doesn't happen at 60km/h on the back of a motorbike. It happens at walking speed.

Because I walked today, I found the café on the hill. Because I lingered at the church, I found a friend.

We think we need to make things happen when we travel. But sometimes, you just have to walk slowly enough for the world to catch up to you.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I am turning a year older in a foreign land, but for the first time on this trip, I don't feel like a stranger.

Date: December 27, 2025 Location: Da Lat Temperature: 17°C (Chilly perfection)

SOLO in Vietnam Day 9: The Google Maps Betrayal and The Taste Of Home

 

26th Dec 2025

​A planless day is a dangerous luxury. Without a schedule, you are left alone with your thoughts—and your legs.

The lie I told myself this morning was simple: Today is a recovery day. I woke up late, defiant against the alarm clock, nursing a mild cold. I had no plan. I had no guide. I just had a bowl of hot noodle soup and a vague desire to secure my exit strategy.

My first mission was practical. I walked to An Phu Travel to book my ticket to Hoi An. I compared the apps, I did the math, and I settled on a "Luxury Coach" sleeper bus. They promised 22 cabins—a significant upgrade from the coffin-style bunks that brought me here. Ticket in hand, I felt lighter. The escape route was secured.

But the wind in Da Lat today was aggressive. It whipped through the streets, pushing me toward the lakeside and triggering an itch for caffeine. I ducked into a café—a tourist trap, I knew, but my legs needed a chair. I ordered my obsession, Salted Coffee, and glanced at the menu. I laughed out loud. Cha Kui. There it was, in black and white: Malaysian Fried Dough Sticks. I am thousands of miles from home, in the central highlands of Vietnam, staring at the same breakfast I grew up with. It felt like a glitch in the culinary matrix. I ate it with a grin. It tasted like a joke, but it felt like a hug.

Fueled by dough and salt, the "lazy day" evaporated. The cool air of Da Lat is a cheat code; it tricks you into thinking you can walk forever. I trekked 30 minutes to Domaine de Marie, the famous pink church. I snapped the photos. I looked at the view. But the itch to move remained. Next stop: Ngoc Yen Hill. Google Maps said it was another 30 minutes. It offered a grey line—a "shortcut." Never trust a shortcut in Vietnam.

I followed the blue dot off the main road and into a maze of residential backstreets. Suddenly, the soundtrack of the city changed. The honking scooters faded, replaced by a much more primal sound. Barking. Territorial, angry, neighborhood dogs. I froze. The "shortcut" had led me straight into a local housing cluster where tourists clearly do not belong. My heart hammered against my ribs. I walked faster, navigating the chorus of barks, eyes forward, trying to project confidence I didn't feel.

But in the adrenaline, I saw it. The real Da Lat. I saw families sitting on the floor, sharing lunch with their doors wide open. I saw laundry dancing violently in the wind. I saw life happening in the raw, unfiltered spaces where the tour buses never go.

I didn't stop for a "Yelp-reviewed" lunch. I ate like a wanderer. When I saw steam, I stopped. When I smelled spices, I sat on a plastic stool. I didn't know the names of what I was eating, I just trusted my nose.

By evening, my feet carried me to a second sanctuary: St. Nicholas Church. I slipped into the back pew just as the evening mass began. After the chaos of the barking dogs and the endless asphalt, the rhythm of the liturgy was a soothing balm. I didn't need to understand the Vietnamese words to feel the peace settle into my bones.

I returned to the hotel and checked my watch. 19,000 steps. My legs were vibrating. My "recovery day" had turned into a marathon. I didn't go out for a cocktail. I didn't look for a party. I ended the night in the most unglamorous, wonderful way possible: curled up in bed, watching Mr. Bean and Jackie Chan clips on YouTube. Sometimes, after walking 19,000 steps through the unknown, the only thing your soul wants is a laugh you know by heart.

Reflection: The Map vs. The Territory

We spend so much of our lives trying to avoid the "wrong turns." We want the direct route, the fastest career path, the most efficient relationship. We treat life like a Google Map, terrified of the grey lines.

But today, the best moment wasn't the destination. It wasn't the pink church or the hill view. It was the shortcut that went wrong. If I had stayed on the main road, I would have missed the adrenaline. I would have missed the dogs. I would have missed the glimpse into those living rooms. Google Maps can show you the road, but it can't show you the life that happens on it.

Sometimes, you have to get a little lost—and maybe a little chased by dogs—to really see where you are. And sometimes, the perfect ending to a day of exploration isn't a grand epiphany; it's just Mr. Bean getting his head stuck in a turkey. 

Date: December 26, 2025 Location: Da Lat Steps: 19,000 (So much for a "Rest Day")

SOLO in Vietnam Day 8 : Screaming for Christmas & The Hills Of Home

25th Dec 2025

​Christmas morning usually starts with hymns and holy silence. Mine started with a scream.

I was strapped into an Alpine Coaster at the Datanla Waterfall, tearing down the mountain at breakneck speed. The wind was slapping my face, the pine trees were blurring into green streaks, and for a few glorious seconds, I wasn't a solo traveler doing mental math about her daily budget. I was just a blur of noise and adrenaline.

Merry Christmas to me.

Honestly, the day actually started with a lesson in "Vietnam Time." My guide, who was supposed to be there at 8:00 AM, texted to say he’d be late. So, I killed time at a street stall and accidentally ordered a feast: my beloved Salted Coffee and two Banh Mi. I forgot that Vietnamese portions aren't snacks—they’re commitments. I sat there stuffing my face with meat, eggs, and veggies, fueling up like I was preparing for hibernation.

First stop: Robin Hill. I dropped 120,000 VND for the cable car and found myself dangling high above the pine forests. I shared the cabin with a guy from the UK and another from Korea. We swung our feet over the canopy, chatting about monkeys and jungles while the lake glittered below us. It was peaceful.

Then came the reality check.

After the coaster (another 130k gone), we hit the Strawberry Farm. I sat this one out on a bench. Between the bag I bought on my first day and the harvesting I did yesterday, I’m basically 90% strawberry at this point. I decided to just enjoy the view for free.

Then came lunch. I sat with a sweet couple from Myanmar, but I made a rookie mistake: I ordered two dishes. The bill hit 188,000 VND. I stared at the uneaten food, and the realization hit me harder than the altitude.

By the time we reached Langbiang Hill (another 120k entrance fee), the math was starting to stress me out. It felt like every single step had a price tag. I confessed to the Myanmar couple: "I thought Vietnam would be cheap, but my spending habits are as bad as they are back home in Malaysia."

They laughed and nodded. We were bonding over the budget hustle.

But then, a moment of pure grace.

The Korean traveler in our group—"Oppa Korea"—saw us catching our breath in the crisp, chilly mountain air. Without a word, he walked into a grocery shop and came back with ice cream for the entire group. He was beaming, holding them up like trophies. "This is from my home country!" he told us.

It wasn't pity; it was just pride and sharing. Even with the cold wind biting at us, that sweet treat warmed me right up.

As we climbed Langbiang, a wave of nostalgia hit me. The cool air, the rolling hills, the majestic pine trees... I looked around and thought, Wait, am I in Vietnam or Kundasang? The resemblance to Sabah was eerie. For a moment, looking at the trees that mirrored my homeland, I didn't feel so far away.

The Broken Toy and The Hard Choice

I ended the tour early to escape the crowds at the Crazy House and walked back to the city center. At 5:15 PM, I went to the church. It was packed.

I was squeezing through the crowd when—CRUNCH.

I stepped right on a plastic toy a child had dropped. The kid looked up, eyes welling with tears. I didn't hesitate. I bought him a brand-new toy immediately. His tears turned into a massive smile.

I waited for someone to wish me Merry Christmas. Silence.

Fine, I decided. If you want the vibes, you have to bring them.

I walked down to the Christmas tree and started beaming at strangers. "Merry Christmas!" I told them. They looked surprised, then smiled back.

But my charity has a limit.

Outside the church, a beggar approached me. I looked at him, and I walked away.

Yesterday, I saw a tourist give money to a begging child, and I refused to do the same. Some might call me cold, but I come from Sabah, where we wrestle with this issue daily. Normalizing begging, especially for kids, feels like trapping them in a cycle. That kid needs school, not my spare change. I bought a toy for a crying child today because I broke his. But I won't pay to keep a child on the street.

Christmas Reflection: The Balance Sheet

Christmas is usually about giving, but solo travel forces you to be a little selfish. You have to hoard your energy, your safety, and yes, your resources.

Today was a weird emotional balance sheet. I spent money recklessly on roller coasters, but I withheld it from a beggar. I felt careful looking at my wallet, but rich when "Oppa Korea" handed me that ice cream. I felt lonely in the crowd, until I realized the hills looked just like home.

We judge ourselves for how we spend our money and our kindness. But I’m learning that generosity isn't always cash. Sometimes, it’s an ice cream shared with strangers. Sometimes, it’s a "Merry Christmas" to a passerby. And sometimes, it’s just recognizing that the pine trees in Vietnam wave the same way they do in Borneo.

Date: December 25, 2025 (Christmas Day) Location: Da Lat Mood: High Altitude, Mindful Wallet

SOLO in Vietnam Day 7: Chasing Clouds and Christmas Ghosts

24th Dec 2025

​3:00 AM. The alarm went off like a siren. On any other day, waking up at this hour would be torture. But today is Christmas Eve, and I had a date with the sky.

I booked a "Cloud Hunting" tour two days ago, hoping to catch that famous sea of clouds Da Lat is known for. Our group was basically a mini United Nations: two from Singapore, two from Bangladesh, three from China, an elegant woman named Elle from Vienna, and me.

Our guide, Chau, was the total opposite of the shy student I had in Saigon. Chau is an artist with an iPhone, and she takes no prisoners. She doesn't just take photos; she directs them. When I froze up in front of the camera, looking awkward, she roasted my posture immediately.

"Chin up! Shoulder down! No, not like that! Fix your hair!"

She was brutal, but she was brilliant. The resulting photos make me look like I’m in a magazine.

We arrived at Cau Dat, shivering in the cold. The landscape was breathtaking—rolling hills, misty valleys, endless green tea terraces. But the main attraction? Missing. The famous clouds decided to take the day off.

We stood there, nine strangers staring at a clear view, united by a shared disappointment that quickly turned into laughter. We didn't catch the clouds, but we caught the vibe.

The Sweetness of the Earth

The tour pivoted. We went to a persimmon factory, where thousands of orange fruits were drying in the wind like festive lanterns. It felt like walking into an autumn painting. Then came the strawberry farm. The fruit here isn't that sour supermarket stuff; it is candy-sweet. I picked 145g of strawberries myself, paying 58,000 VND for the privilege of eating pure sugar from the earth.

Our final stop was a coffee shop owned by the cloud-hunting guy. It was a total "Instagram trap"—flowers everywhere, perfect views—and I respect the hustle.

I spotted Elle, the Austrian traveler, looking out over the garden. The light was hitting her perfectly. I secretly snapped a candid photo of her—she looked serene, like a painting. I AirDropped it to her later, and she smiled.

Connection. Small, but real.

The Drop

The tour ended at 10:00 AM. And just like that, the high evaporated.

I went back to the hotel, changed clothes, and the silence from yesterday rushed back in. The morning was full of voices and laughter. The afternoon was just... me.

I ate Chicken Rice at a small café, doom-scrolling through my phone. I wandered the flower market, but the colors just kind of blurred together. I ended up at Ollin Café, sipping coffee not because I wanted it, but because I needed a place to sit where I didn't look like a loser.

Then came the reality check.

I went to a gold shop to exchange more money. My wallet felt lighter than it should be. Vietnam feels cheap day by day, but when you add up the Grab rides, the tours, the coffees, and the strawberries, the numbers climb fast. I felt a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. I need to stop spending.

The Silent Night

Evening fell. Christmas Eve.

Back home, my family is gathering for dinner. My friends are posting photos of feasts and gifts. Here, the churches are full, but the mass is in a language I can't understand. I debated going, but after yesterday’s experience at the cathedral, I decided against it. What is the point of sitting in a pew if the words mean nothing to me?

I chose the hotel room.

It was the lowest moment of the trip so far. I put on a playlist of Christmas songs, but instead of feeling festive, they just made the room feel bigger and emptier. I scrolled through Facebook, liking posts, typing "Blessed Christmas Eve" to people thousands of miles away.

Then, I opened my gallery. I scrolled through the photos from this morning—the mist at Cau Dat, the flowers, the stunning shots Chau took of me.

I looked at how beautiful the images were, and a sudden, sharp thought pierced me.

It would be so good if I were sharing this view with someone.

Not just friends. Not just family. But a partner. The love of my life.

I imagined him standing there next to me in the tea terraces, holding my hand, seeing what I see. The view was perfect, but it lacked a witness. It was just a fleeting thought, but it left an ache in my chest.

I pulled the blanket up. I closed my eyes. Life must go on, I whispered. I hope tomorrow brings a surprise. I hope tomorrow brings a friend.

Christmas Eve Reflection: The Empty Chair

Christmas is a magnifying glass. When you are with family, it magnifies the love. When you are alone, it magnifies the silence.

Today taught me that you can have a "successful" travel day—great photos, new friends, sweet strawberries—and still go to bed with a heavy heart. And that is okay. You don't have to be happy every single second of a solo trip.

Loneliness isn't a failure; it’s just part of the price of the ticket. It reminds you of what you value. I value the freedom to wake up at 3:00 AM and hunt clouds. But tonight, looking at those photos, I realize I also value the idea of a shared witness.

I will sleep through this silent night. The clouds may have missed their cue this morning, but the sun will still rise tomorrow.

Date: December 24, 2025 (Christmas Eve) Location: Da Lat Mood: Surrounded by people, yet alone.

SOLO in Vietnam Day 6 : The Silence Of The Saints

 

23rd Dec 2025

​Breakfast was a return to the fire. I couldn't stay away from that street stall.

Eating those quail egg cakes (Bánh Căn) again, dipping the crispy crust into the hot fish sauce, felt like I was finally cracking the code of this city's morning ritual. It’s a flavor I’ve never found in Malaysia—simple, smoky, and perfect.

To burn off the meal, I joined the locals for a lap around Xuan Huong Lake. It’s the heart of Da Lat, basically a giant mirror for the pine trees. I was just wandering without a map, pretending for a moment that I actually knew where I was going.

My wandering led me to the Bao Dai Summer Palace (faded royalty vibes) and then—obviously—to another Salted Coffee. The salty foam cuts through the sweetness perfectly. It’s my new personality trait at this point.

Next stop was the Da Lat Railway Station. It’s a cool slice of French history full of vintage trains. I decided to buy an Ao Dai top there, but there was a catch: the pants didn't fit. My size is apparently non-existent in this city. So, I left the pants and just bought the tunic.

I knew I should have haggled. The vendor was expecting it. But I looked at the price, and I looked at her hands. It seemed fair.

Why fight over a couple of dollars? I thought. If I can afford to travel, I can afford to be fair.

Lunch was a happy accident. I pointed at a picture of fish soup at a small eatery, and what showed up was basically a garden in a bowl—fresh herbs, greens, and a broth that was incredible. To my own surprise, I ate every single leaf. Vietnam is single-handedly turning me into a veggie lover.

But then, the mood shifted.

Around 5:15 PM, I heard the bells ringing at St. Nicholas Cathedral, so I stepped inside. The mass was entirely in Vietnamese. I stood there, surrounded by prayers I couldn't understand. I tried to follow the rhythm—kneeling when they kneeled, standing when they stood—but I felt like such an outsider.

After mass, I approached a nun. Between Google Translate and awkward hand gestures, I asked if there would be an English mass for Christmas.

She shook her head gently. "No English mass in Vietnam."

That hit me harder than I expected.

I came here for the cool weather and the adventure. But I also came to celebrate my birthday and Christmas. Standing in that church courtyard, the language barrier felt like a brick wall. I wanted to connect. I wanted to share this season with someone. But the words were missing.

A wave of loneliness just washed over me. I started wondering if I made a mistake booking a hotel instead of a hostel. Hostels have tribes; hotels have privacy. Today, I didn't want privacy. I wanted a friend.

I walked back to my room carrying comfort food: a red meat bun (like a Char Siu Pao) and a fish-shaped bread filled with mozzarella and chocolate.

Real Talk: The Silence

We always 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 isn't just about ordering food; it’s about the inability to say, "I am here, and I am lonely."

But maybe that’s part of the deal. I’m stripped of conversation and familiar comforts—even a church service in my own language. It forces me to find connection in other ways, like the smile of the soup vendor or the taste of the bread.

I’m learning that you can be surrounded by people and still be alone. But I’m also learning that it’s okay to sit with that feeling, eat my bun, and wait. The right connection will come. Until then, I’ll be my own best company.

Date: December 23, 2025 Location: Da Lat Mood: Lost in Translation

SOLO in Vietnam Day 5 : The City of Eternal Spring and Suprise Kindness

22nd Dec 2025

​The bus rolled into Da Lat at 4:15 AM, and the city didn't greet me with a hug—it greeted me with a bite.

Gone was the sticky, humid air of Saigon. In its place was a crisp, shivering cold that woke me up faster than a double espresso. The station was pitch black but somehow already buzzing with aggressive taxi drivers swarming the exhausted arrivals. I stood there, shivering and defensive, trying to wave them off.

I waited until 5:00 AM, the cold seeping right into my bones, when a local man walked up. He didn't shout. He didn't grab my arm. He just looked at me and offered advice instead of a ride.

"Too early for hotel," he said, pointing toward the town center. "Go to café near market. Chill. Watch morning."

It was solid advice. I booked a Grab Bike, and immediately witnessed a miracle of Vietnamese physics. My driver, Ti, took one look at my 20kg suitcase, my carry-on bag, and my 155cm self, and somehow arranged us all onto a single motorbike. I don't know how we didn't tip over. As we tore through the misty streets, balancing on two wheels, I realized I had found my first friend in the mountains. We exchanged contacts before he dropped me at a 24-hour café.

I sat on the balcony, wrapping my frozen hands around a hot drink. As the sky turned from bruised purple to gold, the wind hit my face—clean, sharp, and smelling of pine.

"Mea," I whispered to the sunrise, "Welcome to the real adventure."

The Hills and the Helpers

By 7:00 AM, the sun had broken through, and I started the trek to my hotel. I quickly learned a hard truth: Da Lat is not flat. It is a vertical challenge.

I was dragging my 20kg life down a steep, punishing flight of stairs when a hand suddenly appeared. A foreigner, seeing me struggling, just grabbed the handle without a word and helped me carry the weight down. I consider myself pretty strong, but in that moment, I just let myself be helped.

Ten minutes later, I was stuck at a chaotic roundabout, the traffic swirling like a dangerous river. I hesitated, totally frozen. Suddenly, an elderly woman on her morning jog stopped. She didn't just wave; she marched right into the traffic, raising her hand like a commander, and shepherded me across.

Two strangers. Two acts of kindness. I hadn't even checked in yet, and Da Lat was already carrying me.

Ancient Fires and Market Lessons

Breakfast was a discovery. I found a woman cooking over hot charcoal (arang) on a street corner. The language barrier was thick, but hunger is universal. With the help of Google Translate and a lot of pointing, I ordered Bánh Căn—quail eggs cooked in rice flour molds. Crispy, smoky, and dipped in warm fish sauce. It was love at first bite.

I spent the afternoon wandering. The weather was a dream—windy and chill—and I walked along the river, just watching people exist in their own peaceful bubbles.

Then came the market, and with it, the "Tourist Tax."

The strawberries and black grapes looked like jewels. I bought a bag from a smiling "aunty," only to realize later that the price was steep and the grapes underneath the top layer were old. In the past, I would have been furious. I would have felt stupid.

But today, I just shrugged.

It’s a donation, I told myself. She needs it more than I need perfect grapes.

Dinner was a recommendation from my AI travel agent: Tien An Da Lat Pho. I feasted on grilled pork and vegetables, discovering a new type of rice paper that was soft and ready-to-eat without water. I washed it down with my daily ritual—another Salted Coffee—and walked back to the hotel.

I walked 18,000 steps today. My legs are throbbing. My wallet is a little lighter. But as I fell asleep, I realized I hadn't carried the weight alone.

Note to Self

Today taught me that vulnerability is actually a doorway. If I hadn't been struggling with that heavy bag, or freezing at that crosswalk, I never would have met the people who helped me. We try so hard to be "independent solo travelers," but sometimes, admitting you're stuck is exactly what connects you to people.

And as for the grapes? Mindset is everything. You can choose to feel scammed, or you can choose to feel generous. One makes you bitter; the other keeps you light. And when you’re carrying 20kg up a mountain, you need to be as light as you can be.

Location: Da Lat Steps: 18,000+ (mostly uphill) Lesson: Physics is optional; kindness is essential.

SOLO in Vietnam Day 4 : The beggar, The Massage , and The Moving Bed

21st Dec 2025

​The morning was a slow burn—a deliberate pause before the chaos kicked in again. I checked out at noon, dumped my bags in the lobby, and drifted toward the park to kill time.

I was sitting on a bench, just watching the city breathe, when a shadow fell over me. A guy holding out his phone. I expected a map, or maybe a "Where is the Post Office?"

Instead, the screen read: Please help. I need money for food.

He was a foreigner. He looked like a backpacker who had simply run out of road. I stared at him, totally thrown off.

It wasn’t just uncomfortable; it was terrifying. It felt like looking at a ghost. We always talk about the romantic freedom of dropping everything and traveling the world, but nobody talks about the free-fall when the parachute doesn't open. Here I am, stressing about saving a dollar on a Grab ride or skipping a fancy dinner to stay on budget—but I still have a bank account, a safety net, and a return ticket.

He didn’t.

I shook my head—I couldn't really help him—but as he walked away, the image stuck with me. It was a jarring reality check. That gap between "scrappy traveler" and "stranded survivor" is thinner than we think. I realized how much privilege is hidden in my "budget" trip. I’m choosing to be cheap; he had no choice left.

I needed to shake off that weird, heavy feeling. So, I went back to my comfort zone: Little Hanoi. I ordered the grilled pork noodles and coffee again. Comfort food always works.

Then, I decided to stop being so cheap and actually treat my body.

I booked a two-hour session: one hour of hot stones, one hour for my feet. The cost was 500,000 VND, which sounds like a lot, but for two hours of bliss? A steal. The masseuse was tiny, but her hands were made of iron. She kneaded the last three days of stress right out of my shoulders. When it was over, I felt light, almost floating. I handed her a 250,000 VND tip—a huge amount relative to the bill—and her face just lit up.

I did the same at dinner. After a bowl of sour saba fish soup (sweet pineapple, tart tomato, pure comfort), I tipped the young waiter. It felt good to give. I might be budget-conscious, but seeing that guy in the park reminded me that I am definitely not poor. Sharing the wealth makes the backpack feel a little lighter.

The sun set, and the real mission began.

I dragged my luggage to the Futa Bus Line station. It’s a ten-minute walk, and the Saigon humidity gave me one last sticky hug. I was sweating, but I felt alive. I grabbed an iced coffee from 7-Eleven—the universal lifeline—and waited.

The logistics of the Vietnamese night bus are impressive. 9:00 PM: The minivan picked us up. 9:30 PM: We got to the massive main terminal. 9:45 PM: The "Ritual of the Plastic Bag." The driver handed us bags for our shoes. You enter barefoot.

The interior is basically a spaceship designed for hobbits. Three rows of bunk beds stacked two high. I squeezed into my lower bunk. It’s a capsule. A cocoon.

For once, being short is an absolute superpower. At 155cm, I stretched my legs out fully and fit perfectly. I looked at the 6-foot-tall European guy in the next aisle, his knees crunched against his chest, and I sent a silent prayer of gratitude to the universe for making me small.

The engine rumbled. The lights went out. We were moving toward the mountains.

Night Thoughts

Lying in the dark of the sleeper bus, watching the streetlights of Saigon flicker past the window, I realized that this bunk bed is the ultimate trust fall.

For the next eight hours, I have zero control. I don't know the route. I don't know the driver. I can't steer, I can't brake, and I can't see the road ahead. All I can do is lie here, wrapped in a blanket, and trust that I will wake up in Da Lat.

We spend so much time worrying about the budget, the map, and the destination. We stress about the traffic and the weather. But eventually, you have to take off your shoes, climb into the dark, and just let the driver drive.

The city heat is behind me. The mountain breeze is ahead. I’m closing my eyes and letting the road take me there.

Route: Ho Chi Minh City → Da Lat (Night Bus)

SOLO in Vietnam Day 3 : Saigon Hot & Crowded Charm

20th Dec 2025

​Okay, I had this fantasy about the Ao Dai.

In my head, it was elegant: me gliding through the streets of Saigon, silk fluttering in the breeze, looking like a frame from a vintage movie.

The reality? The heat index is 35°C, and my body felt like it was being slow-cooked inside a silk casing.

I met up with Phung, my local guide, with high hopes. Her texts beforehand had been super professional, but as we navigated the crowds at the Pink Church and the Independence Palace, I realized I’d made a mistake. These spots aren't just busy; they’re a crushing sea of tourists. There is no room to glide. There is only room to sweat.

And then, there were the photos.

I tried to strike a pose in front of the Saigon Post Office, trying to look effortless despite melting. Phung clicked away. I checked the phone.

The angle was completely wrong. I didn't look elegant at all—just awkward and stiff.

I tried again. Click.

Worse.

I looked at Phung. She’s young, a student doing this part-time. She was trying so hard, but she was clearly out of her depth. The heat was making me irritable, and watching my "Recently Deleted" folder fill up with unusable photos, I felt a spike of frustration. I paid for a guide, but I was basically leading myself.

But then I saw her wiping sweat from her forehead, looking nervous. The "Angry Tourist" inside me wanted to complain. But the "Older Sister" inside me took over.

Let it go, I told myself.

So, I pivoted. I took us to the Café Apartment. I ordered myself another Salted Coffee (my new addiction, seriously) and got her a tea since she can't handle the caffeine. We just sat. I asked about her studies. I ended up tipping her not for the photos—which were a disaster—but for the hustle. I sent her off with encouragement rather than a lecture. Sometimes, the souvenir isn't the photo; it's the patience you learn in the process.

Free of the tour, I wandered the Café Apartment alone. I found a small stall selling scents and discovered "Na Nue Rose." It smelled divine. But then, my budget mindset kicked in. I hesitated and bought the tiny 100ml bottle. Ten minutes later, I was already regretting not buying the big one.

The regret followed me to the Saigon Centre. Uniqlo is cheaper here (mostly because the clothes are made right here in Vietnam). I stood in front of a mirror, torn between sensible black pants and a bold mustard jacket.

Be practical, my brain said. So, I bought the pants.

You fool, my heart whispered later. You should have taken the jacket.

I ended the day with the unglamorous rituals of solo travel. I scouted the route to the bus station for tomorrow—always got to be one step ahead. I did my laundry for 60,000 VND, watching my clothes spin in the dryer.

Dinner was at the hotel. I get a 15% discount, so naturally, I ordered Spring Rolls. Again.

I am clean, I am fed, and I am ready to leave the city.

Note to Self

Today was a lesson in expectations vs. reality. The perfect Instagram photos didn't happen, and the tour was a mess. But being an "older sister" felt way better than being a demanding tourist.

The real regrets, though? The perfume and the jacket. It sounds silly, but it taught me a simple truth: when you find something that sparks joy, don't overthink it. Buy the bigger bottle. Take the loud jacket. Don't let being "practical" steal the fun.

Also, doing laundry in a hotel room is strangely grounding. Even in exotic places, you still need clean underwear.

Current Regret Count: One mustard jacket, one small bottle of perfume, and fifty deleted photos.

SOLO in Vietnam Day 2 : Saigon Adventure

19th Dec 2025

​If yesterday was about arriving, today was about survival. Specifically, surviving the traffic.

Crossing the street in Saigon isn't a walk; it’s basically an extreme sport. I stepped out of the hotel and right into a river of motorbikes. I learned the rule pretty fast: Don’t stop, don’t flinch, just walk. If you hesitate, you’re roadkill. If you walk with purpose, the sea just kind of parts around you. It’s terrifying, but it works.

I navigated by Google Maps and pure adrenaline to hunt down my first target: a hidden spot opposite the cooking school. I ordered an Egg Coffee. I stared at the cup for a second—honestly, egg in coffee sounds suspicious—but the first sip shut me up. It was rich, creamy, and basically tasted like liquid tiramisu.

It turned out to be the perfect warm-up for the gluttony that followed.

At 9:30 AM, I headed to the M.O.M. Cooking Class. This wasn’t a polite little demonstration; it was boot camp with aprons. We tackled the "Friday Menu," touring through Northern and Central Vietnamese dishes.

We made West Lake Shrimp Cakes (crispy sweet potato nests with whole shrimp) and Bun Cha, where we grilled the meat patties ourselves with smoke blowing right in our faces. But the highlight was the Fresh Spring Rolls. When I finished mine, it actually stood up perfectly straight on the plate, the wrapper gleaming. I felt a ridiculous surge of pride. I made that!

By noon, after polishing off a jar of Coconut Cream Caramel Pudding, I was full. Dangerously full.

I went back to the hotel for a quick collapse, then headed out again for my afternoon workshop, feeling pretty confident in my navigation skills. Maybe too confident. I strode into the building, ready to brew some coffee, and looked down at the table.

Carrots. Cabbage. Greens.

I blinked. "Um... where is the coffee?"

The instructor looked at me. I looked at the vegetables. It was a moment of pure slapstick comedy—I had walked into the wrong class with total authority. I backed out, laughing at my own confusion, and finally found the right place: Province Coffee.

If the morning was about food, the afternoon was about catching a buzz. We learned to make four types of coffee: Egg, Coconut, Salt, and Latte. By the end of it, my hands were shaking, my heart was racing, and everyone was grinning like idiots.

And there, amidst the smell of roasted beans, was this Polish guy.

He was such a gentleman—polite, curious, kind eyes. We got to talking, and he mentioned he’s planning to visit East Malaysia, Sabah, and Sarawak next year. My home. I lit up immediately, sharing all my tips about the Borneo jungles and the culture. We just clicked. It was one of those effortless travel conversations where you skip the small talk and get right to the good stuff.

Then, the class ended. We waved goodbye.

I walked back through the shadow of the Notre Dame Cathedral and past the chaos of Ben Thanh Market, and the realization hit me harder than the caffeine crash.

I didn't get his Instagram. I didn't get his number.

I walked 13,000 steps today. I mastered four dishes and four coffees. But I let a potential friend just walk away into the Saigon traffic.

So, I’m skipping dinner tonight. My stomach is too full of food, and my mind is too full of "what ifs."

Note to Self

Today was sensory overload in the best way. But the mix-up with the classroom taught me that sometimes you just have to laugh when you're the confused tourist.

The real lesson, though? It’s the Polish traveler. It’s bittersweet, but now I know: travel is fleeting. If you vibe with someone, seize the moment. Be brave enough to ask for the contact, because opportunities rarely circle back. Next time, I speak up.

SOLO in Vietnam Day 1 : Tired, Scrappy & Finally here

18th Dec 2025

​Funny enough, the panic didn't hit me when my alarm went off at 4:00 AM. It didn't even happen during the quiet Grab ride to the airport in the dark.

It hit me right in the middle of KLIA, standing halfway between an overpriced coffee shop and my departure gate.

I was just walking around to kill time before my flight when my stomach suddenly dropped. A chill went right down my back, and my hands—which are usually warm—went cold and clammy. My Stomach twisted into a hard knot. 

I am actually doing this.

I looked up at the departure board. Vietnam. Twenty-two days. Just me.

This wasn’t some carefully planned vacation with a safety net. This was a total impulse buy I’d booked at the last minute. The question I’d been ignoring for days finally got loud: Do you even have the budget for this? It felt like jumping off a cliff and trying to assemble a parachute on the way down.

Going through security didn't help. It felt less like a travel checkpoint and more like an interrogation. Belt off. Water out. Shoes off. It stripped away whatever comfort I had left. By the time I landed in Saigon at 6:30 PM, I was exhausted, thirsty, and honestly, a little on edge.

But then, Vietnam surprised me.

I was figuring out my Grab car in the thick, humid air of District 1 when I met her—a 23-year-old girl from India who looked just as lost as I felt. In a city of nine million people, we somehow found each other. We decided to share a Grab—not to save money, but honestly, just for the company. Neither of us wanted to navigate the chaos alone yet. Since our hotels weren't far apart, I just covered the ride from my Grab wallet.  I watched her drop-off on my app like a hawk just to make sure she got there safely. One hour in the country, and I already had a new friend on Instagram.

I ended the night at the Na Nue Hotel. It was 10:00 PM—way too late for heavy food—but I didn't care. I sat there absolutely devouring spring rolls and a pancake with salted coffee. As I wiped the crumbs off the table, I realized the catch: I had to haul my luggage up to the third floor. No elevator.

Panting on the stairs, legs burning, I actually laughed out loud for the first time that day. Okay, I thought. So this is the secret. This is why everyone in Vietnam is so fit.

I’m tired. I’m scrappy. But I made it.

Looking Back

Lying in bed that night, listening to the city humming outside, I realized something: the hardest part isn't the travel itself. It’s just committing to go. That cold sweat at the airport was just fear trying to keep me safe—trying to keep me home on my couch. But the second I stepped on the plane, the fear turned into adrenaline.

Meeting that girl reminded me that "solo" travel doesn't mean you're actually alone. The world is full of people doing the exact same thing, just waiting to connect. And those stairs? They taught me that sometimes the only way up is a hard, sweaty climb, so you might as well laugh while you’re doing it.

I don’t have a perfect plan, but I’m here. The free-fall has begun.

SOLO TRIP 2024

Hey There, 

If someone asks you, " What are the things you enjoy doing that make you happy?" My answer would be: Travelling!! I realized that Traveling (locally / overseas) actually increases the level of my Dopamine, the Happy hormone!! 

Never would I imagine myself wandering around the land of Europe alone solely dependent on my own two feet on a really tight budget. Solo Traveling is common nowadays but without proper planning and budgeting, it could be a big NO. Now that I am back in my home country and able to write this, I am amazed and proud of myself (Opps I'm not being a narcissist yeah). 

To be a story, My Brother-In-Law's (BIL) younger sister's fiancé is a French man. When I heard that my sister and BIL were planning to attend their wedding in Toulon France, considering it'll be my first visit to European Countries, I couldn't help not put my mind on the idea of visiting and traveling around Europe. That was when I decided to let myself experience a 27-day Europe Trip (22-day Solo trip). My solo trip started when I parted ways with my sister and BIL after the wedding in Toulon, France. Here are the overviews of my trip:-

13th June 2024 - 08th July 2024

When someone asked me why I chose to travel solo? 

My answer: Next time when I travel, will you join me on my trip? 

Real reason: NO specific reason!! I am just being Authentic to myself Waiting for no one to make me happy (*~*). 

Here's how I planned my Journey:-

For me, planning is essential in one trip. For this trip, it took me six (6) months of non-stop reading and researching before coming up with my itinerary with details information on things to do, what the weather was like, where to stay, how to commute from one place to another, and so on.  Since my trip will be covering France, Switzerland, and the United Kingdom, I need to fully prepare myself mentally, physically, and financially. 

Malaysia - Istanbul - Toulon - Annecy - Geneva - Interlaken - Zurich - Paris - Cambridge - Great Yarmouth - London - Doha - Malaysia

In this entry, I will focus to look into my reflections on my trip, particularly focusing on moments of solitude, self-discovery, and tips for safety and confidence.

moments of solitude

Traveling solo through Europe allowed me to experience a deep sense of freedom and reflection that I hadn’t anticipated. While I knew there would be moments of solitude, what surprised me most was how empowering and transformative those moments were. Instead of feeling isolated, I began to embrace the quiet time alone as a space for self-reflection and personal growth.

Self Discovery

One of the most profound aspects of traveling alone was how much I learned about myself. Without the distraction of a group or a companion, I was forced to sit with my thoughts, to be fully present in each moment, and to reflect on what I truly wanted out of the journey. I found joy in simply wandering through the streets of a foreign city, taking in the sights, sounds, and energy around me while being fully in tune with my own thoughts. The silence that accompanied my solo travel gave me time to think deeply about who I am, where I’m headed, and what truly brings me peace. It was in these moments of solitude that I found clarity and started to build a deeper sense of inner confidence.

Safety

The experience of being alone in a foreign country also presented challenges, especially in terms of safety. I quickly realized that when traveling solo, being aware of my surroundings and taking proactive steps to stay safe were crucial. I made sure to keep copies of important documents, such as my passport and travel insurance, in a separate place from the originals. I also made it a habit to inform a friend or family member of my whereabouts every day, just to ensure someone knew where I was in case of an emergency. These small precautions gave me peace of mind and allowed me to focus on enjoying the experience without unnecessary worry.

Trusting My Gut Feeling

Confidence also played a significant role in my journey. There were moments when I felt uncertain or overwhelmed, whether it was navigating an unfamiliar train station, communicating in a language I didn’t speak, or simply finding my way around a new city. But as the trip progressed, I began to trust myself more. I gained confidence in my ability to solve problems, whether it was figuring out directions or handling unexpected changes in plans. Each time I overcame a challenge on my own, I felt a little stronger and more capable. The more I embraced these moments, the more I learned to trust my instincts and approach life with greater self-assurance.

Finding Connection

There were also moments of connection with others that were made even more meaningful because I was traveling solo. Whether it was striking up a conversation with a local in a café or meeting fellow travelers on a walking tour, the sense of shared humanity that emerged from these interactions left a lasting impact. Being alone didn’t mean I was disconnected from the world—it meant I was more open to engaging with it in an authentic way. Those moments reminded me that even in solitude, there’s a connection to something greater, whether it’s other people, the places we visit, or our own sense of purpose.

Conclusion

Looking back on this trip, I’m grateful for the time spent alone and for the self-discovery that came with it. I learned to appreciate solitude as a space for reflection, creativity, and growth. I gained a greater understanding of myself and my capabilities, which I now carry with me in both my travels and daily life. Above all, this journey taught me that confidence comes from within, and that when we step out into the world alone, we open ourselves up to not only new experiences but to a deeper connection with who we are.