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| 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.
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