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| 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
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