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| 02nd Jan 2026 |
The coffee at The Cherry Garden was strong. Which was good, because I had a ghost to fight.
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 has been sitting in the "Drafts" folder, hidden away because I was too busy, too lazy, or mostly just scared that it wasn't "perfect" enough to show the world.
But 15 days of solo travel changes you. It makes you brave.
I decided today 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" in the cooking class? The "White Pants Crisis" at the ruins? 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.
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... let's call them "semi-private." Now, I’m not a criminal, but I am curious. I’m the type who bends 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 my face. It was smiling before the slap.
The Camouflage
In the evening, I went hunting for that "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. Now, I have camouflaged so well that I am confusing the locals. I’m no longer just watching the painting; I’ve blended into the canvas.
The Law of Travel
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 Universal Law of Travel:
When I carry an umbrella, the sun blazes like the Sahara.
When I leave the umbrella in the room, Noah's Flood arrives.
I didn't care about my clothes getting soaked—water dries. But I clutched my sling bag to my chest like a newborn 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: Soaked, but Camouflaged.
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