The Old Part of Vietnam

Today we climbed into one of those open cabs that look like they were built entirely out of leftover scooter parts and optimism, and headed into the old part of town.

The minute we got there, it was like walking into a weird little sequel to last year. Same market. Same faces. Same people waving and smiling like we’d only left yesterday instead of a whole year ago. We were mainly there to see the girl who made clothes for us before, because apparently I now travel internationally to continue feeding my tailoring addiction.

And honestly? Successful day.

I ended up with three pairs of shoes, a pair of pants, two dresses, and an order for a girlfriend back home because apparently I’ve become some sort of middle-aged fashion mule. The squeeze got two shirts, which in male shopping terms is basically a complete psychological breakdown. Well, that’s what it’s like for normal men. The Squeeze’s nickname used to be Emelda Marcos he has that many pairs if shoes’

I actually didn’t even get to do proper shopping because we wandered into a gallery where everything screamed:
“You absolutely need this.”
And by “this,” I mean several thousand dollars worth of art I now have to spend the rest of the trip pretending I responsibly walked away from.

The old part of town is still ridiculous in the best possible way. Lanterns everywhere. Tiny streets. Random smells drifting out of doorways. Tourists sweating through linen. Small children driving scooters better than most Australians operate cars.

Then we came back to the hotel where we did what all exhausted travellers eventually do — sat around drinking and floating in water pretending that counts as recovery.

Tonight’s schedule:

Massage.
Dinner.
Probably more drinks.
Potentially more poor financial decisions tomorrow.

Cheap cocktails while watching the Squeeze

Vietnam has rapidly become a cycle of heat, confusion, cheap cocktails, and watching your partner casually hand over thousands of dollars worth of dental work like he’s ordering a sandwich.

Today started with a trip into Da Nang because apparently his teeth have now entered what I can only describe as a full-scale renovation project. Not maintenance. Reconstruction. We weren’t “going to the dentist.” We were attending a summit on the future of his mouth.

The funniest part is how relaxed dentists are here. In Australia, they stare into your soul before telling you a filling will require “ongoing management” and the GDP of a small country. In Vietnam, a tiny woman the size of a garden ornament cheerfully waves you into a chair, rebuilds an entire molar in thirty minutes, and somehow you leave with cleaner teeth and emotional stability.

Meanwhile I sat there pretending I understood any of it while hearing occasional drilling noises that sounded medically concerning.

Back we came to Hoi An where priorities immediately returned to normal. I went for a massage, which in Vietnam means being folded into shapes not approved by human anatomy while someone half your size walks on your spine with complete confidence. Honestly though, after twenty minutes you start believing they may actually know things Western medicine doesn’t.

Then shopping. Tiny market stalls. Lanterns everywhere. Heat thick enough to drink. Bought t-shirts for the grandkids because apparently that’s now what holidays are. Not adventure. Not culture. Just wandering around saying things like, “Do you think Hunter would wear this?” while sweating directly through your clothing.

And now? We’ve reached the final form of tourism.

Poolside.
Several margaritas deep.
Completely ignoring the concept of time.

The great thing about Vietnam is nobody seems particularly interested in pretending life should be harder than it needs to be. You eat. You drink. You wander around. Someone fixes your back. Someone fixes your teeth. Somebody hands another cocktail.  

Vietnam, Slowly (Because Rushing It Would Be Missing the Point)

We based ourselves in Hoi A for two weeks.

Not because we’re enlightened travellers.

Because moving hotels every two days is exhausting and slightly unhinged.

It turns out staying put is the best decision you can make.

Hoi An doesn’t hit you all at once. It seeps in. Morning coffee. Same street. Same walk. You start recognising things—not in a tourist way, in a you’ve been here long enough to belong a little way.

Then you ruin it by taking photos like everyone else.

The Old Town does its lantern thing at night. Yes, it’s busy. Yes, people are posing like they’ve personally discovered it. But if you stay long enough, you stop fighting it. You find the quieter edges. The side streets where nothing much is happening—and that’s the point.

Day trips are easy.

Da Nang is close enough to dip in and out of without committing to it. Bigger. Faster. A bit more “city” if you need a break from lanterns and tourists pretending they’re not tourists.

The beach helps. You go, you sit, you realise you’re still hot, and then you go for a swim and pretend that fixed everything.

It didn’t. But it passes the time.

Somewhere along the way you’ll end up at Ba Na Hills because everyone does. Cable cars, bridges held up by giant hands, a vaguely surreal feeling that you’ve walked into a theme park that takes itself very seriously.

It’s impressive. Also slightly ridiculous.
Both things can be true.

Food becomes routine in the best way.

You stop looking things up. You sit down wherever looks fine and order something you can’t pronounce. It arrives. It’s good. Of course it is. At some point you realise you haven’t had a bad meal and that stops being surprising.

Coffee slows you down whether you like it or not.

It takes time. It arrives strong. You sit there longer than you planned because there’s nowhere else you need to be. That’s when it clicks—this place works better when you stop trying to optimise it.

The heat is constant.

You don’t beat it. You schedule around it. Mornings and evenings become useful. Afternoons are for pretending you’re going to do something and then not doing it.

Which, it turns out, is also part of the trip.

Nothing here is trying to impress you.

There’s no pressure to maximise your time. No urgency to “see everything.” You could, technically. But you’d miss the part where it actually becomes enjoyable.

Two weeks in one place sounds like a lot.

It isn’t.

It’s just enough time to stop travelling like you’re on a checklist…

and start noticing where you are.

People don’t use the internet anymore. They live through it.

That’s the shift no one wants to admit.

It used to be a tool. You’d log on, do something, log off. Now it’s the filter everything passes through before it becomes real. If it isn’t posted, shared, liked, or validated, it barely counts.

Dinner isn’t dinner until it’s photographed.
A thought isn’t a thought until it’s tweeted.
A feeling isn’t a feeling until strangers react to it.

And the worst part? People think this is connection.

It isn’t. It’s performance.

Everyone’s curating a version of themselves they can tolerate. Slightly sharper. Slightly happier. Slightly more interesting than they actually feel. Not fake enough to be obvious, just polished enough to be exhausting.

Then they scroll.

Through other people doing the exact same thing.

Comparing their messy, unedited lives to someone else’s highlight reel and wondering why they feel flat. Or behind. Or vaguely like they’ve missed something important they can’t quite name.

You haven’t missed anything.

You’ve just outsourced your sense of reality.

The internet feeds you what to care about, what to be outraged by, what to admire, what to envy. It hands you a personality in pieces and lets you think you built it yourself.

And people accept it. Gladly.Because thinking for yourself is harder than scrolling.

Sitting with your own thoughts is harder than being distracted.
Living your life is harder than watching everyone else pretend to live theirs.

So they stay plugged in.

Refreshing. Reacting. Performing.

Calling it connection.

It’s not.

It’s dependency with better lighting.

I should know; I’m as guilty as anyone…

Introducing Secretwomen…

People don’t actually want honesty.

They say they do. They perform it. They applaud it when it’s aimed at someone else. But the second it gets close enough to land on them, it’s suddenly “too harsh,” “too negative,” or my personal favourite — “unnecessary.”

Unnecessary.

As if truth is something that should wait for permission.

Most people don’t want honesty. They want something that sounds like honesty but has already been adjusted for comfort. Rounded off. Explained. Given just enough context so they don’t have to do anything with it except agree.

That’s why certain things do well. Not because they’re insightful. Because they’re safe.

You can read them, nod, and move on with your life unchanged.

No friction. No pause. No moment where you have to wonder if you’re part of the problem being described.

That’s the line most writing doesn’t cross.

Not because it can’t.

Because it knows exactly what happens when it does.

People don’t argue with it. Not really. They just step away from it. Quietly. Like it stopped being for them halfway through.

So most of the time, that line doesn’t get crossed. Things get pulled back just before that point. Not obviously. Just enough.

This is one of those.

There’s a version of this that goes further. Not dramatically. Not in a way that would get attention. Just enough that you wouldn’t be able to sit with it as easily.

It doesn’t belong here.

It’s on SecretWomen.They perform it. They applaud it when it’s aimed at someone else. But the second it gets close enough to land on them, it’s suddenly “too harsh,” “too negative,” or my personal favourite — “unnecessary.”

Unnecessary.

As if truth is something that should wait for permission.

Most people don’t want honesty. They want something that sounds like honesty but has already been adjusted for comfort. Rounded off. Explained. Given just enough context so they don’t have to do anything with it except agree.

That’s why certain things do well. Not because they’re insightful. Because they’re safe.

You can read them, nod, and move on with your life unchanged.

No friction. No pause. No moment where you have to wonder if you’re part of the problem being described.

That’s the line most writing doesn’t cross.

Not because it can’t.

Because it knows exactly what happens when it does.

People don’t argue with it. Not really. They just step away from it. Quietly. Like it stopped being for them halfway through.

So most of the time, that line doesn’t get crossed. Things get pulled back just before that point. Not obviously. Just enough.

This is one of those.

There’s a version of this that goes further. Not dramatically. Not in a way that would get attention. Just enough that you wouldn’t be able to sit with it as easily.

It doesn’t belong here.

It’s on SecretWomen.