Escape the City

This morning we decided to escape the city and head to the beach about half an hour away. Absolutely stunning. One of those long stretches of coastline that makes you instantly think, “Yep. I could stay here forever.”

The only issue? The ocean apparently took one look at me and decided violence was the answer.

I got in about knee deep before the waves started trying to sweep my legs out from under me. Not gently either. Full “return to sender” energy. One wave hit and I thought, no. This is how tourists end up on international news reports. So I bailed with what little dignity I had left.

Meanwhile, the Squeeze wandered out there like some kind of heroic sea captain completely unbothered while I stood safely on shore pretending I’d made a sensible adult decision.

We got there around nine this morning because by lunchtime Vietnam turns into the surface of the sun. It’s over 40 degrees again today and honestly the heat hits you like opening an oven door directly into your face.

Now we’re sitting at this beautiful little café overlooking the ocean having lunch while trying not to melt into our chairs. Later we’ll wander through the town for a bit before catching a cab back to the resort where I fully intend to recover dramatically near the pool.

Honestly though, despite nearly being taken out by the Pacific, it’s been a pretty perfect day.

Authentic Cooking Class

There’s something mildly terrifying about being handed knives, herbs, mystery sauces, and open flames in a foreign country and being told, “You cook now.”

Tonight we did an authentic Vietnamese cooking class, and honestly, it was fantastic.

First up were fresh spring rolls that looked far too pretty to eat. Delicate little bundles of herbs, vegetables, and flavour wrapped tighter than airport security around my luggage. Then came Vietnamese pancakes — crispy, golden, stuffed with goodness.

But the final dish absolutely finished me off. A beautiful pork soup loaded with flavour that somehow managed to taste both comforting and fancy at the same time. Everything was fresh. Everything looked stunning. Even the presentation made me feel underdressed.

The Vietnamese don’t just throw food on a plate. They stage it like a performance. It really did remind me of the play we went last week.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there pretending I understand what half the ingredients are while happily inhaling everything in sight.

Honestly, I’m surprised I didn’t sink straight to the bottom of the hotel pool afterward. I’ve eaten enough over here to be classified as imported livestock.

And now reality is creeping in.

We fly home Monday, which means tomorrow is our last full day in Vietnam. That strange holiday sadness has already started settling in — the one where you suddenly become emotional about hotel pools, random cafes, and the woman who made your coffee every morning without judging your increasingly questionable tourist clothing.

Of course, in true holiday fashion, I solved the packing problem by buying a massive new suitcase. Not because we planned well. Because apparently both of us believe souvenirs, shoes, tailored clothes, random gifts, and enough market purchases to open a small store “will probably fit.”

They did not.

So now there’s one giant case stuffed with our lives, held together mostly by optimism and zip pressure.

Vietnam has been chaos, heat, noise, incredible food, massages, markets, pools, cocktails, tailors, lantern boats, monkeys, dentists, tuk tuks, and the occasional moment where we genuinely had no idea what was happening.

Which, honestly, is probably why it’s been so good. Mind you, it will be good to go home to the dog and cats; I miss them. 

The Coconut Boats: A Cultural Exchange Nobody Asked For

Today we went on the famous coconut boats. You know the ones — round basket boats that look like someone lost a fight with a giant salad bowl and decided to float in it anyway.

Absolute chaos.

The river was jam packed with tourists, boats bumping into each other, people waving phones around trying to get “authentic travel content” while nearly being launched into the water by enthusiastic rowing. Every second boat had loud music blasting. At one point I’m pretty sure three different versions of Gangnam Style were playing at once.

And then our driver discovered we were Australian.

That was it.

The man transformed into a one-person Australia Day celebration.

“AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE!”

“OI OI OI!”

Every five minutes.

Every time another boat went past.

Every time he spun the boat.

At one point I think he forgot how to steer because he was too busy yelling “OI!” at random strangers on the river.

Honestly though, it was impossible not to laugh. The guy was having the time of his life. Meanwhile the Squeeze looked like he was trying to maintain dignity inside a floating wicker fruit bowl while being aggressively serenaded by patriotic chanting.

The entire thing was ridiculous in the best possible way.

Tourist trap? Absolutely.

Did we love it anyway? Unfortunately yes.

My God. It’s Hot As Hades!

There comes a point in every holiday where you stop looking like “travellers” and start looking like escapees who’ve wandered too far from the hotel. Today was that day.

We went back into the old part of town to pick up the five pairs of shoes I had made. Five. Apparently I now believe I’m some sort of Imelda Marcos wandering around Vietnam in custom footwear. To be fair though, they’re gorgeous, and when someone can make shoes specifically for your feet while you sit there sweating into your own eyeballs, it feels rude not to buy several pairs.

The Squeeze got some shirts made too, because apparently we’ve both decided we’re becoming linen people now. You know the type. Holiday people who suddenly think they’re sophisticated because they own breathable fabrics and say things like “the humidity is oppressive.”

And oppressive it is.

The heat here isn’t normal heat. It’s biblical. It’s the kind of heat where you don’t walk anywhere so much as slowly dissolve toward your destination. By midday we both looked like damp regret wrapped in cotton. I caught sight of us reflected in a shop window at one point and honestly? We looked like two sock puppets who’d just received terrible medical news.

After collecting our haul, we climbed into what I’m still calling a tuk tuk, even if it technically isn’t one, because at this stage I’m too hot to care about transport accuracy. The driver sped us through traffic while we flapped gently in the breeze like exhausted laundry.

By the time we got back to the hotel we were absolutely finished. Cooked. Emotionally steamed. We collapsed dramatically indoors pretending we’d survived some enormous ordeal instead of what was essentially “shopping with humidity.”

Still worth it though.

Five pairs of glorious shoes!

We Are Leaving!!

We decided to do the relaxing couple thing and book an all-over massage. Very sophisticated. Very worldly. Very “look at us embracing the local culture.”

The place looked calm enough. Soft music. Dim lights. Tiny cups of tea. Women who looked about ninety pounds soaking wet but somehow possessed the thumb strength of industrial machinery.

At first it was lovely. Stretching, oils, elbows in places I didn’t even know could hurt. The squeeze was in the bed next to mine behind one of those curtains that give the illusion of privacy while allowing you to hear every grunt, crack, and accidental fart in the building.

Every now and then I’d hear him mutter things like, “Jesus Christ,” or “Ooohhh,” which in fairness could have meant pain, relaxation, or spiritual awakening. Hard to tell.

Then suddenly there was silence.

Not peaceful silence. Suspicious silence.

A second later, I heard the unmistakable sound of panic-dressing. Velcro. Shuffling. A curtain violently dragged open like someone storming out of a motel raid.

There stood the squeeze, fully clothed, looking horrified.

“We are LEAVING,” he announced.

Apparently the massage had drifted a little too close to the family jewels for his comfort, and rather than politely navigating the situation, he reacted like a man escaping an attempted kidnapping.

The poor woman looked absolutely bewildered. I was still half covered in oil trying to process what was happening while he stood there clutching his shoes like a traumatized Victorian gentleman whose honour had nearly been compromised.

So that was the end of our relaxing spa experience.

Nothing says romance in Vietnam quite like fleeing a massage parlour mid-rub while your partner marches into the street muttering about boundaries and nearly spraining an ankle getting his shorts back on.