Ok; We Are Off the Plane, But Buggered

Not much to see here but tomorrow, when I've got my brain back (and my new computer working...) we will see! Suffice to say we made it home in one piece, exhausted - but alive!

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.

Vietnam By Night

There’s something slightly dangerous about agreeing to a “food tasting” with a local Vietnamese person. Not dangerous in the taken-from-a-hostel-never-seen-again sense. More dangerous to your stomach, your feet, and your ability to say no politely while being handed your seventh mystery item on a stick.

Yesterday started innocently enough. “We’ll walk,” they said.

That should have been the first warning.

People in Vietnam don’t “walk” the way Australians walk. Australians stroll twenty metres to a café and call it exercise. Vietnamese people walk like they’re training for an Olympic endurance event while casually chatting and weaving through traffic that looks like organised chaos.

So we walked.

And walked.

And ate.

Little things wrapped in leaves. Things grilled over charcoal. Tiny bowls of soup that somehow tasted better than entire meals back home. Bread rolls that would make Australian bakeries shut their doors in shame. Every second stop came with someone proudly watching us take the first bite like they’d personally invented flavour.

And somehow, despite being absolutely full, we kept eating.

Eventually we ended up by the river where the lantern boats were waiting. Tiny wooden boats glowing with coloured lanterns drifting across the water while tourists tried not to fall in climbing aboard with the grace of injured giraffes.

It was honestly beautiful.

Hoi An at night looks less like a town and more like someone collectively agreed reality needed softer lighting. Lanterns everywhere. Reflections across the water. Music drifting from restaurants. People laughing. Little boats floating past in the dark looking like scenes from a movie.

For about half an hour I forgot about life, bills, social media idiots, and the fact my knees now fucking kill me every time I stand up.

Then naturally we ended up at what was basically the Vietnamese equivalent of a pub because apparently the night still wasn’t over. Cold drinks. Loud conversations. Tiny plastic stools seemingly designed by someone who hates spines.

By the time we finally caught a car back home I was completely exhausted. The kind of tired where your body stops functioning properly and you just stare silently out the window questioning every life choice that led you there.

Worth it though.

Vietnam has this annoying habit of making you feel more alive while simultaneously trying to physically destroy you.

Marble Mountain - Site To See

There’s something deeply humbling about climbing a mountain in forty-degree heat while pretending you’re still reasonably athletic. Today’s adventure in Vietnam began at Marble Mountain, which sounds gentle and decorative until you realise it involves stairs apparently designed by medieval punishment experts.

Absolutely worth it though.

The caves were unbelievable. Huge stone chambers filled with incense smoke, hidden temples, shafts of sunlight cutting through the rock like something out of an Indiana Jones film if Indiana Jones had slightly sore knees and needed frequent bottled water breaks. Everywhere you looked there were carved Buddhas, tiny shrines tucked into the mountain, and tourists trying not to die dramatically on the steps while pretending they were “taking in the culture.”

Vietnam does this thing where every place somehow feels both ancient and alive at the same time. Nothing feels manufactured. Even the chaos has history attached to it.

After surviving Marble Mountain with our dignity mostly intact, we headed to Monkey Island, which sounds whimsical. Beautiful views though. Absolutely spectacular. The coastline stretched forever, the ocean looked painted on, and massive jungle-covered hills rolled down toward the sea like something from a movie set.

And yes — there were monkeys.

Watching tourists try to casually coexist with animals was fabulous. It reminded me of a Facebook thing I follow. Punch an abandoned monkey who is now adored by thousands. It is astonishing to me how alike we are… they kiss and hug; more so and better than the Squeeze who is allergic to displays of affection. Perhaps they are the best of us.

By the end of the day we were exhausted, sweaty, mildly dehydrated, and completely happy. Which is honestly the best kind of travel day. Not rushed. Not curated for Instagram. Just wandering through incredible places, eating too much, taking photos you’ll barely look at later, and occasionally stopping to think, “This is actually pretty amazing.”

Dinner tonight was one of those perfect holiday meals where nobody cares what time it is anymore. Warm night air, tired legs, and that strange holiday feeling where every day somehow feels longer than normal life.

Back to the hotel afterwards completely wrecked — the good kind of wrecked. Vietnam keeps doing this. Every day turns into something slightly unexpected. And somehow every day ends with us saying the same thing:

“We should probably slow down tomorrow.”

We won’t.

It will probably somehow involve another mountain, another massage, another drink, and at least one moment where you both say, “We’re too old for this,” immediately before doing it anyway.

Acupuncture - With Sign Language

Vietnam continues to feel like a fever dream stitched together by heat, confusion, optimism, and increasingly questionable decisions.

Today I went to what can only be described as a mysterious underground Vietnamese acupuncture wizard. Tiny room. No English. No explanations. Just intense eye contact and the quiet confidence of a man who has definitely stabbed thousands of people professionally.

To be fair, I also speak no Vietnamese. So our medical consultation mostly involved me pointing at various body parts while making vague suffering noises and attempting interpretive dance-level demonstrations of “my muscles don’t work properly.”

Somehow, against all logic, he understood.

The Squeeze, meanwhile, sat outside the curtain the entire time listening to what probably sounded like a hostage situation unfolding in stages.

Every few minutes:
“OW.”
Silence.
“Jesus Christ.”
More silence.
Then the occasional nervous laugh from the acupuncturist which did not inspire confidence.

Apparently this was healing.

An hour later I was folded, stretched, poked, prodded and needled like an old couch cushion. At one point I’m reasonably sure I briefly left my body and became aware of previous lives. There were moments where I considered whether this was still therapy or if I was being quietly assembled into flat-pack furniture.

Meanwhile The Squeeze remained outside, loyal but absolutely unwilling to swap places with me once he realised this wasn’t the relaxing spa treatment the brochure probably implied.

But weirdly? I felt a bit better afterward.

Not cured. Not suddenly sprinting through the streets like an inspirational pharmaceutical commercial. But looser. Lighter. Less like my muscles had been set in concrete sometime around 2019.

So naturally, full of post-treatment confidence and poor impulse control, we walked home past a guitar shop I’d been eyeing off all week and I bought a ukulele.

Because apparently this is who I am now.

A woman wandering through Vietnam collecting alternative therapies, cocktails, dresses, and small musical instruments she absolutely does not know how to play.

Anyway, we’re now back at the hotel sitting by the pool, mildly sunburnt, vaguely relaxed, and pretending we’re the sort of people who casually buy ukuleles overseas instead of normal tourists who return home with fridge magnets and regret.

Vietnam really is becoming less of a holiday and more of a very strange personality transformation.

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.