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.

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.

Social Media Isn’t Toxic. You Are.

Social media isn’t toxic. That’s the lie people tell themselves, so they don’t have to look too closely at what they’re actually doing on it.

Platforms don’t wake up in the morning and decide to be unhinged. They don’t pick fights, post passive-aggressive quotes, or spend three hours stalking someone they claim not to care about. People do that. You do that. And then you log off, shake your head, and blame the app like it forced your hand.

It didn’t.

Social media is a mirror with better lighting. It reflects exactly what you bring into it. If your feed is full of outrage, drama, and people behaving badly, it’s not because the algorithm has singled you out for punishment. It’s because you engage with it. You click it. You watch it. You feed it. And it feeds you right back.

Then comes the performance. Everyone suddenly becomes a moral authority, a mental health advocate, a political analyst, or a victim, depending on what gets the most traction that week. Outrage is currency. Oversharing is strategy. And authenticity? That’s just another aesthetic now.

People love to say social media is damaging their mental health, while actively marinating in the exact content that makes them feel worse. Doomscrolling like it’s a job. Comparing their real lives to someone else’s highlight reel, then acting shocked when they feel inadequate. You’re not a hostage here. You’re a willing participant.

And the hypocrisy is almost impressive. The same people complaining about negativity are the ones liking, sharing, and commenting on it. The same ones calling out toxicity are in the comments section sharpening knives. It’s not exposure that’s the problem. It’s appetite.

The truth is that social media didn’t create this behaviour. It just gave it a stage. A very efficient, very public stage where people can be exactly who they are without interruption. And for a lot of people, that’s the uncomfortable part.

Because it’s easier to blame the platform than admit you might be part of the problem.

Social media isn’t toxic. It’s just honest.

Being "Real" - The New Performance

“I’m just being authentic.”

With lighting.
Editing.
And three takes.

Sure. Keep it real. 

Put those Botox and filled cheeks and lips in the camera and smile!

I wish I could be there in 50 years when they open up coffins and see a skeleton, with boobs, lips, eyelashes and a butt! 

They don't know what any of this does to you! Like smoking - my mother started smoking when she was in hospital. Pregnant with me!! My Cigarette went through the wards handing them out! Yeah. It'll calm your nerves!! Now they discovered it was deadly. So, they invented vapes. Same thing! 

The weight loss drugs... Everybody is on it! Even my sister and brother! Personally, I'd rather be a fat fuck.

Stupid people. Be happy as you are! Because I don't think fake lips or a frozen face is going to be the magic pill of happiness!

True Crime Isn’t Curiosity. It’s Entertainment.

Let’s not dress it up.

True crime isn’t about justice. It’s not about “understanding.” It’s about watching something awful from a safe distance and calling it interest.

We binge it. We follow it. We wait for the next episode like it’s a series—because it is.

Someone’s worst day becomes content. A life gets reduced to a storyline. A murder becomes a hook.
And we eat it up.

Podcasts stretch details for suspense. Documentaries build cliffhangers. Comment sections fill with theories like it’s a game. Real people are dead, and we’re treating it like a puzzle.

“Obsessed with true crime” isn’t curiosity. It’s branding.

If this were really about respect, it wouldn’t sound like entertainment. It wouldn’t feel this polished. This addictive. This… enjoyable.

But it does.
Because that’s exactly what it is.

Anzac Day Isn’t Your Stage

There’s always one.

While thousands stand quietly at dawn, remembering people who actually sacrificed something, someone like Eli Toby decides this is his moment. Not to reflect. Not to respect. Just to make a lot of loud noise.

Booing a Welcome to Country at an Anzac Day service isn’t brave. It’s not a statement. It’s not even controversial. It’s just attention-seeking dressed up as conviction.

If you’ve got an issue, there are a hundred ways to express it like an adult. Standing in the dark interrupting a memorial isn’t one of them.

Anzac Day isn’t about you.

And the fact that you think it is, tells everyone exactly who you are.

Everyone Has Anxiety Now (Apparently)

At this point, breathing incorrectly is probably a diagnosis.

Some people have anxiety. Real anxiety. The kind that doesn’t clock off, doesn’t negotiate, and doesn’t care if you’ve got things to do. It’s exhausting, private, and very real.

And then there’s… whatever this is.

A mixture of not getting you own way; and sulking about it. 

Didn’t get what you wanted? Anxiety. Had to speak in public? Anxiety. Felt uncomfortable for five whole minutes? Better label it before it escalates into personal growth.

We’ve taken normal human friction — nerves, rejection, awkwardness — and medicalised it. Because apparently the worst thing that can happen to a person now is feeling slightly uneasy.

It’s not anxiety. It’s life!

But life doesn’t get much airtime anymore. It doesn’t come with sympathy, validation, or a neat little label you can post about. So, everything gets upgraded into something more serious than it is.

And the more we do that, the less anything means.

Because when everything is anxiety, the people who actually have it get drowned out by the noise of people who just don’t like being uncomfortable.

One is a condition.

The other is a low tolerance for inconvenience.

And pretending they’re the same doesn’t make you self-aware.

It just makes you a bit loud.

Can't Blog. Vietnam.

I'm never lost for words. I've always got something to say. However, next week I'm off to Vietnam so I intend to be living, rather than writing! The weather ranges from 25-32 and it's humid.

Better than last year. I went off with such enthusiasm. My partner had organised a dentist for himself (it is so cheap over there... And great clinics too!) but I had plans! I was going to site see everything!

Since we were staying in Denang, I wanted to go on the Hue Citadel tour which uses authentic trains with singers and lute players on board! My sister had gone the year before and said it was a must! So off we go... The train boards and it curves its way up through the mountains. There is actually a cliff on one side, and the views! Ocean. Beautiful clear ocean! 

Well, that was what it was supposed to be like.

Instead, we were pelted by rain. So much of the trip, you couldn't see out of the windows as it was slanting! Pounding so much it became dangerous, so they cancelled the trip back. 

We were staying overnight at this little groovy hotel in this tiny town, which we couldn't see because of the rain. Even if you put a rain proof poncho on, you couldn't see a foot in front of you. 

The next morning, we had to get a ride back to Danang. And so, we get into the back seat of a station wagon the girl on the front desk had arranged for us and within five minutes were hail Mary-ing! He drove like a bloody maniac. Through the slanted rain, going about 100 miles per hour. I don't know if anyone has been to Vietnam or not, but there are no highways! Just skinny roads!

I put translator on my phone and asked him to slow down as I was feeling sick. He did for about 5 minutes and then back up to what he was going! At the end of the trip, we were white. 

Suffice to say I enjoyed the first 2 days, after that, I was never going back to Vietnam again!!!

So I am giving it another chance. Two weeks of sun and pool.