Every story needs a beginning.
Every long trip needs a first destination.
For me, it was Vietnam.
It all started in April 2024. I was in Peru when my cousin told me that he and his soon-to-be wife were planning a trip to Asia, and they’d be starting with Vietnam.
All my friends were hyped. We made plans.
Eventually, I was the only one who went.
But it didn’t matter — at some point, you just have to make a choice and stop overthinking.
There are over two hundred countries in the world; if you’re indecisive, you could spend a lifetime trying to choose.
So, I booked a flight for February 5th, 2025.
That was it — the start of a new chapter.
No big plan. No itinerary. Just a one-way ticket and a decision to follow the flow.
That’s how I decided my life would go from now on: book a flight, don’t overplan, and let things unfold.
No Plan, Good Plan
One of the highlights of traveling is realizing that “no plan is a good plan.”
Of course, you build some kind of idea — a vague direction, a few spots you’d like to hit — but beyond that, the magic happens when you let go.
Spontaneity was something I felt I had lost a bit. And while some might say, “You can’t train yourself to be more spontaneous,” I’d have to disagree.
You can absolutely choose to put yourself in situations where spontaneity is your only option.
Not planning more than a week or two in advance? That’s one way to do it — it gently forces you to live in the moment.
For someone like me — someone who likes to “control” things, to anticipate, to predict, to cover every possible outcome — it’s genuinely refreshing.
It might feel a bit scary at first if you’re wired the same way, but it’s one of the best ways to learn how to trust yourself and follow your gut.
I also believe that for people who don’t feel entirely confident in themselves, for whatever reason, traveling like this might be the best “cure” there is.
In that kind of situation, you’re forced to rely on yourself. You’re confronted with the idea that being right or wrong doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you’re choosing.
You’re aware of it, you take ownership of it, and you learn to be confident that — one way or another — it’ll be alright.
For me, it’s a bit different.
My sister would probably say I was born confident.
I’ve always been a bit reckless — or as we say in French, casse-cou. I don’t usually think twice before jumping into something, although as I get older, I do try to be a bit more careful — mostly to avoid getting physically hurt.
But sometimes, you just have to go for it.
There’s nothing I love more than trying, learning, and experiencing something new.
The direct consequence of being this way is that I tend to feel “at home” in almost any country.
I’m usually in a constant state of wonder, observing everything, trying to understand why even the most insignificant stone is the way it is.
I build up my routine. I act like I belong.
I think one of the most important things I’m realizing is that “acting like you belong” makes you unaware of how others might see you, or how different you might appear, especially in places like Southeast Asia.
I’d walk down the street as if I were from Hanoi, slipping into a rhythm of small, familiar habits.
Passing by my favorite 30k Dong Banh Mi spot in the morning on my way to “work,” I’d say the same words every time: “Banh mi trung, please” — with my most delicious smile.
She’d recognize me instantly, already knowing to prepare it with just a little bit of spicy sauce.
I’d sit down on one of those ridiculously small green stools, watching scooters and cars zip by in the most chaotic, yet natural, way possible.
The woman at the stand next to the Banh Mi place would always try to sell me cigarettes after I finished eating, even though she knew I didn’t smoke.
I’d watch her as she approached foreigners — always a bit pushy — and I could feel her disappointment when no one responded.
At the time, I remember thinking she looked helpless.
That same pattern would repeat, day after day — probably for years.
That’s how I experience things — by paying attention to even the smallest details.
In that context, you don’t really get to connect with locals. It’s hard.
You’re one in a million, just another face in a big city. I don’t speak Vietnamese, so I can’t rely on conversation. Instead, it’s through noticing the tiniest things that I start to understand the culture — and everything that separates me from their world.
I’m not going to be fancy and call it “a form of meditation,” because let’s be honest — it’s not.
It’s just 9 a.m., head in the clouds, trying to make sense of a world you don’t fully understand.
And part of my routine is finding cafes I can work from. I have to say that the “ cafe work culture” in Vietnam is unbelievably good.
Vietnamese Café Culture
If you know your history, Vietnam has had deep relations with France. At some point, in the mid-19th century as part of our colonial expansion in Southeast Asia, we “invited” ourselves over.
Think about a long dinner that turned into an overnight sleep, and we felt we needed to educate them, so we stayed.
A hundred years. Give or take. That’s long.
No surprise, then — you can spot a lot of similarities between Vietnamese cafés and French ones.
And to be honest, Vietnam has nothing to be shy about when it comes to its café scene.
First off, their Brobusta coffee variety — which actually grows locally — is strong (and good!) as hell.
You can get a decent espresso just about anywhere.
I could easily write a thousand words about all the different types of coffee here — from the classic coconut coffee to the exquisite cà phê muối (salted coffee, in English).
There’s nothing better than a bold espresso with a touch of concentrated milk, topped with salted whipped cream.
On ice. De-li-cious.
But no — what really interests us (or me?) here is the cultural aspect of cafés.
I’m talking about the places themselves.
I’ve noticed two things in particular: First and foremost, Vietnamese people meet at cafés the way Europeans meet at bars.
Second, you can literally spend an entire day working in a café — and no one will say a word.
In France or Japan, for example, that’s not always “well seen”. Hell, sometimes in Japan you need to order something every two hours to avoid being kicked-out.
Of course, it depends on the place… and the owner.
But in Vietnam, it’s completely normal. From students to remote workers, you’ll see all kinds of people setting up for the day — working, studying, or just hanging out.
And as a nomad, I can’t emphasize enough how convenient that is.
Every café has a stable, free Wi-Fi connection, great coffee, and zero judgment.
Can’t really ask for more, can you?
In my notebook, I wrote: “I shall develop more — we could call it here the culture of concept coffee.”
If you pay attention to the details, you’ll notice that each café — not the chains, obviously — has its own unique identity.
At my favorite spot in Hanoi, Terra Café, there are two cats: one black, one white.
You have to search a little to find it — it’s tucked away, a bit hidden. In the building lobby, there’s a graffiti mural of those two cats.
The atmosphere is quiet. Peaceful.
Perfect for working. Perfect coffee.
In France, most cafés look the same — especially the classic bistros.
I don’t like to generalize, but I can’t help feeling that cafés in Vietnam express more personality, more identity.
You feel it.
Patterns
One thing I eventually realized — after traveling through nearly ten different cities in Vietnam — is that there’s a strong pattern in how places are built and what you’re expected to do and see.
Long story short: almost every city or village revolves around three things:
- Restaurants
- Homestays
- (Sometimes) a food market
Although, to be fair, the entire city often feels like a food market, so there’s that.
That said, what strikes me the most — and here, I’ll just say it — is the lack of authenticity.
What I mean is that you start to get the same feeling each time you enter a new city.
Take Tam Coc in Ninh Binh — it feels oddly similar to Phong Nha, or even Hoi An.
I’m not saying they’re exactly the same, but there’s a sense that the layout, the structure, the “tourist formula,” is somehow copy-pasted.
You have to understand that almost everything here is centered around tourism — maybe even more than in other places — because a large part of the population depends on it, directly or indirectly.
Most places are constantly crowded.
If you’ve ever been to Hang Múa on a busy day, then you know exactly what I mean.
Don’t get me wrong — it’s easy to see why.
Vietnam is incredibly convenient for freestyle travel: it’s (ridiculously) cheap, you can book accommodation the day before without stress, and the variety of landscapes and environments is just stunning.
But the result is a kind of redundancy.
I know — I feel a bit posh even reading my own comments.
But still, I think it’s true. And I’ve met fellow travelers who felt the same way.
If I compare it to Japan, for example, I don’t get that same feeling.
Or at least, not as strongly.
That said, I’m not complaining.
Seeing patterns also means it becomes easier to create a routine.
When you’re working across different countries and environments all the time, it’s actually comforting to have some points of reference — a sense of orientation.
And those patterns? They definitely help.
Some might argue that it’s a bit the same in France — you’ve got la place du village, the boulangerie, the tabac, the same familiar pattern everywhere.
And that’s true, to some extent.
But even then, there’s something deeply authentic that changes from place to place.
Visit a village in the north of France and then one in the south — or even two cities just one hour apart, like Avignon and Aix — and you’ll see how different they feel.
Not just in culture, but in how they’re built — the materials, the colors, the architecture, even the layout.
Every region carries its own identity, its own story, its own way of living.
That’s definitely one of the beauties of France: such diversity within the same country.
From west to east, north to south — you’re always somewhere new.
Society
March 8th, 2025.
The day before, I got caught in what we’d call in French a guet-apens — an ambush.
I had decided to give Tinder a try a few days earlier. Matched with someone, but something about her felt a bit off. Still, I went.
One million dong for a single drink in a club where you can’t even have a conversation.
And I mean that literally — we had to talk through our phones because, as it turned out, she didn’t actually speak English.
Needless to say, I left.
It was nothing dramatic, but it stuck with me.
Not the night itself — more what it said about people, or maybe about me.
It got me thinking.
I know — I’m such a drama queen.
But I did say I’d share my view of the world, so here it is.
I don’t really understand that kind of behavior.
Then again — I’m white, technically “rich” by Southeast Asian standards, and I’ve never had to survive in this world.
Truth is, I don’t really have problems. Not in the grand scheme of things.
So, once more, my bienséance kicks in.
One should recognize power dynamics. And privilege.
That morning, still lost in those thoughts, I randomly picked a café on my way to the Temple of Literature.
That’s when I met Oscar — an older American guy.
We started talking about life.
And somehow, that conversation made for the perfect contrast with the night before.
Genuine, simple, human.
Just sitting across from someone, connecting — and that’s exactly what had been missing.
A few hours later, I sat down and opened my notebook to write.
(Translated from French:)
“I think I’m starting to grasp why, in this country — and probably in Asia more broadly — we feel good and safe. It traces back to Confucianism, and even earlier. At least since the year one thousand or so (note: I actually looked this up). Education here has long revolved around that philosophy — a way of thinking centered on respect and integrity. And I believe that explains a lot. It gives rise, at least for me, to a sense of social harmony.
In South America, from what I’ve seen, when living conditions are tough and inequality is systemic, survival tends to take priority over respect for others.
It’s like everything in life: before looking outward — to appreciate, love, like, or judge someone — you have to start with yourself. And for a balanced society, one that’s healthy from a community perspective, you begin to realize that the path to the ‘other’ starts with the self.
Some might say that sounds selfish, narcissistic, or even paradoxical. And maybe it is — or maybe it’s a savant mélange, a subtle blend of all those things.
Understanding, empathy, and acceptance of others must pass through the self.
To meditate.”
Of course, it’s not always true.
I mean, I started this whole sub-chapter from a slightly different perspective.
You could easily argue that respect should also apply when you’re walking down the street — like, maybe don’t run people over with scooters.
But that’s how things work here, I suppose.
That being said, I still think there’s a lot Europeans could learn from this way of life.
Maybe we’ve become a bit too condescending.
I don’t know.
You can really feel that sense of integrity in many forms.
From what I’ve observed, people here deeply care about family. They care about life in general — even if it’s through their own understanding of things.
Some behaviors might seem strange or even “crazy” by European standards, but for them, it’s just normal.
Once again, it’s about social harmony.
We might not fully get it — but it clearly works for them.
I’m kind of angry that it feels safer here in Asia than it does in France — especially in Paris.
It drives me crazy.
The theory that “les écarts créés créent la violence” — that inequality breeds violence — doesn’t seem to hold here.
At least, not in the same way.
In South America or Europe, yes.
But here? Not really.
Culture
One thing I’ve come to realize while visiting so many places is that we’re deeply bound to our past.
And when I say we, I mean humans.
We love collecting — accumulating — whether it’s objects, memories, or facts.
Museums are a perfect example of that: they’re everywhere.
And we’re only in the twenty-first century, yet this accumulation is already taking up so much space in the world.
If the planet is still around in one or two thousand years — which, by the way, is nothing compared to the length of time — what are we going to build then?
What are we going to create that will, in turn, be collected, stored, and remembered?
I don’t feel like we’re building anything truly great right now.
But then again, not every moment in history needs to be grand — and maybe that’s just how every generation thinks, because we don’t realize it while we’re living it.
Still, I wonder: are we stuck in the past?
Are we destroying what should be imperishable?
I’m thinking, of course, about nature.
I can’t imagine what a country like Vietnam will look like in twenty years if it doesn’t slow down.
And that thought stays with me.
That being said, culture here is fascinating — and it’s centered around simple things.
Like eating. Eating is a religion.
That’s true in Vietnam, and it’s just as true in Japan — probably in many Asian countries, actually.
But it’s not like in France, where dining often revolves around fancy restaurants and the pursuit of cuisine raffinée.
Fine cuisine isn’t what draws people in here.
It’s more about flavorful things.
A bit greasy. A bit dodgy.
But always good.
People often describe Vietnam as an open kitchen — and I can’t argue with that.
You can literally eat from any little street corner.
Whether it’s bún chả, grilled skewers, phở — you name it.
Things you couldn’t imagine in Europe are just normal here.
You’ve got a scooter and a wooden plank? Great — you can open a restaurant.
One of the best examples I have — and I’m so glad I wrote it down, because I’m not sure I would’ve remembered it otherwise — is this day when I picked a random spot to eat.
I wasn’t really inspired. I ended up having this bouillon revisité, kind of a tomato phở.
The two women running the place suddenly hopped on their scooter and left — I assumed just for a short while.
Only one old man stayed behind — maybe the husband, maybe a friend. We’ll never know.
Then, three people walked by and stopped to eat.
But in Vietnam, most of the time, it’s the women who handle everything — especially the cooking.
They quickly realized that no one could serve them. The old man looked completely helpless, unsure what to do.
Ni une ni deux, the woman at the food stand next door noticed what was going on and immediately offered to help.
From what I could gather, she said something like, “No worries, I got it.”
You could tell she had never cooked in that kitchen before — it wasn’t her setup.
But she just stepped in, did her best, and served them with care.
And I was sitting there, quietly amazed, thinking, I’m lucky to witness this.
Because in that moment, I thought: Only in Vietnam.
This open kitchen we talked about — this was it, in action.
That’s maybe because they believe in karma — after all, many are Buddhist. Or maybe it’s because Confucianism runs deep in Vietnam.
But honestly, that’s just how things are here: people are ready to help.
They’re actually glad to do it.
On the street, if they can lend a hand, they’ll do it — no fuss, no drama.
Just a natural part of how life flows here.
One thing that’s quite common in Asia is how welcoming people are.
In Japan it’s a bit different — I’ll get to that in a different chapter — but in Vietnam, I never once felt out of place or like I wasn’t wanted.
People are almost always happy to see you — in their own way. Vietnamese people are often curious, playful, and open.
They’re not overly respectful like the Japanese might be, but they’ll still welcome you into their homes, restaurants, or stores with warmth.
They’re generally well-mannered.
Well… you know — except when they spit.
Before heading to Sa Pa, I came across a message from a French couple saying they’d had a great experience staying with someone named “Zuzu” in her small village.
They shared her WhatsApp. I didn’t think twice.
I didn’t ask them anything more — I just messaged her and agreed to stay with her family for one night before hiking up Fansipan, supposedly with her brother.
Since she was a child, she’s been selling hand-made embroidered items, walking through the streets of Sa Pa, racking up kilometers day after day.
She’s small — I must be at least 40 cm taller than her — with tanned skin, a slightly round build, a big head, and narrow, almond-shaped eyes.
But she’s in great shape. We head straight onto the trail toward her village, and man, she’s fast. I can keep up, but for her, it’s clearly just another day. This is her everyday rhythm.
Along the way, she tells me about the different tribes that live in the region. The tribe I stayed with was called the Black Hmong — known for their indigo-dyed clothing, intricate embroidery, and strong sense of community.
Each tribe has its own identity — unique customs, crafts, and ways of life.
They live simply, often trading with or helping their neighbors, and sometimes offering their services in the city, for example, working as guides.
While tourism does affect them, they still feel somewhat shielded from it. There’s a real sense of authenticity.
And after about six weeks in Vietnam, it’s the first time I’ve truly felt that. Let’s just say — in that moment, I’m really grateful to be experiencing it with her.
We actually have real conversations — and I realize it’s the first time I’ve truly connected with a local.
She’s amazing. She learned English just by speaking with foreigners while selling the things she made — all without being able to read.
I find that fascinating. She can’t even type in a translation app. If she wants to say something more technical or specific, she uses the microphone to dictate it.
It’s such a simple, resourceful way to communicate — and it tells you a lot about her.
Say what you will, but language is either one of the strongest tools for connection or the biggest barrier.
You can connect with locals without speaking the same language — you can laugh, share a good meal, and enjoy a moment.
But you don’t really form a deep connection if you can’t share your thoughts, your perspective on the world — and in this kind of context, that matters.
Many of the local people I’ve met have never had the chance to travel — except through their smartphone screens — and most likely, they never will.
So when they share with you, and you share with them, it’s more than a moment — it’s a window. A way to open up their view of the world, or even just of their own country.
They don’t need you to teach them anything, and they’re not necessarily expecting to learn. They’ve probably heard plenty from other travelers before.
But your story, your voice, adds something personal. Something real. Something that sticks. Something authentic.
Who you are — and how much you choose to share — also shapes how others see the world.
And I’m not talking about educating anyone — that would sound far too colonial, and it’s not what I believe in.
For me, traveling is first and foremost about experiencing and learning from the world.
When you share that perspective with someone who doesn’t have the same opportunity to travel, you can only hope it brightens their day, or maybe shifts their view, just a little.
And maybe, in that brief, honest moment of exchange, the feelings you’re sharing can become theirs too. Even for a moment.
Belonging
I think that part of the trip — talking to locals who don’t have much but still seem to enjoy life more than most Westerners — is one of the real highlights.
There’s a kind of joy, or maybe peace, that we’ve somehow lost along the way.
It reminds me why I chose this way of life, at least for now. Why I feel aligned with it.
I don’t travel with much. I don’t have a permanent home anymore — my backpack is my home.
And I guess I already knew it, but these encounters keep confirming it: people who own less often seem happier.
Because in the end, what stays with you are the human connections, the appreciation of little things, the ability to be amazed.
If you have that, you don’t need much else.
It actually reminds me of The Old Man and the Sea, by Hemingway.
And that novel makes me think of a story I’ve always loved — maybe you’ve heard it.
A businessman is vacationing in a small coastal village.
He sees a fisherman dock his modest boat with a few good fish and asks why he didn’t stay out longer to catch more.
The fisherman shrugs and says,
“Because I’ve caught enough for today. I’ll go home, play with my kids, take a nap with my wife, then head to the village to see my friends and play music.”
The businessman, intrigued, replies,
“But if you stayed out longer, you could catch more fish. With the extra profits, you could buy a bigger boat. Then a fleet. Eventually, you’d open your own factory, move to the city, and run it all from there.”
The fisherman thinks for a second, then asks,
“And after that?”
“Well,” says the businessman,
“After that you could retire, move to a quiet village, fish a little, play with your kids, take naps with your wife, and spend your evenings playing music with your friends.”
The fisherman smiles.
“Isn’t that what I’m already doing?”
And just like that, the illusion of “more” collapses.
You have to remember: I’m not traveling just to experience new things, discover new cultures, or enjoy life.
Of course, that’s a big part of it. But more than anything, this is just how I live.
It’s not a vacation. It’s not a break.
It’s my lifestyle.
I’m not in my twenties, searching for meaning or taking a sabbatical.
For some people, life is about raising a child in a house they’ve made a home.
For others, it’s about chasing dreams they’ll never act on.
And many stick to the status quo, because change is scary — or simply uncomfortable.
But for me, it’s the opposite.
I need to challenge the status quo.
To challenge the idea of belonging.
Because I know that, one day, I’ll choose to settle somewhere.
And when I do, it’ll feel right — because it’ll be a choice, not an obligation.
Because I’ll know the people around me are the ones I chose to be part of my extended family.
A lot of people travel to forget.
Because they’ve been hurt.
Because it’s easier than facing reality.
And I get it — it’s easy to get lost in the rhythm of travel.
Once you get the hang of it, you can feel like you belong everywhere.
But let’s be honest: that’s not entirely true.
Not unless you stop and stay a while.
You don’t really belong somewhere unless you invest in it.
Unless you stay long enough to build something real.
Real friendships — the kind you can count on, eyes closed — they take years.
And those people? That’s your life.
I know where mine are.
They’re not just “waiting” for me — you have to nurture those bonds.
But I know they’re there.
And realizing that? It’s one of the most valuable things I have.
To friendship.
Flow
When you leave for a journey like this, people always ask the same questions:
Aren’t you afraid to be alone?
Is it safe?
Don’t you think you’re going to change?
How long will you be gone?
At some point, I started feeling like people had more expectations for this trip than I did.
Honestly, I didn’t know what to say — mostly because I had no expectations.
It’s not the first time I’ve traveled alone, and being the intro-extra-vert that I am, I usually don’t mind spending time by myself.
But for most people, it seems like their lives are entirely defined by others.
No real free will — or maybe a fake version of it — mostly shaped by how others perceive them, appreciate them, and validate them.
Everything filtered through someone else.
When you’re traveling, all of that doesn’t really apply anymore. It forces you to break down mental barriers and challenge any preconceptions you might have.
On your own, you’re left with yourself and a few connections along the way.
And let’s be honest, most of those are fleeting. Ephemeral.
But that’s not a problem — in fact, it’s part of the beauty.
It actually makes it easier to be yourself.
You’ve got nothing to prove.
In two days, you’ll be gone.
You’ll move on.
One thing I’ve often seen people say online is: “You’re never alone when you’re traveling solo.”
That might be true, but it’s a bit different when you’re traveling and working at the same time.
You can’t just spend two hours in a café or linger over breakfast in your hostel, waiting for that magical connection to happen.
Time flies at the speed of light.
You’re not on the same timeline as most people.
And that makes it inherently harder to connect, especially in Vietnam, where most locals don’t really speak English, and where the average backpacker is in their early twenties, far removed from your – my – reality.
That’s when you start to realize that small interactions really matter.
Routine helps build those moments — little anchors in the day that create familiarity.
Staying open to wonder puts you in a completely different mindset.
You have to live the travel.
I’m far more aware now than I am when I’m in my comfort zone.
Whether it’s getting a drink with friends or wandering through an unfamiliar town in a country you know nothing about — it leaves a different kind of mark on you.
One thing I’ve noticed is the perpetual flow of movement I’m creating around me.
Sometimes I’m actively chasing it, other times I’m just getting pulled in — by what’s happening around me, or by the people I randomly meet.
That flow — combined with the fact that I’m working — doesn’t leave much room for boredom or loneliness.
Coming back to the first lines I wrote in this new notebook, I see it again: “To love is to take care.”
I wrote that four days before leaving for Vietnam, after a one-month trip in the Alps with friends.
And just a few lines later: “Time flies when in good company.”
Well — it turns out time also flies when you’re wandering the world alone.
There were moments when I found myself actively seeking connection.
At some point, I felt compelled to connect with anyone.
I needed — craved — that human spark. That trigger.
Looking back on previous trips, I realize it wasn’t always like that.
Back then, my “mission” was mostly work-related.
This time, it’s different.
This time, it’s about my personal life.
So… what’s my mission now?
Hard to say.
Maybe — to discover more of myself?
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to introspection.
I think it’s important — even necessary — in the journey of life to ask yourself a few essential questions from time to time.
I’m not talking about going full Sylvain Tesson and hiding in a hut in Siberia for six months — though honestly, I wouldn’t mind that — but taking some distance once in a while does matter.
And when you’re traveling solo, you naturally create more space for that kind of reflection.
It makes you think hard — about what you like to do, the choices you’ve made, the different paths you could take.
It strengthens you.
Some people might assume that solitude makes you turn inward too much, that you close in on yourself — but it’s actually the opposite.
You often read, “You can’t love someone else if you don’t love yourself.”
Well, I’d say: you can’t truly understand others if you don’t understand yourself.
That being said, there’s a limit to what you can bring yourself.
You can’t always be gentle with yourself — and let’s be honest, we’re usually pretty harsh.
And on your own, some things just don’t hit the same.
You can’t laugh as hard.
You can’t be as stupid.
You can’t get drunk for no reason and fully enjoy it.
Some experiences don’t carry the same flavor when lived alone.
They hold so much more meaning when shared — especially with close friends.
At a time when I felt alone, I wrote (translated from French):
“This low moment is just that — a moment. I’m here for a good reason, even if I don’t know what it is yet.
Things can’t always be perfect — otherwise, the moments we truly value wouldn’t have the same weight. The same flavor.
So you have to accept the questioning, the solitude, the moments you love… and those you don’t.
As long as you stay in motion, nothing is fixed.
And that’s the whole point of this journey: to keep moving.”
And just like that, I got out of it — simply by being amazed again by the simple things in life.
You shouldn’t pressure yourself to meet people.
The most beautiful connections I’ve made — whether friendships or something more intimate — were the ones I didn’t expect, and that came at times when I wasn’t looking for anything.
Does it have to do with “good things come to those who wait”? Maybe. But I don’t think it’s entirely that.
It’s not necessarily about patience. It’s more about accepting that things — and time — move on their own terms.
There’s no such thing as fate.
It’s a chain of micro-decisions:
Should I go out tonight? Should I start a conversation with that person? Do I want to be kind right now?
For some people, that flow comes naturally.
They’re open, unshy, effortlessly sociable — they’ll just talk to everyone.
When you’re traveling, you can’t really afford to be too picky.
Because you never know.
Yes, you’ll probably find yourself repeating the same things:
Where are you from? Where have you been? Where are you going?
But that’s part of it.
Travel is about expanding your horizons, and if you’re too selective, maybe you’re not really open to that.
Of course, you’ll want to avoid les cons — but that, too, is about learning to trust your instincts.
Cities & Landscapes
I talked about patterns. About culture. Solitude. Social life.
But don’t get me wrong, Vietnam is beautiful.
A rough idea of where I went:
Note that I didn’t do Lan Ha Bay and Heaven’s Gate.
Cham, Hoi An, Da Nang & Hue
There’s kind of a pattern to traveling in Vietnam.
Most people go from Hoi An to Hanoi, or the other way around.
Two to three weeks on average. Four days per place, more or less.
Which means you get to see five, maybe six stops.
Hoi An, Ninh Binh, and Hanoi — the usual essentials.
I landed in Hanoi on February 5th, then immediately flew to Da Nang. That’s where I met up with my cousin and his wife — Pierre and Camille — and we headed to Cham Island together.
The plan was to stay three days. We stayed six.
The weather wasn’t great — no boats were allowed to cross back: No boat, no return.
We were stuck — but honestly, I didn’t mind.
Island life has its own pace.
And in February, it’s far from the high season.
We were almost the only tourists.
It was also my first real contact with Vietnamese cuisine.
Let’s just say I still prefer oysters in Brittany.
Since it’s a fishing island, we had a lot of fish soup and hot pots.
Except “fish” became “fi” — for some reason they just couldn’t pronounce the ‘sh’.
Takes a few days to get used to.
They also served a rice soup — cháo.
I’d never had it before.
Definitely better than it looks!
People on the island live simple lives.
Tourism’s only active a few months a year — the rest of the time, it’s all about fishing, playing cards, and drinking.
For the men, at least.
Women seem to do… well, everything else.
I’m generalizing, sure. But if I had to be blunt, I’d say this country runs on its women.
They’re everywhere.
In the fields. In the kitchen. Running the household.
Raising kids — a lot of them.
Managing shops. Restaurants. Guesthouses.
Not saying men are lazy.
But I rarely saw them handling the heavy lifting.
One afternoon, our host handed us a fishing line — no rod — and some tiny shrimp for bait.
No idea how fresh they were. We gave it a try anyway.
Didn’t take long to realize the dock wasn’t it.
We found a big rock, climbed up, opened two beers.
Sun going down.
Pierre’s clearly more skilled than I am — I walked away with a few scratches and zero fish.
The next day, he managed to catch a small one.
Still — time to move on.
Island life was starting to feel like a loop.
When the boats finally ran again, we made it to Hoi An.
That was my first real taste of Vietnamese chaos.
No sidewalks.
You just walk where you can — and hope for the best.
It reminded me of Shanghai, back in 2013.
No rules. Just cross the damn street.
Thing is, they’re surprisingly aware.
I even tested it — crossing when I shouldn’t have.
They always saw me coming.
There’s no sidewalk — because everything runs on scooters.
There’s no limit to what they’ll carry. Four people? Easy. A pig tied to the back? Sure. A full haystack? No problemo.
They’ve adapted the streets for it. Pull over, order grilled chicken straight from your seat, drive off.
There’s no queue — not like in Japan. It’s chaotic. First come, first served.
I’ve never minded chaos.
I actually enjoy it.
You have to become part of the movement — or it swallows you.
Don’t hesitate. Just go.
Hoi An is also where I realize I clearly don’t know Vietnamese cuisine.
Coming from France, I thought I had some idea. I didn’t.
The variety is amazing — and honestly, full of inspiration.
It’s not spicy, and most sauces are quite simple, but it doesn’t need more than that.
I can still remember the duck from Cơm Linh.
The only place I’d actually agree to queue a little (and I hate queuing).
Outside of food and its atmosphere, I had the feeling Hoi An didn’t have much more to offer.
Tra Que village was a real breath of fresh air — a nice break from the noise and the crowds.
Surrounded by fields, it slows you down.
The beach? Maybe not the right time of year.
There are a few things like the My Son Sanctuary that could be worth the trip, but overall, Hoi An is about feeling the city itself.
Wandering from bars to kitchens. Letting it unfold.
I spent almost a week there, while working — but I wouldn’t have stayed longer. Too touristy for me.
I rented a scooter for the first time to head to Da Nang, following a trail through Monkey Mountain.
Didn’t spot many monkeys, though.
The coastline there is stunning — it almost felt like I was somewhere else entirely.
As usual, on trails like these, I didn’t meet many people.
Fine by me.
The return to Hoi An was… interesting.
I got caught in traffic — hundreds of scooters all around me.
It sounds intense, but somehow, it’s still okay.
You just follow the flow.
Obviously, stay aware of your surroundings!
Since Hoi An felt a bit too busy, I decided to spend a week in Hue.
At that time, I was really focused on work — and I needed some kind of routine.
Hue turned out to be perfect for that.
It’s a good balance: a fairly big city, but not overcrowded.
Rich in history — it used to be the imperial capital — and surrounded by nature and temples.
I know most people tend to prefer Hoi An, but with the way I travel… Hue was a better fit.
I ended up connecting with the hotel receptionist, Tran.
She gave me tons of recommendations — where to eat, where to go, little hidden gems.
She’d always tease me about how much I worked.
Especially when she’d see me again… at her other job.
At the café I’d been working from all day.
That balance — working while traveling — is something most people don’t really get.
“Work hard to play hard,” as they say.
There are times when things slow down, sure.
But I’m still a business owner.
I can’t just unplug and do a 9 to 5 — or, let’s be honest, a 10 to 2 like many nomads out there 😇.
If you want my honest take on Hue: Khai Dinh? Overrated. Didn’t feel much.
Tu Duc, on the other hand — that one stayed with me.
Hidden in the forest, peaceful, almost quiet by design.
And as always, I wandered off.
Most people visit thirty, maybe fifty percent of a place.
I always try to do the full hundred.
Not for the checklist — just so I can have the space to enjoy the place for real.
Feel its history.
Let it sink in, without the noise.
Later, I rode my worn-out scooter toward Thien Mu Pagoda.
Asia has this way of building things — with a certain grandeur that feels different from anything we’re used to in Europe.
It always catches me off guard.
Phong Nha was the quiet before the storm — a stretch of stillness and nature before jumping straight into the chaos of Hanoi.
I spent three days trekking there — in the biggest cave system in the world.
It was stunning. But honestly, words won’t do it justice.
That’s the kind of trip you need to live for yourself.
No pictures, no stories — just the feeling of being there.
The caves are described as the biggest in the world — and I swam in one, surrounded by flying bats.
Being inside that cave system is humbling.
When you realize that it takes a hundred years for a stalagmite to grow just a few centimeters… you feel small.
Tiny, compared to the rest of the world.
The region isn’t overcrowded — and it’s great to see how much they respect the environment, and the people living there.
Floods can get intense.
We’re talking twenty meters of water. Yes, that much.
The whole valley disappears underwater.
Some parts of the trek actually help finance floatable homes.
When the floods come, they store valuables in these tiny houses — and the houses float.
Barrel system, basic setup, but it works.
And if anyone knows what works in a flood, it’s them.
I didn’t do the trek for the challenge.
I did it because it’s something unique — sleeping in the heart of the jungle, surrounded by caves carved over millions of years.
It became one of my favorite places, even with all the rain.
The way the hills rise like sharp mountains.
The layers of green — fields, forests — each with its own depth.
Everything feels grounded. Rooted in nature.
One thing that struck me, even during the short time I spent in the village about 40 minutes from Phong Nha — where we started the trek — is how poverty looks different in Vietnam.
People living with very little seem to be doing better than in many other parts of the world.
Maybe it’s the influence of tourism — almost every city in Vietnam has at least one place tourists pass through. I’m not sure.
But it doesn’t feel like poverty the way I’ve seen it elsewhere.
Especially compared to South America, where houses often feel half-finished or where dust and noise never stop, Vietnam feels quieter.
It’s simple, yes — very simple.
But clean. Quiet. Safe.
Hanoi - Ninh Binh, Ha Giang, Sa Pa
After Phong Nha, I made my way to Hanoi — a full month this time. I needed a base, and Hanoi became just that.
It’s a great base to move around from — especially on weekends. Everything’s accessible with a night bus.
And I have to say: probably the most comfortable night buses I’ve ever taken. Even better than Peru.
Hanoi is hectic. Loud. Alive. But I liked it.
I tried to live like a local, as much as I could.
I stayed in Hai Ba Trung — not touristy at all.
Thirty minutes walking from the Old Quarter.
Exactly what I needed.
I’ll skip describing Ninh Binh.
It’s all over Instagram anyway. You’ll find dozens of blogs raving about the “Ha Long Bay on land”.
They’ll tell you it’s “not crowded” or “One of the most beautiful places in Vietnam”. You get the idea.
Yes, it is beautiful. But also packed.
Tam Coc, Hang Mua — the number of people is just… insane.
Bai Dinh Pagoda? Slightly better, mostly because it’s massive.
I preferred Dong Am Tien Or Thung Nham.
Tucked away, mostly known by Vietnamese visitors.
Best way to enjoy Ninh Binh? Hop on a scooter or a bike, and just get lost in the rice fields.
The city itself doesn’t have much to offer.
Except maybe Hoa Lu at night — the illuminated temples are stunning, and you’ll get some really good shots.
Since everyone kept bringing up the Ha Giang Loop, I booked it. But I did it in two days.
That’s nearly 500 km on a scooter — in two days.
Not sure I’d do it again like that though.
If I were to redo it, I’d probably go solo. Take more time.
Use a real motorbike, not a toy scooter built for backpackers.
The loop’s kind of a well-oiled machine now — same routes, same restaurants, same homestays.
Same shots of happy water with groups of 30+ twenty-something backpackers every night.
It’s fun for a bit, but I couldn’t help thinking, I’ve done this before. I’m growing old, I guess.
And the drivers do this every single day. No complaints, just ride. That’s insane.
Still — some landscapes truly take your breath away.
Especially when you get up close to the Chinese border.
The roads winding through the northernmost points are wild — dramatic, raw, beautiful.
I didn’t have my camera with me, and honestly, I’m not going to go into too much detail. It’s like Ninh Binh — it’s all over Instagram.
Ah, Sa Pa.
I had some expectations — it was supposed to be the “mountain” leg of the trip.
The kind of setting I was craving.
I was excited about trekking Fansipan, hoping for something that felt like a real adventure.
And I wasn’t disappointed.
As usual, the city center and main tourist spots were packed — the same pattern all over again.
But in Sa Pa, it felt easier to escape it.
I already wrote about my little detour to the village with Zuzu — refreshing, honest, a real cultural experience.
Then came Fansipan. A 9-hour trek — relatively easy, though a bit demanding.
I made a few good friends on the way up.
And for the rest of the time, I just rented a scooter and got lost in the mountain trails. Exactly what I needed.
I basically ended up doing off-road with a scooter — no real plan, no real goal.
At some point, I stopped in a forest, saw a trail on the map, and just went for it.
Did the loop. Crossed paths with locals and farmers.
And for a moment, I just felt free.
That’s probably when I started really liking scooters.
Realizing you can do a lot with a piece of junk — as long as you trust it won’t fall apart.
Safe? Not sure. But it worked out.
Honestly, I could have stayed a week or two in Sa Pa.
I even thought about it — I had my laptop with me, could’ve worked from there.
Would’ve been better with a few proper days off, though.
Hanoi — since I already wrote about it indirectly, I’ll try to focus more on the city itself.
The vibe. The rhythm. What it actually has to offer.
The city wakes up early. Really early.
By 5 a.m., it’s already buzzing — probably the busiest it gets all day.
Vietnamese people are morning people, no doubt.
You’ll see groups of 50+ doing their version of street gym.
A kind of “grandma tai chi,” if you will.
It’s no surprise everything shuts down around 10 p.m.
The day happens in the morning.
So I’d actually recommend starting your day early.
Not like in Japan — where every decent coffee shop opens at 10 a.m. or later (which, let’s be honest, is a real pain).
The Old Quarter? A bit too much. But you have to see it at night though — especially around Đồng Xuân Market.
There’s something about it. A kind of chaotic energy that pulls you in.
But beyond that, it’s pretty much like any big open market in Asia. Same knock-off Patagonia and The North Face gear you see everywhere.
There are some quiet gems too.
Camille recommended “Bookworm” — half café, half bookshop — and I loved it. Felt like a little cocoon in the middle of the city’s chaos.
Or Terra Café, where I ended up working a lot. Solid spot.
It seems like Vietnamese people — especially Hanoians (I think that’s how you say it?) — enjoy the buzz.
There’s definitely a bit of a show-off culture.
Not in a bad way, more like “just be where it’s happening”.
The place, in that case, usually being a trendy café or a good restaurant.
I’m not sure Hanoi is a capital you really visit. It’s more something you experience.
You eat your way through it — jumping from a Banh Mi to a Bún Chả, stopping at another cool café in between.
That’s the rhythm of the city.
There are a few cultural stops, like the Temple of Literature — which I actually liked — but it’s done pretty quickly.
Or the Ho Chi Minh mausoleum.
Feels more like a relic than a must-see. You go, you check the box, and that’s it.
It’s not really about that.
It’s not like Japan, where you stumble upon hidden temples or quiet gems around every corner.
Here, it feels less preserved — maybe because of the war, or maybe it’s just too recent to carry that kind of stillness.
The city quiets down early. Past 10pm, everything’s closed.
Except in the Old Quarter — a few night spots stay open, some clubs trying to mimic the Western scene.
Not really my thing, but it’s there if you’re looking for it.
Talking with other travelers, Hanoi usually gets two kinds of reactions: either “I hated it” or “I loved it.”
For some, it’s just too much — too loud, too busy, too many scooters, too many people.
I didn’t feel overwhelmed, maybe because I love New York — which has its own kind of chaos — or maybe because I’ve experienced Shanghai, which is even more intense than Hanoi.
So no, Hanoi didn’t really bother me.
And honestly, I think it captures the culture well.
I didn’t go to Ho Chi Minh so I can’t compare, but I’m not surprised Hanoi is the capital.
That being said, you don’t get to see the real face of Vietnam in a big city.
You’re just in another city — one among many.
Connecting with locals doesn’t really happen. It’s not personal.
In smaller villages, it’s different. You feel the warmth, the smiles, the sharp humor — it’s all there, just beneath the surface.
If you really want to discover Vietnam, skip the cities.
Go to the countryside. It’s the same in China, really.
Cities are fun — sometimes — but the real culture, the real people, they’re not there.
They’re out in the hills, in the rice fields, in the places that aren’t on every itinerary.
That’s where Vietnam happens.
Open Kitchen, Chaos, Quiet Mind
In a taxi in Ninh Binh, chatting with my driver, he asks me what I like about Vietnam.
I start going on about the food, all kinds of dishes, and he lights up: “Oh oh yes yes, you like this, it’s good!”
Pardon the simplicity of that quote, but that’s often how it goes when you don’t share a language.
It’s simple, but it’s fun.
Anyway, we keep talking, or trying to, and at some point, I say, “I love how easy it is to do anything here.”
I’d said the exact same thing to Oscar, the American I met earlier in Hanoi. And I’ve found myself saying it over and over since then.
It’s something I later extended to the Philippines, too.
I truly believe that.
Of course, being a European in Vietnam makes things easier — privilege, remember?
It probably also has to do with regulations — or more accurately, the lack of them in some cases.
Vietnam has pushed me to rely on myself more and to stop overthinking decisions like, “Should I do this or not?”
I’ve learned to embrace not having a plan. And I love it.
If we go down the philosophical road, I wrote in my notebook:
“You can’t regret something you didn’t plan.”
If you never told yourself “I need to do all this”, then you can’t really be disappointed when you don’t.
You didn’t set the expectation, so you don’t notice its absence.
(I know — deep, right?)
The same applies to many things, like meeting new people. If you don’t expect to meet anyone, if you’re not actively looking for it, then you don’t crave it.
And that’s a huge benefit.
It means you’re not constantly trying to calculate or anticipate what’s going to happen next.
Remember when I said I like(d?) to be in control?
Well, this is part of learning how to navigate more by gut feeling.
Of course, you still have your instincts, your reflexes, your danger zones, or whatever else keeps you grounded, but it’s a different kind of awareness.
I feel that Vietnam, even though it’s sometimes a chaotic ride in many ways, has brought me peace of mind.
Peace in accepting the perpetual flow of movement.
Peace in accepting the flow of thoughts that come with solitude.
Peace in accepting more ephemeral connections.
It also brought some real insight into Asian culture — something I know I still need to deepen.
I didn’t go very far into Buddhism, for example. I mostly stayed at the surface: Confucianism, politics, social structure, and contemporary culture.
But all of that traces back much further.
It’s a bit like Europe and Christianity.
For some reason, it’s always religion — or more precisely, worldview systems — that end up shaping us.
Not just individually, but culturally.
Whether we accept it or not, we’re deeply rooted in things that were created hundreds, if not thousands, of years ago.