Arriving in Hoi An: Calm Air, Soft Light, and Shoulders Finally Dropping

Our homestay in Hoi An feels like a deep breath after the chaos of Quảng Ngãi. It’s quiet. The room smells faintly of whatever the owner has in her aromatherapy diffuser, something clean and calming that immediately makes you lower your shoulders. More than anything, it feels homely.

The owner is pregnant and expecting a boy in two months. We noticed her resting a hand on her bump while she filled in our paperwork, steady and unhurried. Her mum moves around the place with quiet purpose, cleaning, tidying, keeping everything running without fuss. After the week we’d had, our first night here felt like relief, release, and pure exhaustion rolled into one.

Tropical Downpours and Drunken Mishaps

We found something to eat, though it wasn’t exactly memorable, and just as we were deciding what to do next the sky split open. One minute we were strolling along minding our own business, the next we were in the middle of a tropical power shower with nowhere to hide. Craig, ever the problem solver, darted over to a fish crate, snapped off a piece of polystyrene and handed it to me like it was a designer umbrella. I stood there holding this soggy square above my head while locals wandered past unfazed and scooters ploughed through puddles like speedboats.

We surrendered to a bar for a few beers and a game of pool. By 10pm we were legless. I don’t really drink, so I’m still surprised to find myself doing it twice in one month. Apparently my liver has the memory of a goldfish.

Back at the hotel we climbed into bed, though neither of us remembers much about it. In the middle of the night Craig suddenly said, “Turn on the lights, I can’t find the loo.” I reached over and fumbled for the switch. I couldn’t quite reach, but I kept stretching.

The next thing I knew I was on the floor.

The sound of the thud cracked through the room. For a split second there was silence, followed by the absurd realisation that I was drunk and bleeding. I had smacked my eye on the side of the cabinet and cut it. Blood was dripping. Craig laughed. What he hadn’t realised was that I was actually injured. Even when he did realise, he didn’t exactly spring into action. Some help he is. Eventually it stopped bleeding and I went back to sleep.

Morning After: Black Eye, Bruised Knee, and Frizzy Hair

In the morning Craig had a bad head and I had a black eye, a cut near my eyebrow, and a bruised knee. Thankfully I wear prescription sunglasses, so I could at least pretend it was all terribly glamorous from the waist up. Unfortunately I’ve also run out of hair product, so my already thin hair has entered its natural state: thin, frizzy and slightly feral.

Noodle Island: Quiet, Lived-In Charm

We spent the day wandering around Hoi An, and it was exactly what we needed. The town reminds me of a miniature Venice or Amsterdam, all waterways, small islands and low bridges linking one pocket of life to another. Stepping out, the air hit us immediately—overcast, but still hot and humid. I was sweating before we’d even reached the homestay gates.

We’re staying on Pho Island, though Craig has renamed it Noodle Island, which feels more accurate given the number of steaming bowls we’ve already consumed. Noodle Island sits just across the bridge from the old town. It’s more residential, quieter, though the main street still has its share of bars and cafés. It retains the charm of the old town but has fewer wooden houses, more life, and feels truly lived-in. We passed a school where children were rehearsing a play, their laughter spilling out across the road. It felt ordinary in the best possible way.

Old Town and the Disneyfied Tourist Circuit

The old town itself is undeniably lovely. Mustard yellow houses, shutters faded, walls softened by age. Bougainvillea spills over balconies in bright pink cascades. Wooden shopfronts open onto tailors, lantern makers, and cafés where the smell of coffee and fresh bánh mì drifts out.

At the Japanese Bridge, there were loads of women dressed up and having their photos taken. Me, on the other hand, looked about as photogenic as a damp squib—black eye, cut eyebrow, bruised knee, and hair staging its own rebellion.

But it also feels staged. Like a historic site that’s been gently Disneyfied and placed firmly on the tourist circuit. You can spot when the buses arrive. Golf carts begin shuttling people around on quick-fire tours. Day-trippers flow through in waves, photographing lanterns before being swept back onto the next stop.

Of course, we are part of the machine too. We complain about the crowds while taking the same photographs. I feel a flicker of guilt even as I enjoy it.

Today we also noticed flowers and notices around town marking the start of mandatory military service for young Vietnamese men. A reminder that real life continues just beyond the curated facades, even when the streets feel like a film set.

Sunset Lanterns and Night Market Wonders

At sunset we walked along the river and watched the lantern boats turn Hoi An into a light show. The water shimmered with reds, blues, and golds. Paper lanterns drifted downstream, tiny flames bobbing like visiting stars. Music drifted from cafés, voices rose and fell, and the smell of grilled meat and incense hung in the warm air.

On our last night we took one of the lantern boats along the canal. I had planned to light a candle for Mum and take a quiet moment to remember her. She would have loved it here.

In the end we didn’t buy one. Craig thought they were a bit expensive, which is probably true. Instead we sat quietly in the boat while hundreds of little candles floated past us on the river.

It turned out I didn’t really need one after all. Watching them drift by gave me time to think about Mum and a few other people who are no longer with us.

I miss mum so much.

As we wandered through the night market afterwards, we watched a lady peel a mango with absolute precision. Her knife moved so quickly it was like she had been doing it since birth. I bought some and sat on a tiny plastic stool to eat it, trying to look as effortless as she did. Sweet juice ran down my fingers and onto my knees while she didn’t spill a single drop.

Some people are born with grace. I am not one of them.

Reflection: Chaos, Beauty, and Being Part of the Machine

It was chaotic and magical all at once. Staged and sincere. Overrun and still somehow beautiful.

My black eye throbbed. My eyebrow cut reminded me of gravity. My knee still ached. Craig’s head throbbed too. My hair had staged its own quiet rebellion. And standing there with lanterns floating past and tour buses waiting somewhere in the dark, I realised relief doesn’t always arrive gracefully. Sometimes it turns up drunk, bruised, cut, slightly frizzy, part of the problem, and still quietly grateful to be there.