Vietnam has always been on my list of countries in Southeast Asia that I want to visit. Work took me there.
That sentence alone already captures the irony of how some of our most meaningful journeys begin not with leisure, but with obligation. I arrived in Vietnam with an itinerary shaped by a conference in Dong Nai, meetings in Ho Chi Minh City, and schedules, yet what stayed with me were the moments in between: the tastes, the streets, the quiet reverence of museums, and small, human rituals that reveal a country’s soul.
Vietnam greeted me with motion. My first steps in Saigon, now Ho Chi Minh, were taken against a backdrop of streets that seemed to breathe. Motorbikes flowed like schools of fish, while pedestrians negotiated space with a kind of practiced patience, as if everyone had quietly agreed to trust the movement rather than resist it.
As night fell, the city transformed. Various shops lit up the streets, their colorful lights forming what felt like a living tapestry of signages— layered, crowded, and alive. It was in this part of the city where scenes from the famous Miss Saigon on Broadway drew inspiration, once a red-light district frequented by American GIs, now reimagined as a tourist destination and a bustling night market. Today, it invites long, unhurried strolls, where one can take in the sights and sounds of the city while sampling street food that sizzles, steams, and beckons from every corner.
There was chaos, yes, but it was organized chaos, governed not by rigid rules but by awareness and trust. Crossing the street felt like a leap of faith, at first, until I learned the secret: keep walking, do not hesitate, and let the rhythm of the city adjust around you.
Bui Vien Walking Street is known as the “backpackers’ hub”. Packed with people and pulsing with energy, it was a collision of loud music from competing bars, street performance, and a non-stop party atmosphere. Pubs, cafes, and food stalls lined the street, offering everything from cheap beer and local fare to international cuisine. It was chaotic and unapologetically loud.
Ben Thanh Night Market, by contrast, offered a more familiar kind of bustle. By day, it is a busy shopping district; after six in the evening, the surrounding streets transform into a lively night market. Vendors cook local dishes right in front of you, filling the air with smoke and scent. Stalls sell clothing, souvenirs, handicrafts, jewelry and street food, in a dizzying variety. Prices tend to be higher, and bargaining is expected — something I learned is best done in the final hours before closing, when deals come easier.
My personal favorite, however, was Nguyen Hue Walking Street, at the heart of District 1. Unlike the frenzy of Bui Vien, Nguyen Hue feels deliberately open and inviting—a pedestrian-only space shaded by trees and anchored by unique fountains. At night, bright lights frame the boulevard, creating countless angles for photographs, while restaurants and eateries on both sides encourage visitors to linger. It feels more like a shared public space, a living room where the city gathers.
It is also where The Cafe Apartment is, a nine-storey building made famous on social media. Its vintage balconies, rustic walls, and scattered signages give it a distinct, almost cinematic character. Each floor houses an eclectic mix of cafés, fashion boutiques, and creative spaces, accessible by a small elevator that takes guests to their chosen spot.
We spent our late afternoon at Good Day Tea and Coffee, drawn in by its nostalgic atmosphere and rewarded with a sweeping view of the city as daylight slipped into evening. Coffee lovers should not leave without trying Vietnam’s distinctive brews. Egg coffee, a signature offering, surprised me most—rich, velvety, and tasting uncannily like liquid crème brûlée. Coconut coffee, while creamy and refreshing, comes with fair warning: it is not for the faint of heart. It is considered the strongest coffee primarily because it originated as a Vietnamese drink that uses a particularly potent coffee base, not due to the coconut itself. The coconut only adds a creamy texture and sweet, tropical fruit flavor that balances the coffee’s intensity. However, for those who prefer their coffee cold and strong, bạc xỉu or cà phê sữa đá—Vietnamese iced coffee—never disappoints.
For non-coffee drinkers like me, the café offers a wide selection of iced cold fresh fruit teas, generously served with real fruit slices. I can guarantee you’ll enjoy them—and keep asking for more. We also found ourselves happily devouring some of their savory offerings, with fish balls and pho among the treats we kept coming back to.
And speaking of pho, this popular noodle soup made with a flavorful broth, flat rice noodles, fresh herbs, and meat, bean sprouts, lime, and sauces, became a daily ritual during my stay—I simply could not get enough of it. Each bowl of Vietnam’s national dish felt both familiar and new, grounding and generous, as if the city was quietly insisting that I slow down and pay attention. It was not just a dish; it was an experience repeated in variations, each bowl a quiet assertion of pride. I learned quickly that pho is not meant to be rushed. The broth—clear yet deeply flavored—felt like it had been simmering not just with bones and spices, but with memory. Steam rose gently, carrying hints of star anise and something comforting I could never quite name. Slurping was not only acceptable; it was encouraged, almost ceremonial. Each spoonful felt grounding, as if the city paused just long enough for me to listen.
The bánh ít trần—Vietnamese sticky rice dumplings—served at the Mira Hotel Central Park were another delight. Soft and delicate, they disappeared almost as soon as they were placed on the breakfast buffet table, a small but telling sign of how deeply loved they were.
Some of our best food decisions came from curiosity rather than planning. The fish and chips at Oasis Café exceeded expectations, while the extra salted fish fried rice that Doc Mima and I ordered—just to taste—turned out to be one of the best decisions we made while exploring Vietnam and discovering the distinct confidence of its cuisine.
And then there were the crunchy green mangoes—both sour and sweet—paired with that addictive spicy dip made, I think, of chili, lime, salt, and something I could never quite identify. We were instantly hooked. The best place to enjoy them, I found, was at the Notre Dame Cathedral or Basilica of Saigon. After visiting the cathedral, we wandered toward the open area where pigeons gather and street food vendors set up. Sitting on a plastic stool, iced fruit tea in hand—refreshing and surprisingly affordable—we let the moment unfold. Someone suggested buying a small pack of bird food and sprinkling it around. Within minutes, pigeons perched on shoulders and heads, gathering and frolicking freely around us. It was playful, slightly chaotic, and entirely charming—one of those unplanned moments where food, place, and joy intersect without effort.
As someone who arrived for work, I was surprised by how personally invested I became in the experience. Vietnam did not try to impress me. It simply offered itself as it was—flawed, flavorful, complex, alive. In return, it asked only that I pay attention.
By the time I left, I realized that the trip had quietly shifted from assignment to affection. I would remember Vietnam not just for its meetings and schedules, but for bowls of pho eaten on plastic stools, for mango slices dipped in salt and chili and lime, for museums that demanded reflection, and for streets that taught me how to move with trust.
Some countries you visit. Others stay with you.
Vietnam did both.*
