It’s a bit crazy to think back on all of this, but Vietnam is the first country of my big round-the-world trip — a decision made a bit on a whim, leaving everything behind in Canada. One morning I just said to myself: “what if… I left?” and a few weeks later I was on a plane, heading to Ho Chi Minh City. Simple, not that simple in reality, but it sounded good in my dreamer’s head.

It’s actually my second time in Vietnam. I loved this country. I had already done the North, and it had completely stolen a little piece of my heart. The mountains of Sapa, the rice terraces of Ha Giang, the smiling faces in the villages — impossible to forget. But this time, it’s the South I’m visiting, and just the air here tells you everything is different: hotter, more alive in a frantic way.

And this time, I’m not travelling alone. Which is a huge first for me, because I almost always leave solo on my adventures. Here, I’m with my best friend, Mélodice, and we’re sharing a month in Vietnam together — that’s a whole other story. Travelling with a friend is like discovering a country twice as fast, because everything you live is doubled with laughter, food comparisons, last-minute decisions, “do you want to try this?”, “wait, take a picture of me in this street!”. I had never experienced that before, so every morning she’s kind of my travel sunshine.

After endless flights, we finally arrived in Ho Chi Minh City. The moment you land, it’s a sensory explosion: scooters moving in the thousands as if everyone signed a secret deal to never stop, street vendors shouting their food like they’re doing stand-up comedy, lights everywhere, and 7-Elevens on every corner where you can buy the most random snacks like fruit jelly no one has ever quite figured out. It’s loud, it’s alive, it’s overwhelming — and I was completely here for it.

We ended up in a hostel so tall and narrow that every step felt like climbing a ladder up Everest. Seriously, at one point I thought I had signed up for a leg workout bootcamp, not a chill trip. Mélodice… always a few steps, actually many steps, ahead of me, as if the mountain was calling her faster than the rest. What an athlete, honestly.

The first real day exploring the city felt like opening an unknown book. I already knew Asia, but for Mélodice, it was her first time here, which made everything even funnier — especially when we were giving very approximate explanations like “careful, here we cross like this… uh… it’s not exactly science but trust me”, and then we ended up crossing like two adventurers in a chaotic video game full of scooters. We stopped at every possible 7-Eleven to try local drinks (the iced coffee with condensed milk here is a revelation) and ate as much street food as our stomachs could handle: steaming pho, crispy banh mi, spicy skewers, and so on. Every bite had its own story, its own smell, its own “wow”.

One day, we went to Lamphat Company Handicapped Handcrafts. There, artisans, many of whom live with a disability, create beautiful objects — bamboo lanterns, small sculptures, colorful fabrics, and incredible handmade curiosities. The place itself had a soft energy: each room told a fragment of a life, each artisan had a story to share. It’s not just about buying a souvenir, it’s about meeting a person, touching a creation that carries a part of their soul.

And then there was this day dedicated to understanding the deep history of the Vietnam War, a day that completely shook my mind, my heart, and especially the way I now see this country. Because the Vietnam War is not just a series of dates in a schoolbook or a movie you’ve seen somewhere — it’s a living reality, still felt, still carried, still spoken through the voices of Vietnamese people themselves.

Before arriving at the historical sites, I had a general idea: yes, I had learned about the war in school, the conflict between North and South, American involvement, the iconic television images… but seeing it, walking through it, standing in the very places where it all happened is something else entirely. It makes you realize that in this country, the scars of the war are not just archived pages — they are in the streets, in the museums, in the eyes of some older people, even in the way the city has rebuilt itself.

These tunnels, called the Cu Chi tunnels, are one of the most fascinating (and exhausting) parts of the experience. The Vietnamese, particularly Viet Cong soldiers, built an incredibly vast underground network — kilometers and kilometers of galleries, hiding places, command posts, storage areas and even living areas. These tunnels were not just passages: they were underground homes, medical centers, miniature commercial streets, living strategic plans. They allowed soldiers to hide from bombings, to communicate without being detected, to set up ambushes, to retreat, and then reappear elsewhere like furtive shadows.

When we entered these tunnels, I felt a reality that even books cannot transmit: the air was hot, suffocating, slightly humid, almost as if the walls themselves were holding every voice, every step, every moment lived in these narrow passages. You had to walk hunched over, slowly, understanding that hundreds of people had done it before you, for days, sometimes weeks, without ever seeing the sun. I thought about their fears, their strategies, their determination. It was physical, it was emotional, it was real.

And then there was the food: yes, we were made to taste what they ate down there. A simple, rustic meal made of cassava and spices — nothing fancy, but nourishing. I still remember the taste, surprisingly good, it reminds me of potato, and I told myself that this might be one of the ways the Vietnamese turned the poverty of war into survival strength. It was not a gastronomic meal, but it was a piece of history in my mouth, a bridge between the past and the present.

In the museums, there were exhibitions about the intense bombings, about the use of substances like Agent Orange — a devastating chemical used to defoliate forests, but which also caused irreversible human damage, affecting thousands of civilians and soldiers, with consequences still visible today.

What also stands out is seeing how Vietnam chose to commemorate this period without apparent hatred, but with a will for memory and education. You don’t feel an appeal to revenge in these museums or historical sites, but rather a deep desire for understanding, peace, and transmission. It is as if the country is saying: “Look at what we went through, understand what it means, remember so it never happens again.”

I cannot describe the weight of walking through these places without feeling a combination of humility, respect, and empathy. It is an experience that hits you in the gut and subtly changes you — as if you had collected small truths from the past that stay with you afterward.

That day, I learned that understanding the history of a place is understanding its people, its streets, its present.

After this historical deep dive, we needed calm, something slower, something more naturally in motion. So we left for a boat ride on the Mekong River. If the city is a whirlwind of energy, the Mekong is a deep breath. We found ourselves in a light boat, gliding over the brown water, surrounded by floating villages, calm fishermen, and gently swaying palm trees. It was almost hypnotic, as if time was slowing down just to let us watch every ripple, every bird flying above.

And of course, there was the snake wine experience — because if you come to Vietnam and refuse the unexpected, you’ve missed half of life. Yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like: an entire snake in a bottle of alcohol. Some say it gives strength, others say it just gives you a good story to tell.

I also have to talk about Vietnamese coffee, because it’s a whole world in itself. The cafés are everywhere, from the tiny street corner where an old man prepares your iced coffee while a cat lounges on top of the roof, to modern cafés filled with stylish young Vietnamese people with their laptops. The coffee here is strong, sweet, iced, flavored with condensed milk.

Egg coffee, or cà phê trứng, is something totally crazy but delicious that you can hardly find anywhere outside Vietnam. Imagine: a strong, hot Vietnamese coffee, topped with a thick foam made of egg whisked with sugar and sometimes a bit of condensed milk. Yes, you read that right: egg. But don’t worry, there is no weird egg taste or liquid omelette vibe. On the contrary, the foam is soft, sweet, almost creamy like a little dessert cream, and it contrasts perfectly with the bitterness of the coffee.

The first time you try it, you think: The first time you try it, you think: “Seriously? Coffee with egg?”and the second sip makes you go: “Okay, I get why everyone talks about this.”

It’s a bit like drinking a dessert in a cup, and trust me, after a day wandering through the chaotic and fragrant streets of Ho Chi Minh, an egg coffee feels amazing. It’s an absolute must-try Vietnamese coffee, even for those who are a bit scared of wild food experiences!

You take the stairs or the narrow elevator and you stumble upon incredible places: walls covered in photos, notes from travelers, souvenirs, vintage or modern decorations, and of course the constant smell of freshly roasted coffee. You can sit on a small balcony, watch the busy street below, or get lost in a cozy corner inside with your egg coffee or iced coffee.

What’s amazing about these cafés is that each one has its own identity: one floor might be minimalist with Japanese-inspired décor and hanging plants, another completely vintage with retro furniture, and all of them serve typical Vietnamese drinks, perfect for trying local specialties like the famous egg coffee.

The Café Apartments are not just a place to drink coffee, it’s an architectural, sensory, and cultural experience. You wander, you explore each floor, you take photos, you try everything, and you feel like you’re discovering micro-universes hidden inside a single building. It’s exactly the kind of place that makes you fall in love with Ho Chi Minh City, even after just one visit.

And in the end, what makes Ho Chi Minh City unforgettable is not just the food, not just the history, not just the scooters moving in a choreography only this city understands, not even just the laughter with Mélodice in every alley. It’s that every day here feels like a full adventure, a micro-universe to discover: the smell of spices in the market, the vendors smiling at you even when you mispronounce their language, the warm nights where the city sparkles like a full HD video game, the moment you realize that every second is a chance to live something new.

And you know what? I’m just getting started.