To travel from Nha Trang to Hội An, we took a long sleeper bus through central Vietnam. It’s a very common option for travelers, especially backpackers. The journey is quite long, around 10 to 12 hours depending on traffic and stops, but night buses are popular because they allow you to sleep a bit and save on a night of accommodation.

Hội An is an ancient port city in central Vietnam that truly flourished between the 15th and 19th centuries, when it was one of the major trading hubs in Southeast Asia. Chinese, Japanese, Indian, and European merchants all passed through for trade in silk, spices, and ceramics. As the port eventually silted up and lost its commercial activity, the city was relatively frozen in time, which is why it is so well preserved today.

It’s this mix of influences that makes the old town so special. You find traditional Vietnamese wooden houses, often painted in ochre yellow, with narrow front facades but very deep interiors, designed for commerce on the ground floor and living space at the back. There are also Chinese merchant houses with inner courtyards decorated with ceramics and family symbols, as well as Chinese congregation halls with curved roofs, heavily decorated with incense, carved dragons, and vivid colors. The Japanese influence is especially visible in the famous Japanese Covered Bridge, built in the 16th century, which once connected the Japanese and Chinese communities of the city and also served a spiritual purpose.

Architecturally, everything is designed with a very unique harmony: narrow streets with no cars in the old town, low-rise buildings, and colorful lanterns hanging everywhere that give the city a very strong visual identity, especially at night. It’s this combination of historic architecture, absence of aggressive modern development, and soft lantern light that creates an almost timeless feeling.

Culturally, Hội An is also known for its very lively craftsmanship scene. You can still find traditional tailors, silk lantern-making workshops, and a rich local cuisine. Dishes like cao lầu (a signature noodle dish made with special local water) or white rose (delicate rice dumplings) are part of its culinary identity.

What also stands out is the city’s relationship with water. Seasonal flooding is part of its history and daily reality. When it rains heavily, like we experienced lol, the city can literally transform: streets become canals, and lanterns reflect on the water like a mirror. It creates a very special atmosphere, almost unreal, where history and modern life blend into something chaotic but very alive.

The Vietnamese cuisine also marked us a lot, especially bánh mì, which is a must-have in the country. It is a sandwich inspired by the French baguette, but revisited in a Vietnamese way with marinated meats, crunchy vegetables, fresh herbs and flavorful sauces. The best bánh mì I ate in Vietnam was clearly in Hội An, at Bánh Mì Phượng. There is always a long line, but honestly it’s worth every minute. They prepare everything in front of you and there is a huge variety of choices. We also walked a lot in the Old Quarter of Hội An, with its incredibly well-preserved ancient architecture. The yellow buildings, the small narrow streets, the cafés and shops create a unique and timeless atmosphere. One day, we did a big street food tour, and I tasted a bánh xèo, a crispy Vietnamese pancake made of rice flour and turmeric, filled with shrimp, pork and bean sprouts, which you then roll in lettuce leaves with fresh herbs. It was absolutely delicious, crispy on the outside and full of flavors.

The lanterns are truly everywhere in Hội An, but what makes them beautiful is that they are not just decorative. They are deeply rooted in the local culture. Traditionally, they symbolize guiding light, luck, prosperity, and a sense of harmony. Each color also has its meaning: red for luck, yellow for wealth, blue for peace. And the fact that they are still handmade in the city adds something very alive to it all, as if each lantern carries a bit of the history and craftsmanship of the people here.

At night, that’s when the magic really happens. As soon as the sun sets, the city completely changes. The lanterns light up one by one, the streets become softer, almost unreal, and everything takes on a warm, muted glow. There is less noise, more slowness, as if everyone unconsciously agrees to slow down.

One evening, we decided to take a small boat ride on the Thu Bon River. We drifted slowly on the water, surrounded by lanterns reflecting everywhere around us. It was calm, almost out of time. At one point, we were given a small floating lantern to place on the water with a wish. Yes, it’s touristy, clearly. But at the same time, when you’re there, in that silence, with the light dancing on the water… it’s hard not to believe in it a little. I believe in wishes, so I took my time, thought of something real, and let it drift away with the current.

After that almost too perfect moment, we went back to something much more… us. We sat down in a bar, Tiger Bar, a completely different vibe. Bright lights, music, slightly chaotic energy. And then, instant laughter when we saw the servers wearing shirts that said “don’t be a pussy, be a tiger”. We laughed way longer than we should have. And of course, as if it wasn’t already perfect enough, there was a buy one get one free promo. So we ended up stretching the night, chatting, laughing for no reason.

Another memorable moment was our stop at a tiny family-run restaurant in Hội An. The kind of place you don’t really plan for: a few plastic tables, an open kitchen where you can see everything being prepared, incredible smells coming out of the pots, and this simple, honest, unpretentious atmosphere. We sat down thinking we’d stay for an hour… we ended up staying for hours.

That’s where we met Champ An, a little girl about 4 years old, full of energy, with a smile you just couldn’t ignore. She adopted us instantly, with no hesitation, as if we were already part of the place. She kept coming over between trips around the restaurant, speaking to us in a mix of Vietnamese and a few English words, and we responded however we could, mostly with gestures, laughter, and eye contact. And strangely, it worked perfectly. At one point, she decided we had to play. So we played. Nothing specific, just running around the tables a bit, inventing little games, laughing for absolutely no reason. Her parents kept working in the background, throwing us amused looks, clearly used to this kind of scene with passing travelers.

Then she took us to see “her dogs”. First, her real little dog, all excited, running around us. And then… her stuffed animal. Which she introduced with exactly the same seriousness. So officially, in her world, she had two dogs. And honestly, we fully went along with it.

Time passed without us noticing. We ate quietly between interactions, chatted a bit with the family, observed their daily life. There was something really touching about that simplicity, about the effortless closeness that forms. No need for long conversations or perfect understanding — just being there, sharing a moment.

Unfortunately, the weather really took over our experience. We had never seen so much rain in our lives — not a light drizzle, no, a constant, heavy downpour that never really stopped. The kind of rain that turns an entire city into something almost unreal. In Hội An, the streets were completely flooded, sometimes up to our knees, and what were supposed to be charming little alleys became makeshift canals.

At first, we tried to stay positive. We laughed while walking barefoot in the water, rolling up our pants. We told ourselves it was part of the adventure, that it made the trip unique. And it’s true… for a while. But quickly, reality caught up with us. Everything we wanted to do became complicated, or even impossible. Even going out to eat required motivation when you know you’ll be soaked within two minutes. And there’s also that less glamorous side you don’t think about: not-so-clean water, smells, constant humidity, clothes that never really dry. After a few days, it wears you down.

So we started looking at each other with that little “okay… what do we do now?” look. And slowly, the idea settled in: staying longer wasn’t going to change anything. We weren’t going to see the real face of the city in those conditions. It felt like Hội An was telling us “come back another time”.

So we made a slightly spontaneous but very logical decision: leave earlier than planned. Go back to Nha Trang, where the forecast was finally showing sun. And honestly, it didn’t take much to convince us… especially when we realized we were missing our national Linda.

It was a mix of disappointment and excitement. Disappointed to leave a place with so much potential without having truly experienced it the way we wanted, but excited to go back to the warmth, the beach, and that sense of lightness we had left behind. Sometimes, traveling is exactly that: accepting that things don’t go as planned and adjusting without holding too tightly to what “was supposed to be”. And at the same time, it’s also normal when traveling to go through this kind of situation. You go somewhere with expectations, imagining what you’ll discover, and sometimes something slips out of your control — the weather, an unexpected event, a closure, whatever it is. In our case, it was the weather that changed our plans and limited our experience. But that’s also part of traveling: learning to deal with what we can’t control, and still finding beauty in what remains possible.