Surviving Australia, and Missing Dumplings
Some trips change you are away. Others only make sense once you come back.
When the Wet Season Decides to Stay
By the time we left Da Nang in early November, the typhoon wet season wasn’t just arriving it had moved in, unpacked its bags, and made itself very comfortable. Nearby towns were flooding, the humidity was next level, and nothing I owned was ever truly dry. My hair was permanently damp, towels never stood a chance, and even the walls of our apartment felt like they needed a dehumidifier and a counselling session.
I still tried to keep some sense of routine teaching, catching up with people, and hopping between cafés and restaurants but let’s be honest, it wasn’t exactly tropical bliss. Roads were flooded, detours popped up daily, and Grab taxis and food deliveries became more of a suggestion than a service. And fair enough really would you hop on a scooter in a tropical downpour to deliver food to an Australian who didn’t want to get wet for about $1.50? I wouldn’t either. I respect the choice.
The Long Way Back to Australia
Heading back to Australia for the holiday period was always going to be tricky. Thanks to one unavoidable obligation, we had to go early November, and between visas, schedules, and life generally doing what it does best, we didn’t make it back to Vietnam until late January. Not exactly a quick holiday dash more a long intermission
I honestly thought my husband would be the one to struggle. Living under one roof with a 93-year-old firmly committed to his way of doing things, and a 34-year-old navigating his own set of challenges, felt like a solid test of patience, flexibility, and possibly noise tolerance. I was quietly confident I’d be fine. After all, they are my family, I’m adaptable. I travel well. I’ve lived in Asia. I can handle anything.
Coping Mechanisms: Power Tools vs Cupboards
My husband kept himself busy in a very practical, very garage-based way. He built shelves, rearranged tools, and replanted a garden that had gone so far past dead it was more dust than plant. There was a lot of measuring, drilling, and purposeful activity that required concentration and made him feel useful which, to be fair, it absolutely was.
Inside the house, I took over the cleaning and immediately realised I had entered a completely different ecosystem. Cupboards were opened that had clearly never been acknowledged as something requiring attention. Drawers functioned as long-term storage for objects that had been placed there with optimism and then abandoned. Dust wasn’t a side effect it was structural.
I cleaned slowly, partly to restore order and partly to understand how two men had navigated this environment so confidently for so long. Nothing was broken. Nothing had failed. And therefore, in their minds, nothing needed addressing. I wiped, scrubbed and reorganised while quietly recalibrating my understanding of “liveable conditions.” By the time I finished, the house was clean, my standards were non-negotiable, and I had accepted a simple truth: this wasn’t neglect it was a highly functional system I was never meant to be part of.
Missing the Life That Was Easy
Turns out, I was very wrong.
It wasn’t my husband who unravelled it was me. I missed my uncomplicated life in Da Nang more than I expected. I missed the ease of it. The rhythm. The fact that most of my daily decisions involved coffee, food, or which direction to walk. I missed the little community we’d built there the friendships that happened naturally, without planning, without calendars, without three week’s notice.
And, somewhat embarrassingly, I really missed the Banh bao man.
You know you’re emotionally fragile when you start missing a man who rides past on a motorbike announcing his presence via a loudspeaker chanting Bahn Bao… Bahn Bao… mì like a very specific food-based town crier. No conversations. No questions about your life choices. Just dumplings, a plastic bag, and a knowing nod before he disappeared down the street again.
That man never once asked how I was coping, what my plans were, or whether I’d thought about the future. He simply delivered dumplings and moved on and honestly, in that moment of my life, that felt like elite emotional support.
What Slow Travel Changes (And Why It’s Hard to Unlearn)
What I didn’t expect was how much simplicity matters once you’ve lived it and how noisy life feels when you step away from it. In Da Nang, my world had become beautifully small. My days were built around familiar faces, short walks, regular coffee stops, and meals that required no decision-making beyond “yes” or “extra chilli.” Life doesn’t demand much, and I don’t ’t have to explain myself to anyone.
Coming back to Australia turned the volume up again. Suddenly there were expectations, emotional negotiations, responsibilities, and a lot of well-meaning conversations that required energy I didn’t realise I’d lost. Nothing felt simple. Even the easy things came with layers.
What surprised me most was that this wasn’t about choosing between family and travel it was about recognising how much slow travel had changed me. I’d grown used to a life where joy arrived quietly and regularly, without planning or pressure. And once you experience that, it’s hard not to notice when it’s missing.
Going Back Isn’t Running Away
The truth is, I am going back to Da Nang back to the routines, the familiarity, the friends we’ve made, and the rhythm that suits me. Australia will always matter. Family is family, and some chapters require being present, even when they stretch you. But returning to Da Nang isn’t running away. It’s returning to a version of life that feels more balanced, more manageable, and more like me.
And yes, I’ll admit it — I’m looking forward to hearing “Bahn Bao… Bahn Bao… mì …” echo down the street again. Because when something that small brings that much comfort, you stop overthinking it. You just know you’re heading back to where things make sense.
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About the Author:
Sheridan-Leigh is the passionate voice behind the MyLifestyle Blog, where life is celebrated with vibrant stories and insightful travel tips. With a deep love for slow travel, she believes in truly experiencing each destination, creating connections beyond the surface. Her blog is a blend of personal stories, expert advice, and a philosophy that life is for living to the fullest and is rich with opportunities for growth and adventure. Join Sheridan-Leigh as she shares her journey, inspiring others to embrace life, travel deeply, and live fully.
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