Day 6 My Right Foot, a Flip-Flop, and a Roadside Resurrection

To borrow a line from the late, great Robin Williams: 'Good moooorning, Vietnam!' My day, however, began not with a broadcast but with a virtuous breakfast of fruit and cereal. In a shocking plot twist, I’d ditched the usual eggs and bacon for a healthier path, all washed down with the Vietnamese coffee to which I have become deeply, irrevocably attached.

Then it was time for a bit of pre-travel admin: laundry. Now, I’m not saying it’s cheap here, but a pair of jeans, five shirts, and all my smalls came back clean for the grand total of six pounds sterling. At that price, it’s almost more economical than buying new clothes, which is a dangerous thought to have.

My wonderful guide, Darcy, collected me for a short half-day tour. She took me to see how incense is made—a fascinating process that starts with splitting bamboo into the tiniest of sticks. We also saw how they make the traditional conical hats. I almost called them 'silly' before my brain caught up with my mouth; they are, of course, an iconic and practical piece of attire. Now that I know how they’re constructed, I’m sure this will be my new party trick.

On the way back, a small tragedy unfolded: my favourite pair of Skechers were coming apart at the front. Before I could properly mourn them, Darcy had the driver pull over next to a man on the pavement with a small box of tools. This, it turned out, was an A&E for ailing footwear. The proprietor sat me down on a tiny plastic chair, handed me a single flip-flop for my right foot, and got to work. He proceeded to take the whole thing apart, re-stitch it in the original colour, and hand it back to me looking brand new. The cost for this roadside miracle? 30,000 dong—less than a pound. I gave him 200,000 (about £6). He was a master of his craft, and he deserved it for saving a dear friend from the bin.

Lunch with Darcy was at a little backstreet cafe that served us enough food to sink a bus. I honestly have no idea where the locals put it all. With a couple of hours to kill back at the hotel, I did what any sensible person would do: I popped over to the spa. A 30-minute foot massage and a 30-minute Indian head massage set me back the princely sum of £14. I feel like I’m robbing the place.

The evening began with a plan to meet Mark—the man who got me into this whole travel-blogging caper—and his wonderful wife, Kim, for Greek food. After a preliminary cocktail at the hotel bar, we went to a fantastic spot Mark knew, The Greek Taverna, run by his friend Christos. The meal was absolutely wonderful. Now, for those who don’t know me, my limit is about one gin and tonic. This did not deter Kim and Mark, who proceeded to try to pickle their livers in the short time available. Our host, Christos, was a hoot, launching into a long and winding tale about his visa exploits. It’s nice to know that bureaucratic misery is a universal experience.

And now, back at the hotel, I must endure the final boss of travel: packing. My arch-nemesis today is a suitcase I have never even opened. After trying and failing to figure out the code this morning, it has just occurred to me that putting my glasses on might have helped. We’ll see. After that, I’ll get myself to the airport for an early flight to Da Nang and a beachfront hotel. The next dispatch will cover the high-octane drama of travel and, if all goes to plan, a lot of strolling on a sandy beach. Catch you tomorrow.