From Georgina to Lucky, via the Thriller in Manila and a Love Affair with Vietnam
Every great trip deserves a proper ending.
Mine started with a cat.
Not a celebrity. Not a billionaire. Not a politician.
A cat.
Every morning in El Nido, before the coffee, before the drones, before the island hopping, before another day exploring what may well be one of the most beautiful corners of the planet, there was Georgina.
A scruffy little cat who had somehow decided I belonged to her.
Every morning she sat outside my door waiting.
No demands.
No expectations.
Just company.
Then suddenly it was departure day.
And perhaps the hardest goodbye wasn’t Georgina.
Or even El Nido.
It was the sunsets.
Dear God, the sunsets.
Every evening the sky would explode.
Fireballs of orange.
Violent reds.
Soft pinks.
Deep purples.
Colours so absurdly beautiful they looked Photoshopped by nature itself.
Every sunset different.
Every sunset unforgettable.
I’ve chased sunsets all over the world.
But El Nido may just have the greatest sunsets on Earth.
As I dragged my luggage towards the door for one final goodbye to paradise, Georgina looked up, gave one lazy little meow and promptly went back to sleep.
No dramatic farewell.
No tears.
No Hollywood ending.
Just a cat.
And somehow that made it harder.
Because I wasn’t really saying goodbye to Georgina.
I was saying goodbye to six extraordinary weeks.
To emerald islands scattered across turquoise oceans.
To limestone cliffs rising from the sea like nature had decided to show off.
To freedom.
To adventure.
To possibility.
Then came Manila.
Or as Muhammad Ali famously made it…
The Thriller in Manila.
“I arrived in the Thriller in Manila ready to dance like a butterfly and sting like a bee. Manila had other ideas.”
“If El Nido whispers, Manila kicks the bloody door down.”
Manila doesn’t arrive politely.
It doesn’t ease you into the experience.
It grabs you by the shirt collar and says:
“Right. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
One minute you’re staring out from executive lounges where billionaires sip coffee above the clouds.
The next you’re driving through neighbourhoods where babies are being bathed in buckets beside the road.
“One minute you’re sipping coffee with billionaires. The next you’re watching babies being bathed in buckets. That’s Manila.”
The deeper we drove into the city, the more Manila became a contradiction.
A city of glass towers and shanty towns.
Of Bentleys and bicycles.
Of unimaginable wealth and almost unimaginable poverty.
Then we entered what locals simply call squatter town.
And suddenly Manila changed again.
This wasn’t a street.
It wasn’t even a suburb.
It was a city within a city.
An entire world built upon itself.
Homes stacked upon homes.
Laneways upon laneways.
People upon people.
Laundry hanging everywhere.
I’ve never seen so much washing in my life.
Thousands upon thousands of items fluttering in the humid air like flags of survival.
In one moment it looked filthy.
In the next it sparkled.
“One minute it looked like the end of the world. The next it shone like a Mr Sheen commercial.”
Children played in the streets.
Families cooked together.
Neighbours sat together.
Everyone seemed to know everyone.
The community wasn’t surviving.
It was functioning.
And functioning remarkably well.
William looked at me and laughed.
“You don’t come here at night.”
Then he became serious.
“No. Seriously. You don’t come here at night.”
Even during the day he insisted on staying close.
“If you want to walk, I walk.”
Not because he thought I’d get robbed.
Because he thought I’d get lost.
Lost in a sea of humanity.
And standing there, looking into a place most tourists will never see, I realised something.
The people here had almost nothing.
Yet somehow many looked happier than people I’ve met living in penthouses overlooking the harbour.
There was laughter.
There was noise.
There was life.
There was community.
And perhaps that’s what fascinated me most.
Because from the outside looking in, many people would see poverty.
What I saw was belonging.
I saw people looking after each other.
I saw people who still knew their neighbours.
I saw children playing outside instead of staring into screens.
I saw a community.
And for all its chaos, all its challenges and all its hardship, there was something strangely beautiful about it.
A family of ten squeezed into the back of a trike celebrating a birthday.
Balloons bouncing.
Kids laughing.
Traffic flying around them.
The sort of thing that would send a Western safety officer into cardiac arrest.
And yet somehow it felt beautiful.
Real.
Alive.
Human.
Then came William.
Driver.
Guide.
Fixer.
Bodyguard.
Storyteller.
Girl finder.
Unofficial Minister for Tourism.
“Without William, I may still be driving around Manila now.”
William didn’t show me Manila.
He introduced me to it.
After a day of churches, culture, jeepneys, Chinatown and history, I finally looked at him and said:
“Enough culture. I want girls, girls, girls, girls, girls.”
Within seconds he was on FaceTime.
Recommendations appeared.
Ideas appeared.
Plans appeared.
William wasn’t a driver.
He was a one-man Manila concierge service with absolutely no off switch.
We rolled through Binondo, the oldest Chinatown on Earth.
Ducks hanging in windows.
Fat glistening beneath golden skin.
Steam rising from kitchens that have probably been cooking the same recipes for generations.
No influencers.
No filters.
No bullshit.
Just life.
Raw.
Beautiful.
Real.
Later that night rain hammered the city.
Not normal rain.
Biblical rain.
“It was raining Georginas and Luckys.”
Outside, the city flooded.
Inside Universe, beautiful women draped themselves over booths while music pounded and champagne flowed.
Outside the city drowned.
Inside nobody cared.
Only Manila could make that make sense.
But it was Vietnam that stole my heart.
From the moment I landed, Ho Chi Minh City felt like somebody had plugged an entire country into a power station and forgotten to switch it off.
“Ho Chi Minh City doesn’t glow. It detonates.”
There isn’t a dark street in the city.
Everything sparkles.
Everything moves.
Everything grows.
Millions of scooters.
Millions of dreams.
Millions of opportunities.
Millions of stories.
“The future isn’t coming to Ho Chi Minh City. The future already lives there.”
The city doesn’t walk.
It sprints.
And nowhere captures that energy better than Little Japan.
Because Little Japan doesn’t greet you.
It seduces you.
You don’t arrive there.
You drift into it.
One glowing laneway at a time.
One neon sign at a time.
One invitation at a time.
One smile at a time.
The deeper you wander, the more the city changes character.
The air fills with perfume.
Charcoal smoke.
Ramen broth.
Possibility.
Every doorway looks like a story.
Every staircase looks like trouble.
The good kind.
Beautiful young women drift through the streets like characters from a film.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Inviting.
Welcoming.
Selling.
Seducing.
Sometimes all at once.
A hand on your arm.
A gentle invitation to a spa.
A recommendation for dinner.
A cocktail.
A massage.
A laugh.
A wink.
Nothing feels threatening.
Nothing feels intimidating.
It’s theatre.
It’s tourism.
It’s entertainment.
It’s Little Japan.
“Little Japan is where romance sneaks up behind you and taps you on the shoulder.”
The restaurants spill onto the streets.
Steam rises from kitchens.
Ramen broth bubbles away.
Yakitori smokes.
Chefs shout.
Waitresses laugh.
The entire district feels alive.
Tokyo compressed into a handful of blocks.
A secret city inside a city.
One night I wandered into a tiny ramen house.
No tourists.
No influencers.
No English.
Just steam.
Fire.
Noise.
And food.
The waitress smiled.
Pointed.
Recommended.
Nodded.
Minutes later a bowl landed in front of me that may well be one of the greatest things I’ve eaten this year.
The broth was rich.
Silky.
Deep.
The noodles carried just enough bite.
The grilled meat arrived smoky, tender and perfect.
Outside, scooters screamed past.
Inside, time stopped.
“Inside my mouth, an opera was taking place.”
The flavours didn’t merely work.
They exploded.
Like fireworks.
Like applause.
Like somebody had somehow bottled happiness and served it in a bowl.
Then came pho.
Simple.
Humble.
Perfect.
The broth clear and delicate.
The herbs impossibly fresh.
The beef surrendering at the slightest touch.
A squeeze of lime.
A handful of herbs.
A little chilli.
And breakfast becomes religion.
“The best table in Vietnam isn’t in a Michelin-starred restaurant. It’s on the pavement.”
And then there was egg coffee.
The drink that sounds ridiculous until it touches your lips.
Eggs.
Coffee.
Seriously?
Then it arrives.
Velvet.
Silk.
Caramel.
Coffee.
Dessert.
Comfort.
A warm hug and a caffeine hit at the same time.
One sip.
Then another.
Then another.
And suddenly everything makes sense.
“I’ve had orgasms that were less satisfying than that first egg coffee.”
“At that point I stopped asking questions and ordered another one.”
The deeper I wandered through Ho Chi Minh City, the more one contradiction kept smacking me in the face.
Vietnam is technically a communist country.
And yet it feels more entrepreneurial than almost anywhere I’ve visited.
Everywhere you look somebody is building something.
Selling something.
Creating something.
Improving something.
A coffee shop.
A noodle stand.
A fashion label.
An AI startup.
An online business.
A dream.
The hustle isn’t hidden.
It’s celebrated.
One afternoon I turned a corner and laughed.
There, sitting amongst the scooters and street vendors, were Louis Vuitton and Yves Saint Laurent.
Not hidden.
Not protected.
Just existing.
The billionaire.
The barista.
The noodle vendor.
The entrepreneur.
The student.
The dreamer.
All sharing the same pavement.
That’s what makes Ho Chi Minh City feel alive.
“Hanoi remembers. Ho Chi Minh City invents.”
“Hanoi is the soul of Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh City is its ambition.”
Hanoi remains my favourite city in the world.
A beautiful novel somebody forgot to finish.
French influences.
Ancient cafés.
Old-world charm.
Ho Chi Minh City is completely different.
Young.
Hungry.
Ambitious.
Relentless.
One preserves history.
The other is busy building the future.
Both are extraordinary.
The deeper I travelled through Southeast Asia, the more one uncomfortable question kept nagging away at me.
Where are all the people doing nothing?
Where are the people waiting for somebody else to solve their problems?
Because I couldn’t find them.
I found people working.
Working in cafés.
Working on scooters.
Working in markets.
Working in restaurants.
Working everywhere.
“The West watches Netflix. Vietnam watches each other.”
Families eat together.
Friends eat together.
Neighbours eat together.
Children play outside.
Grandparents gather in cafés.
Young people fill parks and footpaths.
“The streets are the living room.”
Maybe that’s why the smiles feel more genuine.
Maybe that’s why communities feel stronger.
Maybe that’s why loneliness feels lower.
I don’t know.
But I know which version I prefer.
And then there’s the food.
The Ozempic way.
Or the Vietnamese way.
One comes in a syringe.
The other comes in a soup bowl.
“The Ozempic way or the Vietnamese way. One comes in a syringe. The other comes in a soup bowl.”
My final major dinner was Hoshiyo.
Part restaurant.
Part theatre.
Part social-media catwalk.
The ceiling sparkled like a Rolls-Royce headliner.
The skyline exploded behind the glass.
Flowers arrived by the truckload.
Birthdays.
Anniversaries.
Engagements.
Champagne.
Love.
The young and beautiful of Ho Chi Minh City parading through the room dressed in Chanel, Cartier, Rolex and Louis Vuitton.
“If Instagram opened a flagship restaurant, it would probably look exactly like Hoshiyo.”
The scallops were sensational.
The Wagyu was superb.
The service from Stephen — known locally as Wei Wei — was world class.
People don’t leave Hoshiyo talking about dinner.
They leave talking about the experience.
And that’s why it earned a Black Diamond.
Eventually it was time to leave.
The airline girl looked at my mountain of luggage.
Looked at me.
Looked back at the luggage.
And somehow found sympathy where most airlines would have found a calculator.
A few smiles later I found myself upgraded into the emergency exit row.
Perhaps she felt sorry for me.
Perhaps she felt sorry for the aircraft.
Either way, I was grateful.
Standing beneath Vietnam’s famous red flag and gold star, I realised something.
The journey had never really been about the islands.
Or the restaurants.
Or the hotels.
Or the flights.
It had been about people.
Georgina.
William.
Stephen.
Lucky.
The smiling waitress serving ramen.
The woman stirring pho before sunrise.
The family celebrating a birthday in the back of a trike.
The people.
Always the people.
“Vietnam’s flag may only have one gold star. For me, it gets five.”
Five gold stars.
Five black diamonds.
Because it’s impossible to fall out of love with a country that works this hard, smiles this much and dreams this big.
The strange thing about Vietnam is that you don’t really leave it.
Not completely.
It follows you home.
In the smell of coffee.
In the sound of scooters.
In the memory of a perfect bowl of pho.
In the smile of a stranger.
In the ambition of a city that refuses to stand still.
Some countries impress you.
Some entertain you.
Some educate you.
But the rare ones become a love letter you keep rereading long after you’ve left.
Vietnam is one of those places.
A country that works hard.
Dreams big.
Laughs loudly.
Eats brilliantly.
Loves deeply.
And somehow makes you believe the future might actually be okay.
I wasn’t saying goodbye.
I was writing a love letter.
And like all great love letters, it ended with a promise.
I’ll be back.
Because some places you visit.
Some places become part of you.
“Vietnam became part of me.”
But first…
Bangkok.
Because if El Nido whispers, Manila kicks the bloody door down, and Ho Chi Minh City detonates, Bangkok doesn’t knock at all.
It simply walks in, pours itself a drink and asks:
“What took you so long?”
📍 Darryn’s Travel Directory
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Where I stayed in El Nido: https://www.agoda.com/partners/partnersearch.aspx?pcs=1&cid=-1&hid=3624363
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The Ultimate El Nido Island Hopping: https://www.agoda.com/partners/partnersearch.aspx?pcs=1&cid=-1&hid=545148
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Top Premium Stays in Manila: https://www.agoda.com/partners/partnersearch.aspx?pcs=1&cid=-1&hid=187032
- Hoshiyo restaurant in Vietnam: https://hoshiyo.com/
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Shinsen Ramen Restaurant in Vietnam: https://www.google.com/maps/place/Shinsen+Ramen/data=!4m2!3m1!1s0x31752f710dc13411:0xa9bb5091e1632e9f?sa=X&ved=1t:242&ictx=111
