A Solo Traveler’s Nighttime Quest
The Lanterns of Hoi An:
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The moment I stepped off the bus in Hoi An, Vietnam, I felt like I’d wandered into a painting. The air carried the faint scent of lemongrass and river water, and the streets glowed with the soft light of lanterns swaying in the breeze. I was a solo traveler, my backpack my only companion, and I’d come to this ancient town chasing a whisper of adventure. It was my first time in Vietnam, a country I’d dreamed of exploring since I’d seen photos of its rice paddies and bustling markets. Hoi An, with its UNESCO-listed charm, seemed like the perfect place to pause and breathe.
I checked into a small guesthouse just off the main drag, where the owner, a woman named Linh, greeted me with a smile that felt like a warm hug. She handed me a key to my room and, almost as an afterthought, a small paper lantern. “For the river,” she said in halting English. “You light it, make a wish.” I thanked her, tucking the lantern under my arm, though I wasn’t sure what I’d wish for. I’d been traveling alone for months—through Thailand’s jungles, Cambodia’s temples, and now Vietnam’s coast—and the question of what I was searching for still lingered, unanswered.
That night, I ventured out to explore. The streets of Hoi An were alive with color—reds, yellows, and oranges spilling from the lanterns strung across every building. The Thu Bon River ran through the heart of the town, its surface a mirror for the lights above. I found a quiet spot by the water, the lantern from Linh in my hands. Around me, families and couples laughed as they released their own lanterns, the river transforming into a glowing tapestry of hopes and dreams. I struck a match, the flame catching on the wick, and my fingers shook slightly—not from the evening chill, but from the weight of the moment. What did I want? Peace? Purpose? I didn’t know. I set the lantern free, watching it drift away, a tiny speck of light joining hundreds of others. It felt like a small surrender, letting the river carry something I couldn’t yet name.
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The next morning, I woke to the crow of roosters and the clatter of pots from Linh’s kitchen. She’d left a bowl of pho on the communal table—noodles swimming in a fragrant broth, topped with fresh herbs. I ate slowly, savoring the warmth, feeling it anchor me after weeks of constant motion. Today, I decided, would be for wandering. I rented a bicycle from a shop down the street—a rickety thing with a wobbly seat, but it was cheap, and I was on a budget. I pedaled out of town, past the bustling markets and into the countryside, where emerald rice paddies stretched toward the horizon.
The air out here was different—cleaner, heavier with the scent of damp earth. I rode until my legs ached, passing farmers in conical hats tending their fields. One, an older man with a weathered face, waved me over. He spoke no English, but he gestured to a chipped cup filled with rice wine. I took a sip, the liquid burning its way down my throat, and we both laughed—me at the sting, him at my reaction. It was a small moment, but it felt big, a thread of connection woven across language and distance.
Back in town, I wandered into a tailoring shop, drawn by the rainbow of silk bolts lining the walls. Hoi An is famous for its tailors, and I’d heard you could get custom clothes made in a day. The seamstress, a woman with nimble fingers and a sharp eye, measured me for an ao dai—a traditional Vietnamese dress. As she pinned the fabric around me, I caught my reflection in the mirror. The silk was cool against my skin, the fit unfamiliar yet strangely right. For a moment, I imagined staying here, blending into the rhythm of this place. But the thought passed as quickly as it came—I was a traveler, not a settler.
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Days in Hoi An slipped by like water through my fingers. I spent mornings exploring the markets, haggling over woven baskets and tiny ceramic cups I didn’t need but couldn’t resist. I visited the Japanese Covered Bridge, its weathered wood whispering stories of centuries past, and sat in temples where incense hung thick in the air, the chants of monks a steady pulse. But it was the nights that truly captured me. Each evening, as the sun sank below the horizon, the town transformed. Lanterns cast a golden glow over the cobblestones, and the river became a sea of light. I’d find a spot by the water, my journal open in my lap, and write—about the farmer’s rice wine, the silk against my skin, the quiet ache of being alone in a crowd. Can solitude feel this full? I scribbled, the question lingering like the aftertaste of pho.
On my final evening, Linh invited me to a lantern-making class in the guesthouse courtyard. A handful of other travelers joined us, and we sat around a table littered with bamboo sticks and delicate paper. My hands were clumsy, the frame bending under my grip, but slowly, a lantern took shape. When I lit it, the glow was soft but steady—an imperfect beauty. I carried it to the river, the night wrapping around me like a shawl. Standing on a wooden bridge, I released it, watching it float away. Hoi An had been more than a stop on my journey—it had been a mirror, showing me a version of myself I hadn’t seen before: someone brave enough to wander alone, open enough to let a place like this sink into her bones.
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As I packed my bag the next morning, I felt a pang of something—gratitude, maybe, or the bittersweet pull of leaving a place that had marked me. Hoi An hadn’t given me answers, but it had given me moments: the farmer’s laugh, the seamstress’s steady hands, the river’s endless glow. It was a reminder that travel isn’t just about seeing—it’s about feeling, about carrying a place with you long after you’ve gone.
