Pause and Wander

Dates: December 18–21, 2025

Places: Vietnam: Hanoi and Pu Luong

We left Hanoi midmorning on December 18, easing out of the city after breakfast and settling in for about 4.5 hours in a private car heading south. The road slowly narrowed and climbed, the noise thinning as buildings gave way to hills. By the time we reached Lua Pu Luong, the pace of everything had already shifted.

The first thing we noticed was the hillside, and the long narrow dirt path leading to the hotel “lodge”, barely wide enough to walk up. We passed a handful of stilted hill tribe houses perched above layered rice paddy terraces, thin plumes of smoke drifting upward as farmers prepared fields for the next planting season. It felt like arriving somewhere that still moved to an older rhythm, one that followed the cycles of the seasons and traditions of agrarian life.

We checked into our private family bungalow, set slightly below and to the side of the main lodge. The space was simple but thoughtfully laid out. Arya and Finlee shared a queen bed to one side. The center area held a low table and a daybed that quickly became our gathering spot. Shaina and Max slept in another queen bed near a small balcony overlooking a babbling creek and rising terraces beyond. The indoor-outdoor bathroom was unexpectedly luxurious for a remote hillside ecolodge, with river rock floors, a soaking tub, and a shower that never ran cold.

The property itself encouraged slowing down without announcing that intention. About 10 stilted bungalows built from heavy timber and bamboo, banana leaf thatching overhead, winding stone paths connecting everything in a way that rewarded wandering rather than efficiency. Mornings and evenings were crisp, cool enough to make the fireplace in the communal main lodge feel necessary. Only for a few hours in the middle of the day did the sun reach far enough into the property to warm things up. There was an infinity pool overlooking the vegetable garden and paddies below, beautiful but unheated. We swam once, briefly, and laughed about how fast everyone got out.

Dinner that first night set the tone. The family-run kitchen cooked deeply satisfying local food, simple and well executed. The air around the lodge carried the steady scent of toasted orange peels and incense, a background note that never quite faded. We went to bed early, the quiet settling in easily.

The next morning began with breakfast, which became the anchor of every day. It all started with a cup of coffee or hot tea, plus fresh juice and a fruit platter that each changed daily. Western options like eggs and toast alongside local dishes like pho or morning spring rolls. Max split his plate between both. The girls ordered pancakes without hesitation. Shaina went with eggs and toast. From there, the days unfolded gently.

On the 19th we stayed close, walking about 5 kilometers through the surrounding hills. Narrow paths traced the edges of paddies, the views opening and closing as we moved. We stopped often, sometimes without any real reason. There was no sense of needing to get anywhere. Lunch came easily back at the lodge, followed by long stretches near the fire. Journals came out. Homework quietly reentered the picture. We had all fallen badly behind, and this was the first place that gave us both the time and the mental space to catch up.

That rhythm held. Wake, eat, wander, eat again, then settle in by the fire with books, notebooks, and quiet conversation. Dinner became the daily highlight. Twice we ordered special roasted duck and chicken meals that needed to be requested several hours ahead, seasoned simply with salt mixed with roasted doi berries. They arrived aromatic and understated, the kind of dish that feels complete without explanation.

By the third day, the pace felt fully internalized. We set out on a longer hike, about 10 kilometers round trip, toward Chom Lan Village, a weaving village tucked into the next valley. The path dropped steeply into the valley, on an impressive rough road at 25% grade, and we were happy to be walking downhill.  Upon decent, we were gifted with  wide views of terraced fields stitched together by narrow footpaths and irrigation channels. This area is known for its traditional weaving, practiced largely by women using hand looms with meticulous techniques passed down through generations. The textiles are functional and beautiful, woven with patterns that carry stories, family identity, and practical purpose all at once.

About 2 kilometers into the hike, we crossed paths with another American family. They had 3 girls, ages 6, 9, and 11. The kids immediately locked in, conversation firing in every direction at once. School, books, soccer, animals, travel. Everything. We ended up walking together for more than 2 hours, effectively merging groups and gently derailing their guided walk. No one seemed to mind.

In Chom Lan, we wandered through the village, watching women work at looms set up beneath stilted homes, the steady rhythm of weaving matching the pace of the place itself. We bought 3 brocades, pieces we liked enough to carry with us for the long haul. That alone felt notable. By the time we parted ways and started the steep climb back out of the valley, the girls were buzzing.

Walking back toward the lodge that afternoon, it struck us how important those moments are. This trip is anchored in family time, but our kids still need space to be kids with other kids. Watching them connect so quickly made it clear we need to be more intentional about creating those opportunities as we move forward.

That evening, as the fire burned steadily and the air cooled, Max picked up his book again. He is finally reading The Anxious Generation, after Shaina finished it last month and eagerly recommended he read it as well. It’s not your typical “holiday reading”, and parts of it feel incredibly heavy, especially early on. Reading about the effects of screens, parental over-supervision, and the overall loss of free play time, while sitting in a place like Lua Pu Luong, only sharpened the contrast. Earlier that day, we had sent the girls off with a simple instruction. Go explore. Come back in about 90 minutes. They climbed rocks in the creek, built forts in the bamboo groves, and hunted down every baby animal they could find. They came back muddy, proud, and full of stories. It made the ideas in the book feel less abstract and more grounded in what we are already trying to do.

On December 21, when at home we’d likely be throwing our annual party to celebrate the Winter Solstice, we decided to go on an adventure a bit further afield. It was our last full day, so we rented motorbikes planning to explore surrounding caves and waterfalls, but an hour into our journey mechanical issues cut the ride short. Instead of forcing a replacement plan, we returned early and leaned into what had been working all along. More journaling. More reading. More time near the fire. No one pushed for more. Although the girls really leaned in to the fire, constantly tending and tinkering and keeping the lounge aglow with warmth, quite apropos on this shortest night of the year. 

What stood out over these days was how easy everything felt. Not effortless, but unforced. There was very little friction between any of us. Shaina carried more than her share, helping the girls with homework and keeping things flowing. The girls played independently without needing much mediation. Max felt relaxed without feeling disengaged, present without trying to be.

This stop clarified something we have been circling for a while. This year works best as a cycle. Hard days, exciting days, stressful stretches of logistics and movement, followed by places like this where everything softens. We are not aiming for balance in every moment. We are letting the balance emerge over time as we move back and forth between effort and ease. Knowing we can find places that allow for this kind of recovery makes us more willing to lean into the harder, messier parts of travel when they come.

We packed up on our final morning. Over breakfast, we FaceTimed Max’s dad to wish him a happy 75th birthday. Then we loaded up and pointed ourselves back toward the road, beginning a long day of travel toward Phong Nha. As we pulled away, we thought again about the view from the steep road above Chom Lan Village, the valley spread out below, calm and orderly, with the promise of adventure waiting quietly inside it if we were willing to step down into it.