Pause and Wander

Dates: December 22–23, 2025

Places: Phong Nha, Vietnam

There’s a particular kind of day that doesn’t make it onto postcards.

It’s not the day with the headline experience or the dramatic payoff. It’s the day you pack up early, linger too long over breakfast, stare out the window while everything moves past you, and slowly reposition yourself for whatever comes next. These were those days for us. The quiet hinge between misty hills and underground rivers. Between stillness and adventure. Between Lua Puluong and the jungle.

We were up at 6:30, packing in near silence. Lua Puluong was wrapped in a thick morning fog, the kind that softens everything it touches. The valley below disappeared and reappeared in slow waves, as if someone were gently pulling a curtain back and forth. Dogs barked somewhere far away. Roosters announced themselves with authority. Motorbikes hummed faintly through the haze. It felt like the world had turned its volume knob down a few notches.

We lingered over one last breakfast, reluctant to rush something that had been so easy to settle into. Lua had that effect. We could have stayed longer. We could have wandered deeper into the hills, visited more villages, taken more wrong turns just to see where they led. But caves were calling. Jungle was calling. And if we’re being honest, we were ready.

Phong Nha had been on our list for a long time. It sits beside Phong Nha–Kẻ Bàng National Park, a protected expanse of jungle and limestone riddled with underground rivers and massive caves. Some of the biggest caves on Earth live here. We knew we’d only scratch the surface, but even that felt like enough.

Just after 8:00, we settled our bill, hauled our bags down to the road, and climbed into the car for the first leg of a long travel day.

Our driver was the same one who had brought us to Lua Puluong. He didn’t speak any English. We didn’t speak Vietnamese. It worked just fine. He drove smoothly and gamely attempted to help Shaina locate a Diet Coke along the way, stopping at three different shops before all of us had to accept that artificially sweetened soda has not yet found its place in rural Vietnam. You get what you get. You don’t throw a fit.

After 3.5 hours we rolled into Thanh Hóa and asked to be dropped near the train station so we could find food for the ride. Train food makes us nervous. Street food does not. The choice was obvious.

We found a bánh mì shop because of course we did. This one leaned hard into shredded beef jerky layered with pâté, slices of roasted pork, cilantro, cucumber, and an assortment of spicy sauces that felt more magical than scientific. The final move was the best part. The woman slid the assembled sandwiches into a massive panini press and grilled them until the bread crackled and turned golden. Perfect train food. No regrets.

We shuffled into the station a full 30 minutes early, which felt overly cautious until the train arrived 7 minutes early and left exactly on time. So much for stereotypes.

From the platform, the train looked rough. Flaking paint. Rust. A general sense of having seen some things. Arya delighted in listing all the ways this train was different than the “fast ones” in France.  The list was long. We braced ourselves. 

We’d booked a four-person sleeper car based on internet advice, and it was absolutely the right call. The space was dated but spotless. Clean sheets. Real blankets and pillows. A fake but lovely pink orchid sitting in the window. Best of all, while the corridor air was warm and sticky, our cabin was cool and air conditioned.

Even though this wasn’t an overnight train, the 7.5-hour ride from Thanh Hóa to Đồng Hới felt downright civilized. We could stretch out. Close the door. Lie down. Read. Work. Breathe.

That stretch of uninterrupted time turned into one of our most productive travel days. Max caught up on nearly two weeks of journaling, finished three blog posts, backed up photos, and practiced the ukulele. The girls each caught up on their journaling and finished a book.  Somewhere between rice fields and small towns slipping past the window, things clicked back into place.

Travel doesn’t always look adventurous. Sometimes it looks like a laptop balanced on your knees while the countryside slides by. That counts too.

We pulled into Đồng Hới just after 7:15 pm. Our driver was waiting at the edge of the platform holding a sign with Shaina’s name on it. Bags went into the trunk of his Mitsubishi Xpander, which seems to be Vietnam’s national vehicle, and then the music started.

Not music exactly. Vietnamese Christmas techno remixes. With dubstep. It was loud, enthusiastic, and completely unhinged. We laughed the whole way, equal parts baffled and delighted. Another small, perfect reminder that Vietnam continues to surprise us in ways we never anticipate.

We arrived at Nguyễn Shack Retreat around 8:00 pm. After unpacking, the staff walked us through the property and nearby sights while we sipped hot ginger, lemon, and honey tea. It had been a 12-hour day by the time our heads hit the pillows. No heroics required. Sleep came fast.

The next morning confirmed something immediately.

Nguyễn Shack Retreat is almost perfect.

The staff are extraordinary. Warm, attentive, genuinely kind in a way that doesn’t feel rehearsed. The mattresses are comfortable, which matters more than nearly anything else. The property sits along a lake with forest rising on the far side, and each cabin is positioned to give you a view without feeling like you’re living in a fishbowl.

The grounds are lush but thoughtful. Tropical plants everywhere without tipping into manicured resort territory. There’s a full kitchen turning out solid Vietnamese food and a handful of Western options, all prepared quickly and well.

There are a few things that could improve. Hot water needs to be consistent, or at least come with instructions. Water that randomly shuts off makes flushing toilets unnecessarily exciting. And more comfortable seating in the dining area would likely result in guests lingering longer and ordering more. Minor things. Fixable things. The kind of things you notice only because everything else is working.

Breakfast was included and good, if not quite at Lua’s level. Pho for Max. Eggs and toast for Shaina. Chocolate pancakes for the girls, chosen instantly and without discussion.

Then it was homework time.

While the girls worked, Max went for a run. A 5K loop around the north side of the lake, through town, and out toward the main road. The route included dozens of chickens, a few dogs, three potbelly pigs, three water buffalo, and enough mud to leave his backside thoroughly splattered. The girls were convinced he’d fallen directly onto his butt. They found this hysterical.

We stayed on the property all day. Lunch and dinner came to us. And somehow, without planning it, everyone got exactly what they needed.

The girls disappeared for nearly three hours, absorbed into unsupervised outdoor play with other kids staying at the retreat. When we finally saw them again, we learned they’d spent the afternoon helping collect duck eggs, meeting baby goats born the day before, petting rabbits, chasing chickens, and fawning over one-month-old piglets that were absurdly cute. Add in a rotating cast of cats and dogs, and they were in absolute heaven.

For Shaina and Max, the highlight came at sunset.

The retreat offers yoga twice a day, led by a genuinely excellent teacher. The evening session unfolded with a faint breeze and soft skies painted in pink and orange pastels. As we moved through the flow, hundreds of bright white egrets passed over the lake, heading toward the trees to roost for the night. It was one of those magical moments where everything aligns without effort.

The run had energized Max. The yoga grounded both of us. Bodies that had spent days in cars and trains felt reset.

Then the mosquitoes arrived.

In the final five minutes of class, we collected five bites across hands, legs, and feet. Not ideal. Still worth it.

That night we gathered again over tea, packing bags and laying out clothes for an early start. Tomorrow we would head into the jungle, where caves, rivers, and a Christmas adventure awaited. 

These two days weren’t the point of the journey. They were the quiet stretch between chapters. The long way around. And in their own unassuming way, they were exactly right.

Sometimes the best travel days are the ones that simply get you where you’re going — rested, curious, and ready.