Why Leaving Hoi An Was the Hardest Goodbye of My Vietnam Trip

Leaving Hoi An wasn’t just another goodbye. Here’s the personal story of how the locals, hostel friendships, and unforgettable moments made it the hardest place for me to leave in Vietnam.(CLICK HERE)

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I’ve been on the road for a while now, moving through city after city, saying goodbye more times than I can count. Most goodbyes fade fast. You pack your bag, you get on a bus, and by the time you’ve reached the next place, the last one has already started to blur.

Hoi An didn’t work like that.

I think every traveler has that one place. The one that gets under your skin without you even noticing it happening. You arrive thinking it’s just another stop on the map, and somewhere along the way, without any single dramatic moment to point to, it stops being a stop and starts being something closer to home. For me, that place was Hoi An.

This isn’t really a guide. It’s not going to tell you where to eat or what to see. This is just the story of what actually happened there, the people who made it hard to leave, and why, when I think back on Hoi An, the lanterns and the Ancient Town aren’t the first things that come to mind at all.

The People Who Made Hoi An Feel Like Home

The beginning of my Hoi An trip looked like every other trip. Arriving in the city, walking to my hostel, checking into the dorm, the usual routine you go through so many times it stops registering as anything special.

But the longer I stayed, the more I got to know the people around me. Everyone I met, from the hostel staff to the local vendors down the street, was warm in a way that felt genuine rather than performed. Vietnam had already shown me plenty of kindness by that point in my trip, but something about Hoi An felt different. More personal.

By the third or fourth day, I was starting to feel at home. The hostel staff were beginning to recognize me without needing to check the room list. The receptionist knew my face by then. The guy who made omelets for us during breakfast had learned exactly how I liked mine, and by day four he didn’t even need to ask anymore. He’d just see me walk in and start cracking eggs.

Small things like that build up faster than you expect. One morning it’s a stranger making your breakfast. A few days later it’s someone who knows your order before you’ve said a word.

There was a Banh Mi place I found early on called Vi Banh Mi, run by a lady who sometimes had her husband working alongside her. Whenever there weren’t any customers, she’d be on her laptop, quietly trying to teach herself something new or help her daughter with schoolwork. There was something about watching that in between customers that made the place feel less like a business and more like someone’s actual life that I’d been let into.

This became my favorite Banh Mi spot in all of Vietnam. And that’s saying something, because by that point I’d tried Banh Mi everywhere from Hanoi to Sapa to Ninh Binh to Hue. None of them compared. I went to her stall every single day of my stay. After a while, she stopped asking what I wanted. She’d just see me coming and start preparing it before I’d even reached the counter.

It wasn’t only the food that kept pulling me back. It was her hospitality, her kindness, the quiet warmth of that little routine we’d built without ever really talking about it. That’s what made me return again and again, long after the novelty of a good sandwich should have worn off.

The Hostel That Never Felt Like Just a Hostel

I met a lot of wonderful people in my dorm, and even in the dorm next to mine. I think part of the reason people connected so easily here came down to something small and unusual. There were no curtains on the beds. Everything was completely open.

At first, I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I like my privacy, and a curtain around the bed has always felt like a small, reasonable comfort in a shared dorm. But the longer I stayed, the more I came to believe it wasn’t an oversight. I genuinely think they designed it that way on purpose. Without curtains separating everyone into their own little boxes, there was nothing standing between you and the person in the next bed. You couldn’t disappear behind a piece of fabric even if you wanted to. You ended up talking to people you might otherwise have ignored, and somehow that turned strangers into something closer to friends far faster than usual.

I know not everyone will agree with me on this. But I stand by it. That open layout changed the entire feel of the place.

There was Paul, an older guy from Australia. We first crossed paths in the dorm while I was working on my laptop. He walked over, a little hesitant, and asked if I could help him with something. I said sure, tell me what’s going on.

His bank cards weren’t working. No ATM withdrawals were going through, and he only had a few days of cash left before things got genuinely stressful. I pulled up his bank’s website, opened their live chat, and got him connected with customer support. Gave them the hostel’s number, and the representative said someone would call back shortly.

We went down to reception together and waited. The call came through, and his problem got sorted out. He was so relieved it was almost funny to watch. From that day on, every single time he saw me around the hostel, he’d walk over and say thank you again, like it needed repeating every time our paths crossed.

I also met an Indian traveler named Manish, a bit of an adventurous soul, though I won’t get into the specifics of his adventures here. What made us click instantly was that he spoke my mother tongue, Marathi. That was rare. I’d met plenty of Indian travelers before, but almost none of them spoke it. We had a great time together during my stay, and he even came to see me off at the bus stop on my last day in Hoi An.

There were plenty of other people too, faces and conversations I still remember clearly even though I never learned all their names. That’s exactly why I keep coming back to this idea that the hostel never felt like just a hostel. It felt like a home built by strangers who happened to be passing through at the same time I was.

The Women’s Day I’ll Never Forget

It was around 8:15 in the morning. I was walking downstairs for breakfast when I ran into Paul on the stairs. He was making hand gestures, trying to tell me something I couldn’t quite piece together.

And then, there she was in the hallway. Suddenly it all clicked. They were talking about what had happened the night before.

For context, around midnight, two very drunk guys had stumbled into the dorm, yelling and causing a scene. I was still awake and saw it happen before eventually falling asleep. That was the extent of what I knew about that night. So when the topic came up the next morning, I assumed I already had the full picture. I didn’t.

When she started explaining what had actually happened, it left me completely speechless. One of the drunk guys had woken up in the night and urinated all over her belongings. I’ve lost count of how many hostels I’ve stayed in at this point, and I have never heard of, let alone witnessed, anything like it.

We stood there trying to figure out what to do next. Paul suggested we let reception know, and he felt it would be better if I went with her, given how shaken she seemed. She looked genuinely nervous while talking about it, so going with her felt like the right thing to do. We informed the staff, and they offered to move her to a different dorm. She started packing her things while I went back to sit on my own bed.

I should mention here that she wasn’t traveling alone. Her friend, Leila, was staying with her, and the two of them had been making their way through Vietnam together.

Not long after, the guy responsible woke up and casually strolled out of the bed like nothing had happened. He spotted her and asked, completely oblivious, “Is breakfast still open?”

That’s when something remarkable happened.

Moments earlier, she had been this quiet, visibly nervous person carefully packing her belongings. But the second he asked that question, something in her shifted entirely. She didn’t ignore him. She paused, looked him dead in the eye, and said, “Do you want to talk about last night?”

What followed was a confrontation that was genuinely incredible to witness. Paul and I exchanged a glance, both silently thinking the same thing. Where did this come from? I sat quietly on my bed, trying not to laugh at myself, because I’d walked over there thinking I was being supportive, and it was becoming very clear she didn’t need anyone’s support at all.

Watching her go from vulnerable to absolutely fearless in the span of a single sentence was one of the coolest things I witnessed on my entire trip. And the fact that it happened to land on International Women’s Day made it feel almost too perfect to be real.

Maybe I should stop referring to her as “this girl.” She has a name, obviously. In the middle of all that chaos, I’d completely forgotten to ask for it.

Her name is Katy. I asked her a few days later.

Katy, I don’t know if this will ever find its way to you. But if it does, I want you to know that you’re awesome. We didn’t get to talk much. We were just two travelers whose paths happened to cross for a brief moment inside a busy hostel. But in that short window, you left a lasting impression. You gave me a memory I’ll be carrying around for a long time.

So keep being exactly who you are, and keep doing what you do best. Because from now on, whenever I hear the name “Hoi An,” the first thing that comes to mind isn’t the lanterns or the Ancient Town. It’s badass Katy.

Maybe this is why I love traveling so much. Every place gives you something different, something meaningful, something you didn’t know you needed. Every place writes its own chapter.

And this chapter? It belongs entirely to Katy.

The Goodbye I Wasn’t Ready For

This was the hardest part of the entire trip. It was my final day in Hoi An, and I still couldn’t quite believe I actually had to leave.

During checkout, the hostel staff kept asking me to stay a few more days. Part of me really wanted to say yes.

I went to the Banh Mi place one last time and told the lady it was my final day. Using Google Translate, I managed to say, “Thank you for the hospitality, you and your husband are very kind. This is my favorite Banh Mi shop in all of Vietnam. I wish you all the best, and when I come back to Hoi An, I will definitely come back here.”

She rushed over to her fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and handed it to me completely free of charge. “All the best for your journey. Please do come back,” she said.

It was already hard enough to leave, and that small gesture made it even harder. Sometimes it’s the smallest things that hit the deepest.

I packed my bags and carried them to the storage area in the common room, since I still had a few hours before my own departure. While I was setting my bag down, I spotted Leila. It looked like she and Katy were leaving that day too. I asked her, “Are you checking out today?”

“Yes, we are,” she said, and mentioned they were heading to Da Lat next. She asked me where am I planning to go next?

At that point, I honestly hadn’t decided where I was going next. And standing there, I thought, maybe I should go to Da Lat too. Maybe seeing some familiar faces would make leaving this place hurt a little less.

I asked what time their bus was. She told me it leaves that night. I thought about it for a moment, then booked a seat on the bus. I know how that sounds. I know it probably reads as strange, maybe even a little unsettling. But in the moment, that thought never crossed my mind. My only intention was to make an incredibly hard goodbye feel slightly less final. And in a strange way, it worked, at least a little.

It wasn’t until after I’d already booked the ticket that I started seeing it from their side. What if they thought I was following them? What if they were sitting there wondering why this guy had suddenly booked the same overnight bus to the same city? I don’t know if either thought actually crossed their minds, but it certainly crossed mine, over and over.

So I decided to keep my distance. Limit the interactions. Avoid making anything awkward.

But the bus ride itself turned out to be one of the hardest parts of leaving Hoi An, and not for the reason I expected.

I sat there for hours in the dark, incredibly aware that two people I’d shared some of my favorite memories from this trip with were just a few rows away, and I said almost nothing the entire ride. Every so often I’d think about saying something, anything, just to make the journey feel less heavy. But two things kept stopping me every single time.

The first was simply who I am. I’ve always been more of an introvert, someone who needs a real reason to start a conversation rather than just filling silence for the sake of it. The second was that nagging fear from earlier in the day, still sitting in the back of my mind. I didn’t want them thinking I’d booked this bus because I was somehow following them. So I stayed quiet, kept to myself, and let the distance between our seats feel a lot bigger than it actually was.

Looking back now, I think that ride said more about how much I didn’t want to say goodbye than anything I could have actually put into words. Sitting there in silence, missing a place I hadn’t even left yet, while the two people who reminded me most of it sat close enough to talk to and I couldn’t bring myself to say a word.

We only spoke briefly, once at the bus station while we waited to board, and again right after we got off in Da Lat. That’s when I asked Katy to sign the draft of this very article.

But even with barely any conversation between us, just knowing they were there made the whole thing easier to bear. Having them on that bus, even in silence, made saying goodbye to Hoi An feel a little less like losing something and a little more like carrying a piece of it forward with me.

If there’s one thing I regret about that night, it’s that I never properly thanked them. Not for anything specific they did, but just for being there. For unknowingly making one of the hardest nights of my trip feel a little more bearable, just by sitting a few rows away on the same dark bus heading toward the same unfamiliar city.

Why Hoi An Will Always Have a Piece of My Heart

People are what make a place unforgettable. Not the lanterns, not the ancient houses, not even the food, as incredible as it was.

Hoi An gave me an omelet made exactly how I liked it, a Banh Mi lady who knew my order without asking, a hostel with no curtains that somehow turned strangers into something close to friends, and a girl named Katy who reminded me what quiet strength actually looks like. It gave me a silent bus ride I’ll never forget, and somehow that silence said more than words ever could have.

Places fade in your memory faster than you’d like to admit. Buildings blur together. Streets start to look the same after enough time on the road. But people stay. They’re the ones who turn a stop on a map into somewhere you genuinely didn’t want to leave.

That’s why Hoi An will always be different for me. Not because of what I saw there, but because of who I met along the way.

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