If Hội An felt like the Riviera Adriatica, driving through Đà Nẵng felt like Miami. Wide sand beaches with large sidewalks filled with shirtless muscle-men in front of fancy chains and skyscrapers.

On the scooter, the landscape changes so fast even when driving at 50 km/h. I pass by a fishermen's dock, and I smell something that reminds me of my hometown—especially of “mandracchio,” the port side where my grandpa used to spend all day long. You know that mix of seaside, fish, and gasoline that stings your nose? If you’ve smelled it once in your life, you’re probably feeling it right now.

Ten minutes pass by, and my nose fills with the scent of pine trees—such an unexpected change of mood. The sand beaches stay the same, but the large sidewalks give way to palms and pine trees filled with hammocks and occasional chiringuitos.

I find myself driving uphill into Đồng Tham with the same speed I passed from Miami to the pine trees—everything around me is so green, and even as I move upward, I still have the sea on my right side. My belly starts to make noises, and I understand it’s time to find some food somewhere. I see some scooters on the sideline and decide to stop by. The food was okay, the family very welcoming, but to my surprise, there were waterfalls behind the small house that were screaming, “Get here and jump in, you sweaty ass!”—and that’s exactly what I did.

Fast-forward an hour, and I find myself in one of the weirdest places I’ve ever seen: like Death Valley, but made of abandoned luxury resorts. I find the first one while looking for a beach on the map. I cannot find a way in, so I try to use the drone to get closer, but I don’t dare to fly it inside the structure. The next one is a huge complex, looking like a town, and as soon as I get closer, a dude comes out from nowhere and tells me it’s a restricted area and that photos are forbidden—needless to say, I also wasn’t allowed to get in. Lastly, on the way back, I found four more resorts; this time, I could freely walk in. Such a weird feeling to see half-finished rooms with seaside-view swimming pools; it feels like being in an episode of White Lotus where everyone ran away after a murder and left the facilities unattended for years.

I spend so much time walking there that when I get back to the scooter, I realize that time is running out and I need to cut a few stops to reach Huế on time. Bye bye, Thác Nhị Hồ waterfall.

Ten past seven. I hand over the scooter just ten minutes later than planned, and the last smell I sense is the smell of prayers. A smell of smoke pervades the streets—a northern Vietnamese tradition to burn offerings during the full moon. It seems today is full moon, and they explain to me that it’s a northern Vietnamese ritual to burn paper or other offerings to honor ancestors, seek blessings, and offer gifts to the spirits of the world.

I enter the train, and someone else is already on my bed. It turns out that we even have the exact same ticket. Luckily, the staff solved the situation in a matter of seconds, and I’m here, laying in the darkness, closing missive number 9.

The batteries—both mine and the MacBook’s—are running out. When I open my eyes, I’ll be in Ninh Bình. Let’s see what it will bring.

Till tomorrow,
— M