People often tell me they like having routine. I get it. But travel tests how lightly you can live within chaos. After almost a year of perfecting the science of traveling light, the universe decided to quiz me.
I'd just finished the Ha Giang Loop and headed south with a subset of new friends. We were in the same situation—traveling with flexible itineraries—and for a few cities, our lives intersected.
My backpacks, in the homestay room with me, contained no shoes; the pair I'd left outside was the only one I owned. In Vietnam, like many Asian countries, shoes don't belong inside.
Playing along with the no-shoes-inside culture—which I've come to appreciate far more than I'd imagined—I left my shoes right outside my door, where I'd expected to find them the next day. I booked a bus and accommodation for tomorrow and went to sleep.
Gone without a trace (or a sole)
Morning came, and we were all prepared to continue our respective travels. First, a boat tour together through the caves and too little time for temples.
When I stepped outside, the spot where my shoes had been was empty. I stared for a moment, half amused, half impressed. Maybe it was a test from the universe, or maybe a thief in my size needed them more than I did.
I asked around, but nobody had seen them. The host checked the CCTV and told me a dog had walked off with them. A thief, technically.
Lessons in lightness
Had I booked my bus through the homestay, it would have been cheaper (lesson learned) and the bus would have picked me up at the door. Still, the host was kind enough to give me a motorbike ride to the station. I pulled up a shoe store on Google Maps, but he didn't want to wait (understandable), even if I'd have been quick.
For four hours, I rode the bus with air-conditioned feet. Sitting in the back corner with my toes tucked out of view, only the guy next to me noticed—and he was shoeless, too. For a moment, it felt like belonging.
The return to ground
By dusk in Halong Bay, I was plopped onto a city street, skin against the sidewalk, absorbing years of accumulated fluids, dirt, and trash.
I checked in, dropped my backpacks, and asked reception where I could buy shoes. She suggested a mall across the city, but Google Maps showed me a place around the corner. Even though it was after 6 PM, the shopkeeper was still there, and she gasped when I walked in.
She brought out a few pairs to try, and when I found a fitting one, she handed me socks for free.
I walked back lighter than before, tested—definitely—but still traveling light. Maybe that's the real skill travel teaches: laugh, ask what now?, and keep moving—even barefoot.
