As a journalist, you fly a lot. The same crowded security lines, the same cramped aeroplane seats, the same suspicious-tasting airline food, and the same crying baby that seems to haunt you like Chucky on every flight. At 32,000 feet, clouds look the same everywhere. But as you make your descent, the sunset outside your window starts to look a little different, perhaps a touch more tangerine. The hills appear oddly shaped, maybe a bit more asymmetric. The fields, strangely structured, might be growing something you’ve never seen before. 

When you approach the tarmac, things change quite drastically. The traffic looks different, and so do the people. You soon realize that places reflect their people, and people reflect their places. Americans are loud and boisterous, like their cities and their capitalism. Scandinavians are cold and reserved, like their fjords. On an invitation from the Four Seasons group, I realized that major cities in Southeast Asia resemble a pair of siblings from South Asia: Singapore, the polished elder; and Vietnam, the youngest and kindred spirit. 

Nothing contrasts quite like the sharp-suited Asians being replaced by Australians in shorts on a flight from Singapore to Da Nang, Vietnam. The contrast continues at Four Seasons Resort The Nam Hai, where electric buggies and bicycles replace Maybachs and Rolls-Royces. If Singapore feels like a part of a well-oiled machine, Vietnam is more like a carefree younger sibling with dreadlocks. The trip from Da Nang International Airport takes nearly 40 minutes by road, and the contrast hits you as soon as you hit the highway. Well-manicured streets and fashionable folks are replaced by a laid-back vibe. There’s a certain chaos to Vietnam, a far cry from Singapore, but eerily similar to coastal towns in India like Goa and Pondicherry. 

From the start, Vietnam feels different, looks different, and, as I soon discovered, tastes remarkably different—if you muster the courage to leave the resort grounds. Spanning 56 acres, Four Seasons Resort The Nam Hai offers what I'd liken to Medusa's lair—not because it petrifies, but because its rooms cocoon you in comfort, trapping you. And rightfully so. Whether it's the balcony views that beckon countless photos, that look straight out of a coffee table book. Coconut trees on one side, the pristine white sand beaches on the other, it's hard to leave. 

Once you do step out, or ride out (there are bicycles parked outside every villa), the view from the lobby area looks like something straight out of a painting. A large pool in the middle is flanked by beautifully done architecture housing different amenities. Step a bit further, and you’re welcomed by a white sand beach, reminiscent of all superlatives rolled into one very tasty Vietnamese spring roll. 

Speaking of which, you can try your hand at making one of these through one of the resort’s recommended activities: a session at the Nam Hai Cooking Academy. Even your own poorly made rice paper rolls can be salvaged into something edible here. Unlike Singapore, where you always feel the need to be on your best behaviour, here, it's clear from the chef's polite suggestion that I should stay a few more weeks, judging by the state of the rice rolls I made. 

Unlike Singapore, with its designated areas of fun, Vietnam feels more relaxed. You can choose to stay in and engage in activities like visiting the Dior pop-up or the massages in the resort’s floating rooms. Alternatively, you can opt for the Omakase menu at its in-house Japanese restaurant, Nayuu, or simply stroll around the property, which honestly looks like something out of a calendar backdrop. 

The soul of the country, though, lies in its streets, its food, and its people—all accessible through different experiences offered by the resort. Yet, nothing compares to seeing the ancient town of Hội An. This UNESCO World Heritage site looks like a town from ancient paintings. Situated on the north bank near the mouth of the Thu Bon River, the town is within a small buffer zone, inaccessible to motorized vehicles, and you soon understand why. Stretching as far as the eye can see, the town reflects a fusion of indigenous and foreign cultures—primarily Chinese and Japanese with later European influences—preserved in a complex of 1,107 timber-frame buildings. These include architectural monuments, commercial and domestic structures, an open market, a ferry quay, and religious buildings like pagodas and family cult houses. The houses are tiled, and their wooden components feature traditional motifs carved with intricate detail. It almost feels like you’re walking through the pages of history. 

Places truly reflect their people. Just as in Singapore, where meticulousness and hospitality reign supreme, Vietnam too shines with its brand of Asian warmth. My Vespa rider would hilariously anchor the scooter firmly, ensuring I could embark and disembark effortlessly as we toured Hội An, sampling local delicacies and cocktails along the way. Amid these adventures, I encountered microcosms of Vietnamese life: a grandmother passing down three decades of Chè-making wisdom to her granddaughter, a dumpling restaurant adorned with a photo of its hostess learning from her father two decades ago, and a Trứng Chiên spot reminiscent of scenes Anthony Bourdain would have relished. 

But the pinnacle of my journey came on the Hoai River, where we boarded a boat and lit lanterns. As these lanterns drifted downstream, each carrying hopes and dreams written on their paper surfaces, the sight of the riverbank illuminated by flickering lights became a profoundly moving communal ritual—a moment more soul-stirring than any yoga or meditation session I've ever been forced into. 

Reflecting on my travels, I’ve realized that it's not just about snapping selfies, nor is it about judging those who do. It's about connecting. We all share the same stories, the same grandmothers, and the same siblings, just wrapped in different cultures and languages, which makes the world a little less hostile. Returning to Mumbai, the monotony of grey skies metaphorically gave way to splashes of colour. Observing ferries, boats, and apartments from the plane window, each with its own story, has now reinforced my belief that the world is inherently compassionate—a sentiment I'll carry on every journey, despite the inevitable crying children on flights.