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<h2>🇸🇬 Tiong Bahru – A Village Hiding in Singapore’s Future </h2><h3>&nbsp;If you’re searching for stillness in Singapore, you won’t find it in the skyline. But in Tiong Bahru, you just might hear your breath again.</h3><h3>Singapore is a city of angles—steel, speed, and straight lines.</h3> But hidden in its geometry is a gentle curve called Tiong Bahru. Here, the future steps aside, and the past leans in just enough to say: “Stay a while.”<h3>In a city of ambition, Tiong Bahru curves inward—like a quiet breath between glass towers.</h3> We didn’t plan to stay long. It was meant to be a morning stroll, a stop between MRT stations. But somehow, the soft lines of Tiong Bahru held us longer than expected.Maybe it was the way the sunlight fell on white-washed walls, or the gentle curve of Art Deco balconies that seemed to cradle the air. Or maybe we were just tired of speed.<h3>Singapore doesn’t often whisper. But this place does.</h3> Tiong Bahru moves in slow motion. A sleepy bookstore with yellowing spines. A corner bakery still warm from 5AM loaves. A bench under a tree where an old man reads the same paper every day.We sat at a small café tucked beneath curved awnings, sipping kopi from porcelain cups. The owner greeted regulars by name, and the air smelled like toast and rain.My husband said, “This place feels like it hasn’t changed in decades.”I looked around and realized—it hasn’t. And yet, it has become something even rarer in a city that never stops: it has stayed still.<h3> </h3><figure id="figure-q9zpa4sy5jmdefcfoq"><img id="q9zpa4sy5jmdefcfoq" src="https://media.gettyimages.com/id/2211126377/photo/black-and-white-residential-buildings-wessex-estate-singapore.jpg?b=1&amp;s=2048x2048&amp;w=0&amp;k=20&amp;c=vLTFEU8Aw3HWI3wu7haCGZQCcfbUdbMv7lpUS0qLghU=" alt="Black-and-white residential buildings, Wessex Estate, Singapore" title="Black-and-white residential buildings, Wessex Estate, Singapore" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-sm md:rounded-md lg:rounded-lg" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://media.gettyimages.com/id/2211126377/photo/black-and-white-residential-buildings-wessex-estate-singapore.jpg?b=1&amp;s=2048x2048&amp;w=0&amp;k=20&amp;c=vLTFEU8Aw3HWI3wu7haCGZQCcfbUdbMv7lpUS0qLghU=" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure><h3>It reminded me of mornings in Saigon.</h3> When I would sit at a street corner, coffee in hand, watching the city yawn awake. Tiong Bahru had that same gentleness—unhurried, unafraid of silence.There was no need to perform, no need to impress. Just the comfort of being somewhere that allows you to simply be.<h3>The buildings here don’t rise. They wrap.</h3> Instead of reaching upward, Tiong Bahru’s pre-war flats lean into each other, like neighbors sharing secrets. The staircases are soft spirals. The colors are pale—cream, green, gray. Time has smudged their edges, but not their soul.Walking through these blocks, I remembered old Saigon. Not the chaos, but the tenderness. The way communities used to hold each other without saying much.<h3>We found a secondhand bookstore called “Books Actually.”</h3> The name felt both ironic and perfect. Inside, the floor creaked, and the shelves leaned just slightly—like they’d been listening to too many stories for too long.I picked up a poetry collection by a local writer I’d never heard of. The first line read:“We build futures too fast to remember where the present went.” I closed the book and bought it.<h3>In Tiong Bahru, the future steps back so the present can breathe.</h3> We didn’t do much. No tourist checklist. No iconic landmarks. We just wandered. Stopped when we were tired. Drank when we were thirsty. Sat when the clouds threatened to rain.And in that stillness, I saw a different side of Singapore—not the efficiency, but the empathy. Not the skyline, but the sidewalks.&nbsp; When we left, I didn’t want to say goodbye. Just thank you—for slowing down long enough to let us feel held. And in a city rushing forward, that one small pause felt like a gift.<h3>🌿 Related Stories: <a title="Singapore Beyond the Skyline – Finding Calm in the Concrete" href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/singaporebeyondtheskyline" target="_blank" rel="noopener" data-mce-href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/singaporebeyondtheskyline">Singapore Beyond the Skyline – Finding Calm in the Concrete</a> Coming Soon: MacRitchie Reservoir – Where Singapore Breathes with the Trees &nbsp;</h3>

🇸🇬 Tiong Bahru – A Village Hiding in Singapore’s Future

Ancient sites, tourist attractions in Sukhothai, Thailand. Rear view of tourist woman walking into Wat Mahatat temple, Sukhothai historical park, Sukhothai, Thailand. UNESCO World heritage site

<h2>🇹🇭 Sukhothai – In the Shadow of Ruins, I Remember Stillness </h2><h3>&nbsp;If you're drawn to Thailand for more than just beaches and markets, let me take you somewhere quieter.</h3> In Sukhothai, the ruins speak softly—and in their silence, I heard something inside me echo back.<h3>&nbsp; It’s easy to forget that Thailand was once a kingdom of silence.</h3> Not silence as in emptiness, but a kind of quiet dignity—preserved in bricks and banyan roots, in ponds where time floats like fallen leaves. That’s what I felt in Sukhothai. Not wonder. Not awe. But stillness.And sometimes, stillness is the most sacred thing we can find.<h3>&nbsp; We arrived just after a summer rain.</h3> The skies were clearing, but the ancient walkways still glistened with puddles. My husband held my hand as we walked through the Sukhothai Historical Park, and I remember thinking how soft everything felt—like the world had pressed a finger to its lips.There were no crowds. Just us, a few bicycles passing slowly, and the rustle of trees.<h3>&nbsp; The ruins weren’t broken—they were breathing.</h3> Every weathered Buddha statue, every headless stone guardian felt less like decay and more like memory. These weren’t just monuments. They were echoes of empires—and gentle reminders that everything, even glory, fades.We sat beneath the shadow of a crumbling stupa, sharing sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves, bought from a vendor who smiled with his eyes. We didn’t say much. It didn’t feel necessary.<h3>&nbsp; I asked him, "What do you think this place used to sound like?"</h3> He shrugged and replied, “Maybe not so different from now.”I smiled. He was right. Some places remember their silence better than others.<h3>&nbsp;</h3><figure id="figure-nwc1uxoo67mdeey0g3"><img id="nwc1uxoo67mdeey0g3" src="https://media.gettyimages.com/id/2199520274/photo/sukhothai-historical-park.jpg?b=1&s=2048x2048&w=0&k=20&c=qHyP6qJCCP0hpD2ROZWeMsjA7FwmxpEyLeezmBjYkIU=" alt="Sukhothai Historical Park" title="Sukhothai Historical Park" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-sm md:rounded-md lg:rounded-lg" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionX="undefined" data-positionY="undefined" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure><h3> The stillness of Sukhothai didn’t ask to be photographed.</h3> I tried—once. My phone refused to focus, as if it too understood that this moment wasn’t meant to be flattened into pixels. So I put it away and just watched the late afternoon sun slide across brick and lotus.In that light, history didn’t feel distant. It felt warm.<h3>&nbsp; We didn’t stay in a resort. Just a small homestay nearby.</h3> Each morning, we rented old bicycles and rode slowly past fields of marigolds and schoolchildren in crisp uniforms. The village stirred gently, like a long, slow stretch. No alarms. No rush. Just the clinking of spoons in local kitchens and the occasional barking dog.There was something familiar in that rhythm—the slow bicycles, the morning dogs, the sound of spoons in street kitchens. It brought me back to the Mekong Delta, to mornings when life was simpler and time felt like it waited for us.<h3>&nbsp; In Sukhothai, I didn’t feel like a traveler. I felt like a witness.</h3> Not to grandeur. But to grace. The quiet kind, the kind you only notice when you stop chasing beauty—and let it come to you. And in Sukhothai, beauty never ran. It waited—patiently, beneath the ruins.&nbsp; 🌾 Related Stories: <a title="Chiang Mai – A City Wrapped in Stillness" href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/chiang-mai---a-city-wrapped-in-stillness" target="_blank" rel="noopener" data-mce-href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/chiang-mai---a-city-wrapped-in-stillness">Chiang Mai – A City Wrapped in Stillness</a> Coming Soon: Pai – A Place Where the Road Rests with You &nbsp;

🇹🇭 Sukhothai – In the Shadow of Ruins, I Remember Stillness

Tranquil sunset over a reflective lake surrounded by verdant forest scenery

🇻🇳 Tam Cốc – Where River, Rice, and Silence Meet If you're searching for a quiet escape in Northern Vietnam, Tam Cốc might be where river, rice, and silence meet. This is not a travel guide. It’s a slow moment I once lived—and never really left.&nbsp; The morning began with a silence that didn’t feel empty. We arrived in Tam Cốc just before sunrise, when the mist still lingered low over the water, and the air was thick with dew. The road from Ninh Bình was quiet, lined with limestone shadows and rice fields waiting to wake. My husband parked our motorbike near the riverbank, and for a moment, we simply stood still—watching the boats gliding like whispers across the water.There’s something sacred about mornings in places like this. No noise, no rush, just the soft rhythm of paddles slicing through reflection.&nbsp; The river did not just carry us—it slowed us. We boarded a small wooden boat rowed by a woman with weathered hands and calm eyes. She didn’t speak much, only smiled when I asked if she did this every day. She nodded, then pointed to the karst cliffs around us as if to say, “This is my ceiling. This is my view.”The boat drifted gently along the Ngô Đồng River, winding through golden-green rice paddies and under low limestone arches that made us duck our heads. The sound of the water brushing the boat was the only thing that marked time. No engine. No talking. Just nature and breath. <figure id="figure-0pxtiszq3mdeefqxi"><img id="0pxtiszq3mdeefqxi" src="https://media.gettyimages.com/id/1425103315/photo/asian-woman-wearing-vietnam-culture-traditional-at-tam-coc-vietnam.jpg?b=1&amp;s=2048x2048&amp;w=0&amp;k=20&amp;c=rA-25-diTdPAyvhOtNmDyvZIt2b-vBZjzGVhsF8P3QQ=" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-sm md:rounded-md lg:rounded-lg" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://media.gettyimages.com/id/1425103315/photo/asian-woman-wearing-vietnam-culture-traditional-at-tam-coc-vietnam.jpg?b=1&amp;s=2048x2048&amp;w=0&amp;k=20&amp;c=rA-25-diTdPAyvhOtNmDyvZIt2b-vBZjzGVhsF8P3QQ=" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure> Somewhere between rice and stone, I forgot what day it was. I remember a moment when my husband leaned forward, his hand resting quietly on the edge of the boat, eyes closed. I asked, “What are you thinking about?”He said, “Nothing. I think that’s the point.”We both laughed softly—because that’s what this place does to you. It asks nothing. It only offers quiet company.&nbsp; Tam Cốc isn’t about doing. It’s about being. We didn’t have an itinerary. There was no checklist. We just stayed near the village, walking along dirt paths lined with buffaloes and children waving from doorways. We drank iced tea from a roadside cart, sat in silence under banyan trees, and let the day unravel at its own pace.And strangely, that felt more luxurious than any five-star resort.&nbsp; In a world that moves fast, Tam Cốc teaches slowness without saying a word. It taught me that peace doesn’t need to be loud. That beauty doesn’t always need to be captured. And that sometimes, just sitting in a boat with someone you love—gliding through a world of green and grey—is enough to remind you that you’re alive.&nbsp; 🌾 Related Stories: <a title="Da Lat – Where the Mist Knows Your Name" href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/da-lat---where-the-mist-knows-your-name" target="_blank" rel="noopener" data-mce-href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/da-lat---where-the-mist-knows-your-name">Da Lat – Where the Mist Knows Your Name</a> <a title="Coming Soon: Mai Châu – Where Mountains Cradle Simplicity" href="https://thekimngan.com/blog" target="_blank" rel="noopener" data-mce-href="https://thekimngan.com/blog">Coming Soon: Mai Châu – Where Mountains Cradle Simplicity</a> &nbsp; &nbsp;

Tam Cốc – Where River, Rice, and Silence Meet

Digital Nomad in Saigon – My Quiet Work Life as a Local I live in a quiet corner of District 4, Ho Chi Minh City. Far from the noise of tourist hotspots or high-rise tech hubs, my days begin not with a rush, but with the soft hum of a waking city. The sun climbs gently over the rooftops, casting golden shadows through my window. In that stillness, I make my coffee — the slow drip of a phin reminding me that there is no need to hurry.My workday doesn’t require commuting. My office is a wooden desk by the window, a folding table in a local café, or sometimes, just a notebook on the tiled floor of my kitchen. I work with my hands and my mind — writing, editing, building quiet things that carry meaning.Though I lead a quiet life in Saigon, my work still reaches far. I currently serve as the Asia Regional Director for a multinational travel company — a role I balance with creative work like writing, video production, and brand consulting. Some days are filled with Zoom calls across time zones, strategic planning, and mentoring younger teams. But even in that, I try to carry stillness into the way I lead. This dual rhythm — of global leadership and local slowness — is what defines my version of a digital nomad in Vietnam.I spend my afternoons walking down the hẻm — alleys that feel like time capsules — picking up fresh herbs from a vendor who knows my name, exchanging stories with neighbors. Lunch is usually something simple: rice with pickled mustard greens, tofu fried with lemongrass, or a bowl of canh chua if I feel nostalgic. I eat slowly. I listen to the city.Sometimes, I pause to journal. Sometimes, I edit videos for my YouTube channel, sharing glimpses of this quiet life in Vietnam — not as an expat, but as someone who grew up near the Mekong and chose to return.I work hard — but not to prove anything. I work because it brings clarity and joy. Because it allows me to live gently, support my family, and stay aligned with who I am. There is ambition here, yes, but it’s not the loud kind.It’s the kind that grows like a morning plant — slow, intentional, rooted.At night, when the lights of Saigon flicker and the air smells of grilled corn and evening prayers, I feel grateful. This is not the digital nomad life sold in YouTube ads or Instagram reels. It’s quieter. Truer. Mine.<a title="The Real Cost of Living Slowly in Vietnam – My Honest Monthly Budget" href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/---the-real-cost-of-living-slowly-in-vietnam---my-honest-monthly-budget" target="_blank" rel="noopener" data-mce-href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/---the-real-cost-of-living-slowly-in-vietnam---my-honest-monthly-budget">The Real Cost of Living Slowly in Vietnam – My Honest Monthly Budget</a> <a title="How I Eat Well on $10 a Day in Saigon" href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/---how-i-eat-well-on--10-a-day-in-saigon---honest-meals--simple-joys" target="_blank" rel="noopener" data-mce-href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/---how-i-eat-well-on--10-a-day-in-saigon---honest-meals--simple-joys">How I Eat Well on $10 a Day in Saigon</a> &nbsp;

Living in Vietnam – Digital Nomad in Saigon: My Quiet Work Life as a Local

Beautiful young woman relaxing by lake and writing diary

How Writing Became My Quiet Revolution – A Journey of Healing and Creative Freedom Creative Side of Me – by Kim NgânI never planned to become a writer. But somewhere between the noise of corporate meetings and the stillness of early morning coffee, I started listening — not to the world, but to myself.And when I finally began to write, it didn’t sound like ambition. It sounded like breathing.&nbsp; It Began With Silence There was a time when I didn’t know how to name my feelings. They arrived quietly — as restlessness, as fatigue, as that ache behind the ribs when your days feel full but your heart feels empty.Writing, at first, was not for anyone else. It was a letter to myself. A page where I could lay things down — questions, thoughts, grief, joy — without fear of judgment.I didn’t write to perform. I wrote to feel whole.&nbsp; From Journals to Journeys I started carrying a small notebook everywhere — in airports, in quiet cafés, in the slow evenings beside my husband as the city outside buzzed on.One line became a paragraph. A paragraph became a reflection. And one day, without meaning to, it became a blog.Not a polished one. Not perfect. Just honest.And that honesty began to feel like a quiet revolution — a way to live gently, to tell the truth in a world full of noise.&nbsp; When Words Become Shelter Some people build businesses. Others build brands. But I built a little room of words — a place where quiet people could sit with their thoughts and feel less alone.This blog became my second skin. A soft space where stories breathe, and living slowly isn’t just an idea — it’s an act of courage.Writing didn't save me. It allowed me to remember who I was before I forgot. <figure id="figure-fa4d8pi9rkmdd3w9b2"><img id="fa4d8pi9rkmdd3w9b2" src="https://media.gettyimages.com/id/666766944/photo/hand-writing-in-note-pad-in-the-sun.jpg?b=1&amp;s=2048x2048&amp;w=0&amp;k=20&amp;c=K_0Dp2LfUcq3yDqyoBYaHTywOdlqi6uCy-XimtnUdeE=" alt="Hand writing in note pad in the sun" title="Hand writing in note pad in the sun" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-sm md:rounded-md lg:rounded-lg" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://media.gettyimages.com/id/666766944/photo/hand-writing-in-note-pad-in-the-sun.jpg?b=1&amp;s=2048x2048&amp;w=0&amp;k=20&amp;c=K_0Dp2LfUcq3yDqyoBYaHTywOdlqi6uCy-XimtnUdeE=" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure> “Like when I sat beside the canal in Bruges or woke early in Jeonju, writing has always been my way of pausing time.” <a title="→ Bruges – Chocolate, Cobblestones and Calm" href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/a-quiet-day-in-bruges-chocolate-cobblestones-and-calm" target="_blank" rel="noopener" data-mce-href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/a-quiet-day-in-bruges-chocolate-cobblestones-and-calm">→ Bruges – Chocolate, Cobblestones and Calm</a>&nbsp; or&nbsp;<a title=" Jeonju – The Soul of Hanok " href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/slowmorningsinjeonjuthesoulofhanok" target="_blank" rel="noopener" data-mce-href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/slowmorningsinjeonjuthesoulofhanok"> Jeonju – The Soul of Hanok </a> &nbsp; Now, I Write to Set Others Free Too Today, I still write the same way — quietly, honestly, from lived truth. Only now, I also write to remind others:You don’t need to go viral to be valuable. You don’t need to be loud to be heard. You just need to begin — with one true sentence. Then another. And then maybe, a quiet revolution of your own.

How Writing Became My Quiet Revolution

Historic chocolate shops line the cobbled streets of Brugge at dusk

A Quiet Day in Bruges – Chocolate, Cobblestones and Calm Europe Travel Series – by Kim NgânSome cities speak in bells. Bruges speaks in whispers — the kind carried by canals, echoed by stone, and sweetened by the smell of chocolate drifting through old alleyways.We arrived just after sunrise, when the tourists were still asleep and the air still carried the hush of morning. The cobblestones were damp, the cafés still shuttered, and the canals shimmered like glass.There was no rush to see the city. We came to feel it.&nbsp; Wandering Through Time Bruges doesn’t beg for attention. It offers presence. The kind that lives in quiet corners, in the reflection of pointed gables on still water, and in the sound of footsteps softened by centuries.We walked hand in hand without direction — letting the streets lead us past lace shops, tiny bookstores, and windows where chocolate truffles sat like small invitations to slow down.At one corner, we found a man tuning a cello. He smiled. Said nothing. The music began with no performance. Just a low, warm hum drifting through the morning air. We stood there for a while, not because we had to — but because nothing else felt more important.&nbsp; A City that Knows the Value of Stillness For lunch, we stopped at a café by the canal, where the chairs were old, the bread was warm, and the waitress called everyone “dear.” We shared a pot of hot cocoa, rich and dark, not too sweet. Outside, a soft drizzle began — not enough to run from, just enough to lean into.Bruges doesn’t tell you what to do. It invites you to notice — how the light lands on a window, how time pools in a puddle, how even the rain feels unhurried.<figure id="figure-jrlnkew0xbmdd3688l"><img id="jrlnkew0xbmdd3688l" src="https://media.gettyimages.com/id/802618026/photo/holding-a-chocolate-bar-in-brussels.jpg?b=1&amp;s=2048x2048&amp;w=0&amp;k=20&amp;c=CxYCHJroZRmVcPttpj5FB-TUH5f9bZcK3fDgB9A5O50=" alt="Holding a chocolate bar in Brussels" title="Holding a chocolate bar in Brussels" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 rounded-sm md:rounded-md lg:rounded-lg" style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://media.gettyimages.com/id/802618026/photo/holding-a-chocolate-bar-in-brussels.jpg?b=1&amp;s=2048x2048&amp;w=0&amp;k=20&amp;c=CxYCHJroZRmVcPttpj5FB-TUH5f9bZcK3fDgB9A5O50=" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure> “There was something in the stillness of Bruges that reminded me of the fog in Da Lat — a quiet that doesn’t ask to be explained.”<a title="→&nbsp; Da Lat – Where the Mist Knows Your Name" href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/da-lat---where-the-mist-knows-your-name" target="_blank" rel="noopener" data-mce-href="https://thekimngan.com/blog/da-lat---where-the-mist-knows-your-name">→&nbsp; Da Lat – Where the Mist Knows Your Name</a> &nbsp; Moments, Not Monuments In the afternoon, we sat on a bench by the canal, watching a swan glide past, slow and certain. There were no words, no phone cameras — just the sense that we were inside a painting someone forgot to frame.That night, the city whispered in amber. Streetlights danced in puddles, and the cobblestones held the soft rhythm of someone walking home alone. We didn’t follow — we just listened.We didn’t tick off landmarks. We didn’t seek stories. We just lived one — quietly, gently, with chocolate on our fingers and peace in our steps.

A Quiet Day in Bruges – Chocolate, Cobblestones and Calm

KimNgan

I’m a travel blogger sharing personal travel stories, itineraries, tips, and cultural insights for destinations in Vietnam, Thailand, China, Europe, Singapore, Malaysia, Japan, Korea, United State, Canada, Australia.. and around the world.
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Kim Ngân Blog

🇸🇬 Tiong Bahru – A Village Hiding in Singapore’s Future

🇹🇭 Sukhothai – In the Shadow of Ruins, I Remember Still...

Tam Cốc – Where River, Rice, and Silence Meet

Living in Vietnam – Digital Nomad in Saigon: My Quiet Wor...

How Writing Became My Quiet Revolution

A Quiet Day in Bruges – Chocolate, Cobblestones and Calm