Back in Hanoi and back in civilisation, or at least civilisation that serves decent coffee and has fewer seagulls than Hạ Long Bay. The Oriental Jade welcomed us with a new room: spotless, cool, and blessedly quiet. After days of boats, waves and seafood, the sound of nothing at all felt like luxury.

First mission: collect Dana’s made-to-measure dress. She’d ordered it on Saturday, and ever since, Bryan had lived in mild fear that it would come out looking like a curtain or a bad bridesmaid’s emergency backup. The dress had been paid for in full, so there was a real sense of please let this not be hideous.

Inside the little tailor’s shop, there it was, hanging like a pink miracle at the back. Dana vanished into the makeshift changing room, rustling behind the curtain like a stage performer waiting for applause. “Bryan, zip me up!” came the command. Moments later she emerged, grinning. The dress fit perfectly, every line and colour exactly as she’d imagined. “It’s like Cinderella, except hotter,” Bryan said, as Dana twirled in delight. For a brief, shining moment, the chaos of Hanoi melted away.

Then came a detour for Katja, not in Vietnam, but spiritually present via WhatsApp, who had demanded a visit to a 7-Eleven. We filmed a little video just for her: shelves of instant noodles, seaweed snacks, and an alarming number of drinks that glow in the dark. Bryan declared it “a cultural exchange”, while Dana muttered, “Only in Asia can a convenience store feel like Disneyland.”

Next stop: Café Giảng, tucked in a narrow alley off Nguyễn Hữu Huân Street, the spiritual home of the world-famous egg coffee. You have to stoop through a tiny doorway, as if entering someone’s secret hideout, and inside it’s all old wood, yellow walls and the faint buzz of a hundred conversations.

The story goes that in 1946, during a milk shortage, Mr Nguyễn Văn Giảng decided to whisk up egg yolks, condensed milk and sugar instead, and just like that, a legend was born. Out came two small cups, sitting in bowls of warm water like little spa guests. Dana took one spoonful of the golden foam and sighed, “It tastes like warm custard in a cup.” Bryan nodded, serious. “Like a latte had a cousin who went to finishing school.”

The place is charmingly chaotic, like most of Hanoi: narrow stairs, ceiling fans with more wobble than wind, and a sweet hum of locals catching up. We stayed far longer than intended, sipping slowly, watching sunlight flicker through the alley. Dana said it reminded her of Prague’s old cafés, “except with motorbikes instead of trams, and more humidity than is morally acceptable.”

By the time we left, we’d learned two things. One: Vietnamese tailors are magicians. Two: whoever first cracked an egg into coffee deserves a statue.

And somewhere between the perfect pink dress and that first spoonful of frothy heaven, Hanoi gave us one of its best days yet.

The Great Hanoi Wind-Down (and the Handbag That Got Away)

After a week of temples, traffic, and noodles, it was time for what Dana called “a day of pure self-care” and what Bryan privately referred to as “being poked, scrubbed and oiled for money.”

Dana disappeared into the spa for the full menu: hair wash, face scrub, mask, neck, head and shoulder massage, plus hand and foot pampering for good measure. By the time she re-emerged, she smelled like jasmine and looked like she’d floated in from a silk advert. Bryan, meanwhile, had opted for a pedicure with a scrub and massage cream. “It’s not girly,” he declared, while looking suspiciously relaxed and moisturised afterwards.

Dinner was at The Met, a restaurant recommended by the hotel staff and instantly loved by both. Three kinds of spring rolls arrived, followed by Dana’s Phở Gà, chicken rice, and chicken noodles. “Mmm, oh yes,” Dana murmured between spoonfuls, which is her Czech equivalent of a standing ovation. Bryan’s theory: if Dana hums while eating, the food’s a triumph.

Suitably stuffed, it was time for “just a bit of shopping.” Dana, of course, had promised that she wouldn’t buy anything next week when they went south. Back she went to the cheerful T-shirt lady who had chased her down earlier that afternoon. Both women were delighted, Dana because she found the perfect shirt, and the shopkeeper because she’d caught her quarry.

Then came the great handbag hunt, prompted by the urgent need to match the new silver-and-black sequin cocktail dress. Bryan nursed a beer while Dana rifled through the shops, shaking her head at every option. Nothing was quite right. The handbag, it seemed, would remain the one that got away.

Back at the hotel, the sound of zips and packing filled the room. Tomorrow they’d be flying south, leaving Hanoi’s honking horns and hidden cafés behind. Dana smoothed her new T-shirt on the bed with satisfaction, while Bryan looked mournfully at his perfectly pampered feet.

“Ready for the beach?” she asked.

“As long as they’ve got beer and no handbag shops,” he said.

She laughed, which meant of course there would be both.