I don’t remember how many times I’ve been to Da Lat. I’m also not sure when I started to love this place not for the flowers, coffee, or climate, but because… Da Lat at night.
That night, the sky wasn’t rainy. Da Lat was only slightly chilly, like the first time someone gently holds your hand. I stepped out of the homestay, not knowing where I was headed, just wanting to wander. The streets were empty, occasionally a few motorbike lights passed by, leaving behind a faint trail of light through the mist.
I walked along Tran Phu Street, looking up at the Da Lat Television Tower, which was shining brightly in the sky. People say that when you can see the tower from afar, you know you’re still near the center. But to me, that tower seemed like a tiny streak of hope that the city kept for anyone who felt lost.
Crossing a few hills, I turned into a small alley. There, a dim yellow light shone down on old tiled roofs. A girl selling roasted sweet potatoes was still sitting by the charcoal stove, huddled against the cold. I wasn’t hungry, but I bought some. The warm food eased the chill, but the warmth that truly made my heart flutter came from the way we silently looked at each other.
I continued walking, passing old houses, mossy walls, and stone benches under the shade of ancient pine trees. I didn’t take any photos, nor did I play any music. I just listened to the sound of my footsteps echoing lightly on the misty road, as if tonight Da Lat belonged solely to me.
When I returned to the homestay, the clock showed nearly 11 PM. I opened the door gently, afraid of waking up the peaceful dreams inside the small wooden house.
And in that moment, I knew I had just experienced a beautiful night – not because of anything that happened, but because of the quiet, gentle, and suffocating feeling that only the mountain city could offer in its very own way.