The Little Differences

On moving from the UK to Vietnam, where things first appear chaotic, but slowly begin to make sense.

Moving to a new country is a bit like stepping into unfamiliar traffic. At first, everything looks chaotic. The rules seem unclear, people move in ways you wouldn’t expect, and you’re not quite sure when it’s your turn to cross. But slowly, you start to realise there is a system — just not the one you’re used to.

One of the things I didn’t expect to notice so quickly in Vietnam is just how much we British people moan — and how normal it feels to us.

In the UK, moaning isn’t always a complaint that needs fixing. It’s not a cry for help or a sign that something is truly wrong. Often, it’s just… conversation. A soft bonding ritual. A way of saying I exist in the same mildly inconvenient world as you.

“I hope it’s not raining.”“Ugh, I slept badly.”“Bit tired today.”

None of these statements are usually invitations for solutions. They’re just part of the rhythm of our language.

Here, it feels different.

The other day, as I was leaving work, I made what I thought was a harmless bit of small talk:“I hope it’s not raining outside.”

The girl I was speaking to looked genuinely surprised and explained, quite seriously, that this is the rainy season in Vietnam — so yes, it rains a lot, but only at this time of year.

I stumbled and replied that I’m used to rain, that I come from Wales. Which somehow made the whole thing worse. Why would I hope it wasn’t raining if I’m accustomed to rain?

And honestly… fair question.

In Britain, that sentence doesn’t mean I can’t cope if it rains. It just means hello, I am speaking now. But stripped of its cultural context, it sounded irrational.

Something similar happened when I mentioned to a Filipino teacher that I’d had a severe migraine and had been really ill the night before. To me, it was just a fact of life. An observation. Something that happened.

To her, it was serious. There was concern — a sense that something needed addressing, fixing, solving.

Again, neither reaction is wrong. Just different.

There’s also an abruptness and straightforwardness here that I’m still getting used to. People don’t beat around the bush. They’re direct. Things get done.

Even the traffic reflects this. At first, it looks chaotic — scooters everywhere, horns constantly beeping, people crossing roads that seem impossible to cross. The rules feel looser than what I’m used to. And yet, somehow, it all flows. Everyone appears tuned into the same unspoken system, reading each other’s movements and moving together rather than fighting for space.

Don’t get me wrong, it can be dangerous, and it’s certainly not a perfect system — but even in the UK, you see aggressive drivers doing stupid and sometimes catastrophic things.

And yet, despite this directness, people here are some of the friendliest and most genuinely happy people I’ve met.

Back home, it can feel like we wear a façade of happiness. We’re polite, we soften everything, we fill silences — but underneath, there’s often a long list of grievances, insecurities, and half-expressed emotions. We want to present ourselves a certain way, while quietly hiding how we actually feel.

You get stuck in conversations that last half an hour longer than they should. You say “right then” and “bye” and “ok, bye” multiple times, and yet somehow… you’re still standing there talking.

Here, conversations end when they end.

I noticed this when a teaching assistant asked where I was living. I answered, then instinctively started expanding the story — filling the silence with more information. That I like being by the sea. That I’m there for a month. That I’ll move to another apartment in the same building later.

She looked at me, nodded, and said, “Ok, bye.”

Was it a language barrier? Or simply that the question had been asked, answered, and therefore the conversation was complete?

Back home, that would have been the beginning of a five-minute chat.

People here also wake incredibly early, often around 5am, but there’s a strong resting culture too. Rest doesn’t feel like a failure or something to apologise for. It’s just part of the day.

I’m so used to walking everywhere, or standing at a desk, because it’s drilled into us in the UK that sitting is killing us. But here — why wouldn’t you just hop on your bike to get where you need to be? It’s more efficient.

Maybe that’s connected. Less verbal processing. Less filling space. More acceptance of things as they are.

And maybe I’m interpreting all of this completely wrong. Maybe what I’m noticing is simply a language barrier, not a cultural one. But somehow, I don’t think that’s the case.

Like the traffic, it only looks chaotic from the outside. Once you stop trying to impose your own rules, you start to see the flow.