When people imagine life in Vietnam, they often picture the big moments… the lantern-lit streets of Hoi An, bowls of steaming noodles from a street corner, motorbikes weaving through traffic, or wandering through a colorful local market.
But you know what doesn’t usually make the highlight reel?
Grocery shopping.
Which is funny, because it’s one of those things we all do no matter where we live. At some point, we all have to fill the fridge, stock the pantry, and answer the never-ending question…
“What am I making for dinner?”
It’s not exactly the glamorous side of expat life, but it’s part of the rhythm of everyday living.
But in Vietnam, grocery shopping feels a little different.
There isn’t always one magical place where you walk in with a cart and walk out with everything you need. (Although, honestly, sometimes I miss the convenience of grabbing toothpaste, cheese, vegetables, and laundry detergent all in one place.)
I have my staples that I pick up from a more traditional-style grocery store. I found my beef and cheese from another spot entirely. Want chicken? There’s a place for that. Want pork? There’s a different vendor waiting for you.
It feels like every single thing has its own perfect place. It’s like Vietnam looked at the concept of a one-stop shop and said, “No, no… let’s make this a treasure hunt.”
And honestly… I kind of love it. Instead of one quick trip where you rush through aisles grabbing everything from a shelf, daily shopping becomes an opportunity to explore. You get to know the small shops, the vendors, and the people who are part of your neighborhood.
Each stop becomes its own little connection to the community.
But none of those places make me feel more connected to Vietnam than my local vegetable vendor, Mama Lee.
I was introduced to Mama Lee by another expat who visits her nearly every day. After moving into my new home with its huge kitchen, I decided I wanted to start cooking more. (Which sounds very responsible and adult… until you realize I was also incredibly excited just to have enough counter space to spread things out.)
Visiting the local market for fresh vegetables, herbs, and supplies just made sense. But walking into a Vietnamese market as a newcomer can feel a little overwhelming. The lanes are narrow. The vendors are busy. The language is unfamiliar. There are hundreds of things happening at once, and you’re trying to figure out where you’re supposed to go without looking completely lost.
The first time I entered Bale Market, after being introduced by another expat, one thought kept running through my head…
“Am I even in the right spot?”
Now, I don’t even think about it.
I know exactly where I’m going.
What once felt unfamiliar has become muscle memory. I can drive straight to Mama Lee’s stall instead of trying to figure out which tiny lane I should turn down. I know the route. I know where she’ll be.
And somewhere between those first uncertain steps and today, grocery shopping became something much more than buying food.
It became a ritual.
A routine.
A small but meaningful piece of what I love about Vietnam.
The Queen of the Market
Mama Lee stands around five feet tall, a plump little Vietnamese woman with a beautiful smile and her hair always pulled tightly into a bun at the back of her head.
So many times when I arrive, she’ll look up and greet me with her cheerful, “Hello, you!” Or she’ll wave excitedly when she sees me drive up to her stall. Other times, she’s busy helping other customers, and I’m just another person waiting my turn.
But even that is part of the rhythm.
One day stands out in particular. I had stopped by while her daughter was helping me, and suddenly I felt a warm embrace from behind. Mama Lee had quietly snuck up behind me and wrapped me in a welcoming hug.
It wasn’t a customer hug.
It was a “I know you” kind of hug.
A “I’m happy you’re here” kind of hug.
And something about that moment stayed with me.
Because this relationship had become more than a transaction.
Mama Lee… She never seems to stop.
I have never seen her sit down, not once.
She moves constantly… helping someone choose vegetables, weighing items, answering questions, reaching for something tucked away behind her. In quieter moments, I might find her holding a bowl of noodles, carefully pulling chopsticks full from the bowl.
One day stands out in particular. It was incredibly hot, and I arrived much later than I usually do. Mama Lee was standing with her noodles, taking a rare moment for herself. But instead of simply continuing her meal, she insisted that I try it. She lifted a full chopstick toward my mouth, encouraging me to taste what she was eating.
And that was the moment I realized… Mama Lee isn’t just another market vendor.
She is someone who is sharing her life with me.
Mama Lee is also always trying to teach me Vietnamese. She’ll try to teach me numbers and how to count, and I repeat after her, only to realize that those unique sounds just don’t seem to roll off my tongue the way they do hers.
I feel horrible that I can’t seem to get the hang of it.
I try.
She laughs.
I try again.
And somehow, even when the words aren’t quite right, we understand each other.
She also has a way of taking care of me through food. She’s always trying to get me to take a little more than what I came for.
“Banana’s today?” she’ll ask. Or one day, after hearing me cough, she offered me a unique Vietnamese chive because she thought it might help.
Sometimes the surprises are even quieter.
A little basil mint.
A handful of green onions.
Something tucked quietly into my bag without any fanfare.
Just a small gift.
I’m told that in Vietnamese culture, food is one of the deepest expressions of care. A basket of fresh fruit, a cup of coffee, a homemade dish, or even a small handful of herbs tucked into someone’s bag can be a way of saying, “I thought of you.” Food isn’t just about feeding someone. It’s about connection. It’s a way of building relationships, showing gratitude, and letting someone know they matter.
And I think that’s why Mama Lee’s little surprises always mean so much.
Because when she quietly slips a little extra basil mint, some green onions, or something else into my bag, it’s not really about the food. It’s a small gesture of kindness. A little reminder that someone saw me, remembered me, and wanted to take care of me.
My visits to Bale Market usually happen after my morning coffee at another favorite market spot… but that’s a story for another day. I head into the market to see Mama Lee, weaving through Vietnamese locals who are there on the same mission as me… Gathering vegetables, fruits, and ingredients to bring home and make meals for their families.
Every section of the market has its own personality. Its own rhythm.
There’s the knick-knack section where you can find almost anything you need… from a flashlight to bowls for your kitchen. There are flower stalls where the fragrance is so strong it fills your senses before you even reach them, surrounded by colors so vibrant they almost don’t seem real. Then there are the fruit and vegetable stalls, each one its own little display of artistry. The colors, textures, smells, and careful arrangements create something beautiful out of everyday life.
Sometimes tour groups come through the market, exploring and taking in all the sights.
And sometimes, as they’re walking through, Mama Lee will wave me over or gently scoot me around them so she can help me get what I need. And there’s something special about that. They’re experiencing the market for the first time.
But I’m not just experiencing it anymore. I belong here. I’ve become part of the market rhythm. I think to myself… Maybe someone in one of those groups sees me navigating the market, chatting with Mama Lee, getting my vegetables for dinner, and thinks…
“Wait. That looks easy. I could do that. That could be me.”
Because that’s the thing about life abroad. At first, everything feels unfamiliar. Every street. Every word. Every interaction requires effort. But then one day, you realize you’re no longer watching life happen around you. You’re participating in it.
Mama Lee always moving, helping three or four people at the same time. She moves between customers with a rhythm that feels almost like a dance. Someone walks up, and she already knows what they want. She remembers, she anticipates, and she moves effortlessly through the daily routine she has created over decades. It’s a beautiful thing to witness.
And when it’s finally my turn to say goodbye, there is always a small moment of connection… a smile, a wave, a familiar greeting. A reminder that I’m no longer just another person passing through the market.
I say goodbye, and Mama Lee turns right back to helping the next person with their daily selections.
The market keeps moving.
The conversations continue.
The vegetables keep changing hands.
And I drive away with ingredients for dinner… and a smile…
Because somewhere along the way, Bale Market stopped being a place I visited.
It became a place where I was known.
A Re-Discovered Life 