The taxi driver had just begun pulling out of NoiBai International Airport in Hanoi, Vietnam, when a dishevelled backpacker opened the door and hopped in the backseat next to me.
To me, a South African, a stranger hopping into a moving car is seldom a good thing, but I was too bleary-eyed from the rigours of new parenting to react.
Sam, my three-month-old, slept snugly in his sling strapped to my chest (I'd forgotten to pack a car seat). I hugged him closer as I threw my husband, riding shotgun, a panicked look. "Don't worry," the backpacker reassured me in a thick French accent. "Travellers in Vietnam share lifts into the city all the time. I'll pay half."
My husband and I were living in Hong Kong at the time, on the 25th floor of a high-rise close to the Peak. It was Chinese New Year, the annual holiday when usually frenetic Hong Kong grinds to a halt, so it seemed like a good time for our first getaway as a family of three.
I'm not sure why swapping the claustrophobia of Hong Kong for the clanging of Hanoi seemed like a good idea. Possibly because I'd heard it was a shopper's paradise - its markets heaving with artworks, masterfully embroidered linen, hand-painted crockery, and silk.
Plus we hadn't ticked off Vietnam yet, and with Asia on our doorstep, ticking off countries felt almost obligatory.
We treated ourselves to a stay at the Sofitel Legend Metropole in the old city and spent the first day lounging poolside, checking out the other travellers and tag teaming on naps (all we wanted to do, really, was sleep).
But on the second day, travellers' guilt kicked in and we ventured out. Hanoi was dull and foggy and we were hit by a wall of noise as a swarming mass of people zoomed past on their mopeds.
We lunched at Bobby Chinn's eponymously named eatery, all dark and moody interiors. We ticked off the major historical sights as Sam dozed in his pram. We also realised, much to my disappointment and my husband's delight, that most of the shops were closed.
Neither of us is the kind of traveller who researches a place to death (if at all). Usually we just rock up and wing it. So we hadn't realised Vietnam follows the same lunar calendar as the Chinese do. Still, I managed to scour the old city for a new dinner service and convince my husband to buy a set of nude portraits by an up-and-coming local artist.
But my abiding memory of our Vietnamese sojourn was our first night. By 7pm, Sam had fallen into a blissful slumber in the travel cot attached to our bed. The room was dark and ambient and peaceful. Feeling soporific, we nearly dozed off ourselves till we realised we hadn't had supper.
We contemplated hiring a hotel babysitter, or leaving Sam to sleep undisturbed while we enjoyed a romantic meal downstairs. But dismissed the thought almost as quickly - I was a far-too-paranoid first-time mum.
We opted, instead, for room service. Desperate not to wake our sleeping tot with the clank of our plates, we slunk onto the plush, carpeted floor outside our room.
Our supper attracted a few amused glances but, satiated, we crept into bed, stuck in our headphones and settled in for a re-run of The Big Lebowski, the laptop shielded by the duvet to block out the light. All that remained of our holiday was to find a way to get my cumbersome new crockery back to Hong Kong.
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