We walk along a grand colonial building in Yangon as the city falls asleep. Me, Jan, and Kim. Yellow lampposts light the quiet streets. Vendors pack up their wares. The Shwedagon Pagoda looms like a bright but distant star.
These are our last moments in Burma; we are leaving before daylight. Continue reading
“Một! Hai! Ba!”
We chorused before draining our shot glasses together.
My father and I joined my mother and her coworkers’ picnic in Thac Ba Lake when we went to North Vietnam last November. On a cold Thursday morning, we piled into a boat and travelled to a little island in Thac Ba, where, hours later, we would all get tipsy from drinking too much rice wine. Continue reading
When I learned that the weather in Sapa dips to 10 degrees in winter, I was scared. Since I was 11 years old, I’ve nurtured a love-hate (but really, more hate) relationship with the cold.
Two weeks after my first trip to Malaysia, I typed notes on my phone. I mentioned “the egg-yolk sunrise peeking through KL’s skyscrapers” and “the odd feeling of seeing street signs that have Tagalog-sounding words on them.” Now when I think of that whirlwind trip to Kuala Lumpur, what I remember most is the hostel where I stayed.
Prior to our week-long adventure, my most vivid memories of Thailand were from Alex Garland’s “The Beach.” Perhaps you’re more familiar with the Danny Boyle film starring Leonardo Di Caprio. Needless to say, “The Beach” was a book that I loved: I read it in the span of a weekend and a homebound train ride. It’s a classic story about the pursuit of paradise. From the book, I took Thailand to be a hedonist’s haven of unspoilt nature and worldly pleasures.