“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.
Last month, I went on a week-long trip to Indochina with Ralph and Fritz, my friends from college. Still fresh out of university, we booked this trip on a whim, when we were still working on our first jobs.
Like any relationship built on desire rather than love, our first well-paying, cubicle jobs didn’t work out.
And so, unemployed clueless millennials that we were, our excitement for the trip, which we hastily and recklessly booked, was mingled with panic, and other times, despair.
But of course, the excitement (three countries! no parents! milking the essence of our youth!) overwhelmed the panic/despair. Eventually, we found ourselves jobbed and hopeful once more.
We arrived at Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam on September 13, Saturday, and spent the following day exploring the city.