Welcome one and all! Let me take you on a little adventure to an international clinic in Phu Quoc. Pull up a chair and grab some popcorn, because kiddos, this was one heck of a trip.   John and I recently visited a water park—which I’ve covered at length in another blog post. Two days later, I woke up to the sound of birds chirping outside our 15th-floor window—and a surprise: my throat was swollen, covered in white spots, and I had a fever. A fun little gift from the universe! After an eventful call with my insurance for a guarantee of payment—shoutout to Kayla from Pennsylvania—we booked a Grab to VinMec Phu Quoc International Hospital. The entire ride, my nose ran like a faucet under my mask, turning into a comedy sketch as I watched the countryside pass by while my upper lip got progressively wetter. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any tissues.   We arrived at the hospital at 3 p.m. Our driver, who had been oddly insistent that we call him when we were done, pulled up to the bay doors like our personal ambulance service. He originally thought we were Russian and, using Google Translate, asked in Russian if he could charge us for both trips. We explained (via John’s translation app in Vietnamese) that we had no idea how long the visit would take—maybe an hour, maybe five. Despite this, he had John take a picture of his WhatsApp number. It all felt a little sketchy, so we decided against contacting him later.   With a quick “thank you, buh-bye,” we slid out of the car and stepped through the automatic hospital doors. The entrance was eerily quiet. The building sat just off the main road, with an overhang reminiscent of a carriage bay—only here, it functioned as a small ambulance bay. Inside, we found an open-plan hospital layout. The waiting room seamlessly connected to two hallways: one leading to patient rooms labeled “Procedure Room,” “Triage Room,” “Isolation Room,” and “High Care Room,” while the other contained trauma beds and curtained-off emergency room wards. The front desk resembled that of a dentist’s office—no protective glass, just a wrap-around desk cluttered with papers, a printer, and a water cooler. The waiting area featured a row of high-backed benches and additional seating behind them. Off to the side, a patient-accessible water cooler lived—a necessity since the tap water here is undrinkable due to high levels of heavy metals and a lack of large-scale filtration. We’ve been relying on 5-liter bottled water, which is cheap but, unfortunately, also single-use plastic. There’s nothing like the lack of something to make you appreciate what you had, and for me that’s been well water.   John took a seat while I approached the unoccupied front desk attendant to check in. She greeted me with, “What is your problem?” I thought, Lady, so many things. But specifically today? “I’m sick, and I don’t know with what—I need a general consultation.” She handed me paperwork to fill out, but the pens were attached to the desk, so I had to complete while she watched me the whole time. Since my handwriting was a mess, she rewrote my email, asking for clarification on a few letters. I mentioned that my insurance had sent a guarantee of payment ahead of time, and she replied, “Okay, we check for you. Sit down. Wait for doctor.”   So, I did. I plopped down on the cushioned bench to watch the action as I waited for my name to be called. To my right sat a Russian father and his daughter, who looked like they’d been there for a while—the daughter curled up against him, her little feet tucked onto the bench. Behind me, a family spoke loudly in Russian on their phones. This became a theme—people speaking loudly to their insurance companies in various languages. As one of the largest international clinics on the island, VinMec attracts travelers from all over.   The waiting room and hospital in general were a swirl of activity. Through the archway to the “Procedure Room,” a few metal chairs lined the space, along with one lone office swivel chair. A blonde woman sat in it, her husband standing beside her, both waiting for something. Meanwhile, three individuals speaking Chinese continuously walked from the ward to the long-term room, outside, and back again. A tall man in a white shirt, whose voice resembled Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s in Moana, paced while talking urgently on his phone. A woman in sweats, sunglasses, and a sparkling handbag meandered the same route, occasionally stopping to speak with him. The way she paced reminded me of a robot, walking the same path it was programmed to, with no deviations.    A hospital worker in blue scrubs carried a clear box filled with blood collection tubes, disappearing around corners and reappearing again like a wandering NPC in a video game. Meanwhile, a man in his late 20s sat on a drape-covered hospital bed in the procedure room, a white chux pad under him, while his three friends joked and laughed. I could hear them from the waiting room as their door was wide open. A nurse went into the room and started bandaging some wound on the patient’s upper arm. Behind me, the constant opening and closing of the sliding entrance doors announced the arrival of new patients and friends of current ones, all navigating their own mini-dramas.   Then came my favorite moment. The blonde woman in the swivel chair suddenly perked up when a doctor in a white coat approached with x-rays in hand. In full view of the waiting room, he announced, “Yes, broken. You wait six days to be seen?!” Then he motioned her toward the triage room, where he left her to sit on a hospital bed, keeping the door open. She held her x-rays up to the fluorescent light, squinting to see the break for herself. She stayed like this for a good 20

Good morning, Vietnam!   Sunlight streamed through our window this morning, casting a spotlight on my green roller bag—almost as if the universe itself was nudging us to get up and get moving. As I rolled out of bed, the distant calls of birds and the occasional honk of a motorbike reminded me we had a day of exploration ahead of us. From the kitchen, John called out, reminding me not to forget my bathing suit. We were heading to a waterpark on a neighboring island, but as we’d soon discover, forgetting them wouldn’t be a disaster—both the entrance and exit gift shops sold replacements. Gotta provide what the tourists need, y’a know?   Our Airbnb sits on a hill overlooking the town, making our balcony the perfect vantage point for people-watching. From as far as the ocean’s horizon line to the Bavarian-style brewery two blocks down, we’ve had a front-row seat to the daily rhythm of this recreated Mediterranean town. Watching scooters zip off to unknown destinations, construction workers pacing across rooftops, and tourists navigating the narrow streets always gives me a strange feeling—catching glimpses into strangers’ lives without them ever knowing I existed. It feels oddly intimate, witnessing their everyday moments from afar. It made me wonder—how many times has someone watched me in the same way?     I stepped onto the balcony, smiling a little as I watched the cable cars traveling steadily along their course. With the sunlight reflecting off the glass, they looked empty, much like the houses scattered around Sunset Town. But the line of tour buses parked outside the gondola station told a different story—there were plenty of people inside, hidden from view. Once we made our way down to the cable car entrance inside the recreated Colosseum, bought our tickets, and boarded, we would become those hidden figures ourselves—gliding silently above the town, unseen yet watching. With John sporting his man purse (post-publishing editing request via John: man satchel) and me in my blue checkered dress—the one I had bought from a local seamstress at an outdoor market in Ho Chi Minh—we made our way down the hill to buy our cable car tickets. When we arrived, the ticket prices flashed on a screen, rotating between different offerings: Kiss of the Sea, Mango Buffet, Cable Car… John turned to me, his confusion evident.   “I have no idea what any of this means,” he admitted, staring at the screen. “Me neither,” I said, squinting at the listings. “There are different tiers it seems? Gold, Platinum… It looks like there’s only a 50 dong difference between them.” As the couple ahead of us completed their purchase and stepped away, we took our place at the ticket window. “Two cable car tickets, please,” John said. The ticket attendant held up two fingers, confirming, then nodded. “700,000 dong,” she said, gesturing to a sign taped to the window. “For one?” John asked, confused. We had checked the website earlier, and it had listed 650,000. “Yes, one. Gold package,” she replied briskly, eager to keep the line moving. John glanced back at the screen, still trying to decode the ticket tiers—but everything was written in Vietnamese. “Okay I guess, two tickets,” he replied, “what does that include?” “Cable car, there and back. Water park. Something (that sounded like a buffet),” she said before confirming, “1,400,000.” John handed her 14 green 100,000 dong bills, each adorned with images of Ho Chi Minh—a testament to how deeply he is revered. With a zzzt-zzzt, the ticket printer pushed out two white tickets with QR codes in the top right-hand corner. “Don’t lose,” she said, “tickets to waterpark too.” And with that, she waved us on.   With a smooth passage through the security checkpoint, we stepped into the wooden cable car station. Each gondola could hold up to 30 people—easily the largest I’d ever seen. The massive bullwheel rotated our cabin slowly along the track, guiding it into the center of the loading area. I felt a flicker of nervousness. I’ve ridden gondolas at least forty times in my life, yet that brief, heart-pounding window—the moment between stepping inside and the doors sliding shut—always gets me. Those final seconds before the gondola makes its first thrilling push off the platform sends a rush of excitement and nervous tingles through me. What if I hesitate? What if I mistime my step and get stuck? But there’s no room for second-guessing. You have to push forward and take that step onto the car—because the ride is always worth it.   John and I chose the wooden bench along the side of the gondola, facing the direction of travel. A Russian couple occupied the middle, seated back-to-back on the central benches, while another Russian man sat in the far corner, gripping his phone for dear life. Phu Quoc has so many Russian tourists thanks to the 30-day visa-free policy that John and I started getting pretty good at guessing who was Russian—usually by their serious expressions. They rarely smiled, unless they were asking someone to take their photo. Each time the gondola dipped or passed over a support pillar, the solo Russian man muttered, “uh oh,” and his eyes widened just a little more. Meanwhile, the couple let out small, playful “whooooooop” sounds, clearly enjoying the belly-lurching sensation. John and I spent the ride taking in the unbelievable views from all four glass walls— passing over islands, pearl farms, fishing boats, fish farms, small villages, and stretches of ocean. Midway through, a light sprinkle began to fall, even though the sky had been clear when we boarded. The patter of rain on the glass gave the ride a cosy feeling, in the best possible way.   When we arrived at the cable car station on Sun World Hon Thom Nature Park, the island at the end of the line, the number of tourists had noticeably increased. Tour groups, led by local Vietnamese guides holding brightly colored flags, attempted to walk in single file toward the waterpark. Families pulled their strollers off to

Over 8 billion people eat, speak, laugh, cry, and hold conflicting ideas about what matters. At any moment, a baby is being born, a grandmother is passing away. Someone is feeling lonely, lost, or fleeing for their life in a war zone. In the midst of it all, most of us must decide what to do with our hands— hands that feed us, comfort the sick, swat away mosquitoes. These are tools of kindness or violence.   In the midst of the Vietnam War, a tall blond American soldier stood on the battlefield, expressionless. With his left hand, he’d held up the bloodied remnants of a Vietnamese man—his body blasted apart, leaving only a head, an arm, and loose skin barely holding it all together. The soldier gripped the Vietnamese man by his chest skin, his head lolling back, arm dangling. He held him up as if it was an everyday thing to do, seemingly indifferent to his humanity. I guess that’s why people say, “They’ve got blood on their hands.” The photographer who used his to take this picture documented a fleeting moment that could have been lost to time. Among the 125 images displayed in the War Crimes exhibit in War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City, I couldn’t look away from this one. It captured the sheer horror of war, and the capacity for human cruelty. A man from my own country holding up the mangled remains of another human wasn’t on my bingo card for 2025. It is still burned into my brain.   I came to this museum because I believe in trying to see the full picture of historical events, not just what one government wants its citizens know (mine or otherwise). With nine permanent exhibits and various special collections, this museum spans three floors. Previous iterations of this museum were called the Exhibition House for U.S. and Puppet Crimes and the Exhibition House for Crimes of War and Aggression. Outside the entrance, visitors are encouraged to walk amongst reclaimed military aircraft, vehicles, weapons, and bombs from the war. In a separate corner, bombs were laid out in piles and visitors could learn more about each type by pressing buttons on a panel. It included the biggest bomb I’ve ever seen, a 15,000 lb BLU-82, used to clear landing zones (among other things).   Then I went inside the building to look at the special exhibit: Stories of Anti-War Badges. Buttons, newspaper clippings, and protest memorabilia from the U.S. were displayed, all documenting opposition to the war. From American students killed by police during the Kent State and Jackson State protests, to Ivy League professors petitioning the government to end the violence, they had it all. This section also delved into global anti-war protests, including those in Cuba, but here was no mention of anti-war sentiment in Vietnam itself at the time. Not unexpected, given how both Ho Chi Minh’s government in the North and Ngo Dinh Diem’s in the South kept tight control over internal political expression. The pervasive nature of the war and nationalistic attitudes meant that even if there was interest, organizing large-scale protests in Vietnam would have been nearly impossible.   After a bit of wandering, I went upstairs to the next exhibit: War Crimes. There was a somber hush amongst the visitors in this room as they looked at pictures and video footage portraying brutal inhumane acts of war. Information plaques under pictures told the stories of notable events, like U.S. Senator Bob Kerrey’s involvement in the Thanh Phong massacre in 1969: In the dead of night, he and his Navy SEAL unit mutilated and killed Vietnamese civilians, including children. A cement vat, about the size of a refrigerator, stood beside a photo showing two of the children who had hidden in it during the attack. 30 years later, Kerrey admitted that civilians were killed but denied personally executing anyone. In his words, “We fired, and we continued to fire. It is not something I’m proud of.” There are conflicting eye-witness accounts of what happened that night, but regardless, the photo of the two girls inside the tank exists, as well as photos of dead Vietnamese citizens from the morning after.   Other images showed similarly brutal moments: U.S. soldiers dragging suspected Viet Cong fighters behind a tank, piles of bodies along empty roads, soldiers posing with severed heads – bodies lying just feet away. There was no censorship, just a room full of graphic pictures depicting American war crimes. Notably, there were no photographs of the Hue Massacre, where the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) and Viet Cong executed between 2,800 and 6,000 South Vietnamese civilians suspected of being loyal to the Saigon government. No mention of the mistreatment of South Vietnamese and American POWs, including brutal beatings, starvation, forced labor, and psychological torture. No coverage of the Viet Cong’s terror tactics, like bombings of civilian areas in Saigon and other cities.    Nearby there was the Requiem Exhibition, dedicated to remembering Vietnam war photographers, some of whom were killed or went missing. The bravery of these war photographers (and war photographers in general) cannot be overstated. This section was a testament to the courage of photographers, coming from all over the world to document important moments during the war, as well as a memorial for them. Clippings from US newspapers about these photographers decorated the walls, placed next to copies of their photographs. Due to the invention of the television, this was the first war that Americans could follow along with at home not just via newspaper. To demonstrate the power of this news source, videos shot by war photographers were also displayed around the room.    Next, the Historical Truths collection provided context to the war. Newspaper clippings, images, and U.S. soldiers’ testimonies covered the walls, providing a broader (but not complete) picture of the war’s origins. For those who didn’t live through these events, here’s a simplistic summary of what happened: The U.S. initially supported South

In the hustle and bustle of downtown Hanoi, our two little foreigner selves had managed to somehow find our way to the correct street. We’d set out for a day of exploration in the city, starting with the Temple of Literature. Nestled in the heart of Hanoi, all 580,000 square feet of this walled temple are dedicated to Confucius, past sages, and scholars. Though it sounds like it would be a giant library, the purpose of this structure was more academic in nature. Built in 1070 by Emperor Ly Thanh Tong, the temple originally housed the Imperial Academy—Vietnam’s first national university. Starting in 1076, male members of the royal family, wealthy landowners, and nobles studied and took exams there until the university was relocated to Hue in 1779. To put that in perspective, in 1076, William the Conqueror was alive and doing his thing—conquering, being king, all that. Fast forward 703 years to 1779, and you’d find America deep in the Revolutionary War. Not to state the obvious, but that’s quite a lifespan for a university. Today, the temple is open to the public for a small fee, where locals and tourists alike can walk the grounds. If inclined, visitors can also pray to Confucius at any of the shrines, or leave offerings. Once you walk through the entrance gate, the path diverges into three stone walkways, reserved for different social classes. Back in the day, only monarchs could walk on the middle path. John and I, the rebels that we are, decided to walk a bit on the middle path – scandalous. We wandered past a large rectangular pool filled with green water that was probably once pristinely clear. The air was particularly noxious that day, so I wore masks the entire time. Fun fact: Hanoi’s air quality can sometimes reach 179—compared to the healthy range of 0-50. Another fun fact: as of 2023, Hanoi had 7.8 million (mostly gas-powered) registered vehicles for a population of just over 8 million. Quite lovely. Anyways, when the pollution is especially bad, the smell of exhaust vanishes if you wear an N95 – so hot tip folks, bring your masks or purchase some when you come to Hanoi. After staring at the green water for a bit, we made our way into the next courtyard. The temple has five courtyards in all. The first two were created to be tranquil spaces where scholars could roam without the worry or stress of their studies. Big banyan trees dotted the grounds here, and you could almost see how lush and green these spaces must have looked. The third courtyard has a massive rectangular pool called the Thien Quang Well, where over 50 sparkly koi fish live. When we looked down into the pool, most of the koi were flopping over each other in a 2’ by 2’ section. I watched as a local reached his arm over the side of the well and wiggled his fingers above the koi. He didn’t have food, and yet the koi were clamoring to the spot where he was wiggling his fingers. It felt like I was witnessing a type of sorcery, but I’m guessing they were just fed – but who knows, maybe magic does exist? In this area, we also found the revered blue stone steles: national holy animal sculptures (mostly turtles) with tombstone-like tablets rising from their backs. Each stele contains the names and birthplaces of the 1,307 graduates of the grueling royal exams. The farther down the row of steles you looked, the shape and size of the turtles change representing the passage of time.  The fourth and fifth courtyards contain indoor spaces dedicated to Confucius shrines and worship. A large black stone statue of Chu Van An, a rector of the academy, sat in the final part of the temple. Here, many visitors stopped to pray, briefly pressing their hands together and bowing their heads in respect. Beautiful red wooden beams adorned with golden writing were found all throughout this room. Among the offerings left behind at Chu Van An’s shrine, we noticed someone left an entire six-pack of Red Bull—along with fruit piles, Vietnamese dong (official currency), and lanterns. The silence of those in prayer mixed with people were walking around taking pictures of the shrine was slightly uncomfortable. It was unclear what the proper protocol was for taking pictures, though pictures weren’t actively discouraged in any part of the temple. I guess’s how it goes when a temple is acting as both an active place of worship and a tourist attraction. There were also tourists who brought professional cameras for photo shoots in the temple, so it was a bit of a mix.  After the temple, John and I walked for about 10 minutes, dodging scooters, looking out for trash piles on the sidewalks, and meandering around local street food carts, until we arrived at Train Street. Even though it’s not a shopping district for model trains (big bummer honestly), it was still very cool. Train Street is a stretch of restaurants and shops that sandwich a functioning train track. Here, restaurant owners openly encourage customers to come sit and eat, by waving them over. Bright lights, lanterns, and quirky names like “Anna Coffee” decorate the storefronts. In front of the restaurants are their seating areas, right up against the track. While diners enjoy their meals (which are all cooked at shared kitchens as there’s not enough space in every restaurant), vendors walk up and down selling fruit, cigarettes, and pop-up greeting cards.  At different times, a train does runs through the area, which is a big draw for tourists (like us!). About 15 minutes before it arrives, restaurant owners begin moving tables and chairs out of harm’s way—though only far enough that visitors won’t get hit as they watch the train go by. Police and security also walk the tracks, calling for people to “get back.” Then, once the train whistle blows, everyone cranes their necks to get their