Vietnam

Winter and I spent eight days in Phu Quoc, the so-called ‘Hawaii of Vietnam’—at least, that’s how it’s marketed. It’s also the only place in Vietnam where you can get a visa on arrival, a detail that speaks volumes about its role as a tourist playground rather than a genuine cultural destination. Now that I’ve left Vietnam, I can finally be honest: Phu Quoc is not the paradise it pretends to be.   Phu Quoc has incredible potential, but the first red flag appeared as soon as we arrived in ‘Sunset Town’—a bizarre recreation of Venice, complete with a replica of the Campanile di San Marco towering over the town square. A faux Italian city on a Vietnamese island wasn’t necessarily a dealbreaker, but the atmosphere was unsettling. The streets were eerily empty, with nearly 90 percent of the buildings abandoned, yet construction rumbled on, as if building more would somehow summon the missing people.    One of Phu Quoc’s biggest issues is plastic waste. Now, this isn’t unique to the island—Vietnam, and SouthEast Asia as a whole struggles with plastic pollution. But in Phu Quoc, the problem is particularly glaring. Take Sao Beach, for example, a place often advertised as one of the ‘most beautiful beaches in Asia.’ In reality, it felt more like a public landfill than a tropical paradise. Seeing the sheer amount of trash, I wanted to help, even in some small way. I spent hours searching for an organization or charity dedicated to cleaning up the island. Frustratingly, I found nothing. The closest thing was a group that had organized beach cleanups back in 2023, but they seemed to have disappeared. As a tourist, without a proper way to dispose of the waste or the right tools, organizing my own cleanup wasn’t realistic. The real issue isn’t just the plastic itself—many countries struggle with that—it’s the fact that in 2025, there appears to be no one even trying to solve it, despite the fact 16.5-20 tons of trash leaks into the environment DAILY. (about 87% is plastic waste).    On a more positive note, the Hòn Thơm Cable Car—officially the longest three-wire cable car in the world—was absolutely worth it. Floating high above the turquoise waters, it offered breathtaking panoramic views of Phu Quoc, Dừa and Roi Islets, and Hòn Thơm itself, stretching nearly five miles across the sea. Winter and I spent the day in Hòn Thơm at ‘Aquatopia,’ a water park clearly designed with foreign tourists in mind—particularly Russians. We had a blast—though, unfortunately, both of us ended up sick the next day. The water park itself was modern and well-maintained, but with admission prices equated to roughly an eighth of the average Vietnamese monthly wage for just a single day, it was clear this place wasn’t built for locals – albeit, it seemed to be a large employer.   Phu Quoc was an experience, and I’m glad we went. But if I’m being honest, it’s probably a place I’ll never return to—at least not without major changes. The island may have its moments, but I found myself missing the raw, chaotic energy of Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City—the places that felt alive, unpredictable, and unmistakably Vietnamese. In contrast, Phu Quoc felt like a plastic paradise, built more for tourists than for those seeking an authentic slice of Vietnam.

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

At the end of our first day in Hanoi, we immersed ourselves in one of Vietnam’s most enchanting cultural experiences—the Thang Long Water Puppet Theater. This mesmerizing art form, dating back over 1,000 years, originated in the Red River Delta, where villagers once performed with puppets over flooded rice paddies. Today, this tradition thrives at Thang Long, the only water puppet theater in Asia that runs performances year-round. Recognized by UNESCO as an intangible cultural heritage, the show brings Vietnam’s folklore to life with intricately carved wooden puppets dancing effortlessly over water, guided by hidden puppeteers. Accompanied by a live orchestra playing traditional Vietnamese instruments, the performance was a vibrant blend of storytelling, music, and artistry—truly a cultural delicacy to experience in Hanoi. These artists have perfected their craft with unwavering precision, turning each performance into a seamless spectacle. With six shows a day, each lasting just one hour, they bring 17 captivating scenes to life—every moment infused with centuries of tradition. From mythical dragons to village festivities, each act is a glimpse into Vietnam’s rich cultural tapestry, masterfully executed with rhythm, grace, and an almost hypnotic flow. The only drawback? The lack of etiquette from the audience—mostly Western tourists. Bright flashes from cameras lit up the theater despite clear no-flash signs, and at one point, a couple in front of us hoisted their child high in the air, bouncing them on their lap as the little one shouted loudly, completely ignored by their parents. It was a frustrating reminder of how some people seem oblivious to those around them, both fellow spectators and the dedicated performers on stage. That said, don’t let this deter you—the magic of the show far outweighs the distractions. If you’re in Hanoi, this experience should be at the top of your list.-John

My hands found John’s, gripping tightly, memories of recent news reels flashing across our minds as the plane seemingly hovered above the runway on its last descent. A pause that lasted for eternity. Then BANG! Laughter followed by, “Well, that was a bit of a rough landing.” I looked at my watch—10:30 pm. Wrangling our backpacks from the overhead compartment, we made our way down the aisle past the Japanese flight attendants wishing us “happy memories.”   Bleary-eyed, John and I found ourselves 20 people deep in line to see the border guard. 10:40 pm. 10:50. Finally, passports stamped. √ Baggage Claim Found. √ Customs? Not so much. After splitting up and securing our bags, we regrouped, confused. The exit was partially blocked by a dark, seemingly closed customs area where a young guard in a brown tailored uniform stood lackadaisically behind a desk. The group of travelers ahead of us trickled past him, unnoticed. “Should we just go?” I asked John. No one was checking visas. “I guess?” He said with uncertainty. Walking past the guard without so much as a glance from him, we exited the building.    A cacophony of honks and voices surrounded us as we stepped into the thick lukewarm air. “Do you want a taxi? Taxi? Hey, Miss, want a taxi?” I shook my head. John waved a “no” with his hand. We moved off to the side of the pickup area, away from the crowd. John took out his phone and ordered us a Grab (app like Uber, because Uber doesn’t work in Vietnam). A red Honda Civic pulled up to the curb in front of pillar 18. “This is us,” John said, opening the door to a pristine leather interior. As I slid into the backseat, I noticed a golden Buddha sitting on a throne of lotus leaves, watching me from the dashboard. The car smelled like cigarette smoke, clinging to the fabric. John and I shared a look of anticipation as the driver pulled out into the busy airport intersection, expertly navigating the crowd and narrowly missing a woman on a scooter. Hurray, we were off to the Chemi Noi Bai Airport Hotel.     After a comfy sleep, morning arrived too soon. We sat in big, yellow, high-backed chairs in Chemi Noi Bai Airport Hotel’s check-in area, waiting for our Grab driver to arrive to take us to our Airbnb. Beyond the colossal glass entrance, scooters zipped by. A woman in a puffy North Face jacket and pink gloves trundled past, navigating the muddy, gray road, carrying a bag of leaves on her back. Two identical sisters rode in the opposite direction—one, the passenger, engrossed in her phone, while the driver wore a blue surgical mask, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Both wore Adidas sweatpants.   Before we knew it, our driver had arrived. Quickly, we wrangled our luggage and went out to meet him. The driver, after tetrising three of our bags into his labrador-sized trunk, insisted on placing my backpack in the passenger seat (which had been scooted forward until it nearly touched the glove compartment). Our concierge closed the car door behind us.    Now, a brief preface before the next part of this blog post – I wanted to share with you our initial experience of a Grab ride in Vietnam, because it was unlike anything we had experienced before.  As John and I watched the countryside roll by, a symphony of honks interacted with our driver and his Mazda 3. Each beep served a purpose: “Hey, I’m passing you” (our driver to a scooter on our right), “You’re about to crash into us if you continue left” (from the car behind us), “I’m trying to turn” (from a massive semi in the middle of the intersection). Beep beep beep—“You go ahead.” Beep beep beep—“Thank you.” Keep in mind as you read this that these honks happened on and off during the entire car ride.   A black puppy, ribs visible, sniffed through trash on the roadside as we passed. Beyond it, rice paddies stretched out with workers in straw hats tending to their fields. A lone scarecrow-like figure, mirroring them in its own straw hat, stood motionless, keeping watch. Piles of garbage accumulated against a wire fence, followed by advertisements plastered on makeshift walls. A construction yard with towering cranes and scaffolding rose in contrast to a nearby graveyard, its tombstones crumbling into a sinkhole. Beyond that, a vast green field stretched by, dotted with tiny shacks.   The gray fog and pollution wrapped around our car like a toxic embrace. Bus stations, car repair shops, and—of all things—a massive pickleball court lined the road as our driver squeezed between a hoard of scooters. The high-rises we passed appeared to be mostly hotels, towering amongst the shops and residential buildings. More piles of trash passed by, some along the train tracks, scattered refuse between homes. Two schoolgirls in uniforms rode a scooter together, plush keychains dangling from the younger one’s backpack. Helmets here are unique—pink with cat ears, yellow and shaped like baseball caps.   Shacks clung to the side of overpasses. A line of thirteen buses—some abandoned and filled with trash, others seemingly just parked—sat under the same bridge. A pristine Range Rover dealership stood proudly, next to a row of crumbling buildings. Two dogs lounged in a yard. Amidst everything, palm trees and tropical plants I’d only ever seen in greenhouses back home thrived.   I blinked, and a baseball field-sized stretch of land overflowing with plastic pallets dipped in and out of view. Blink. More shops, wedged between residential buildings, their walls patched together with metal roofing. Blink. A hundred semi-trucks parked in neat rows, their shipping containers stacked separately. A man without a helmet sat  on his scooter, phone pressed to his ear as traffic whizzed by. Blink. A pond of murky brown water, shacks teetering on its edge. Palm trees lined the highway, reminding me of Hollywood Boulevard. Women