Vietnam

Vietnam hit differently from what I expected. Ho Chi Minh City — Saigon, as everyone still calls it — moves at a pace that doesn't let you stop and think. The river at night with Landmark 81 blazing purple above the waterline, the mopeds threading past century-old pagodas in the shadow of glass towers: nothing quite sits still long enough to feel like it belongs to only one era.

I kept eating. That's the honest truth of the trip. A bowl of pho at a place with a hand-painted mural on the wall, sugarcane juice with ice going watery in the heat, a bamboo platter of herbs and fried things at a street stall — every meal felt like the point of being there, not a break between the actual sights. The food is precise in a way that sneaks up on you: every herb placed for a reason, the broth tasted every few minutes.

The harder parts didn't disappear. Walking through the War Remnants Museum and standing next to those old U.S. Air Force planes in the open courtyard — the camouflage paint faded, the serial numbers still readable — that weight stays with you through the rest of the day. Vietnam carries its past right on the surface and doesn't apologise for it, which I respect. By the time I left I felt like I'd only just started to understand what the country actually is.