Saying Goodbye to Laos

Champasak & Wat Phu

Our final few stops in Laos brought us back to the waters of the Mekong. We arrived in Champasak by boat, and meandered our way through the sleepy town, looking for a guesthouse along the side of the road fronting the river (reminiscent of Muang Ngoy). In the nearly three days we spent in Champasak, my memory is mostly of gazing out at that water. The river is wide here and there is an infinite calm associated with the flat horizon it creates.

Champasak sees most of its tourist draw from the ruins at Wat Phu, an ancient Khmer religious complex which stretches 1,400m up the Phu Pasak mountain range. The name translates to ‘temple-mountain’ and it definitely feels like that. The steps alone are gigantic, making you feel as if you’re climbing to another realm; and indeed, the notion is that it should be difficult for a mortal to reach the gods. We didn’t find the structures to be quite as compelling as the site itself, with its mysterious airs and the ever-changing perspective as you climb, not to mention the sweeping views of the surrounding area once you reach the summit. The site is dotted with countless flowering frangipani trees, the Lao national flower, and swept us up in the swelling emotion of national pride for a country we had truly come to love.

Si Phan Don

Si Phan Don is at the southernmost tip of Laos, right near the border with Cambodia, and is also know by its translation: ‘four thousand islands’. The Mekong spans even wider down here with islands big and small dotting the water like a splatter paint picture. We arrived by boat again, choosing to stay on Don Det (map here), one of two islands equipped with tourist accommodations. There are so many accommodations, in fact, that it’s a bit overwhelming figuring out which is the right one for you. But despite the mid-day heat, we stumbled our way into a private duplex bungalow on the sunset side of the island for $5/night. It was a sweet spot and one we called home for a full week; our longest stay yet in any one place!

This final week in Laos was like one long swan song. We sat on the beach, we rode bikes, we read, we watched the sunset. But it also presented new challenges to us as travelers, like when I came down with a nasty bout of food poisoning, and then The Hubs followed suit just a few nights later. There was something primitive about the whole experience, and not just because the plumbing in Laos never exactly instilled confidence. It stripped away all the distractions of our travel, forcing us to focus on our immediate needs and meet them. It made us rest finally! But the loveliest part – if I can say that about a double-header of food poisoning – was that it brought us closer together. Over the less-than-pleasant 72-hour period, we danced this symbiotic dance between patient and caregiver, and I couldn’t help feeling incredibly grateful in the face of all that vulnerability. We celebrated 10 years together on Don Det, just about the same time time we were both eating solid foods again – a cause for twice the celebration – and a wonderful way to end our six weeks in Laos.

I’ll leave off with some highlights from all those sunsets we caught off our balcony.

Back to Laos: Pakse & The Southern Swing

It’s Been Awhile Since I Talked About Food

We spent two weeks wending our way to the southernmost tip of Laos, hitting most of the small towns along the way, and thus, facing the inevitable feelings of not liking everywhere we went. While northern Laos still feels largely untouched by tourism, the south has had folks tromping through for a few decades now and has had time to catch up. Restaurants serving ‘western’ food became the norm and not exactly what I’d deem haute cuisine. And so it’s for good reason that I haven’t been waxing poetic about the cuisine of late.

Until we hit Pakse. Now Pakse is not exactly a charming riverfront town. In fact, it is a town that feels decidedly over-touristed. It is the jumping off point for a lot of other tourist activities and has thus sprung up countless hotels and dozens of average-fare restaurants lining a main drag; but what it delivers in quantity, it lacks in quality. It simply lacks heart. But it is here that we discovered Mengke Noodle House, tucked under a small awning, and though listed in the trusty Lonely Planet, somehow never populated by other tourists. We nestled in amongst the locals for breakfast one morning, and got served up what is perhaps the best bowl of pho I have ever had the pleasure of eating. Until I ate it again. And then again. And then maybe even again. (I’m not sure, because I lost count after the third bowl.)

Mengke’s specialty was duck pho, and if you played it like a local, you knew to order it with their homemade egg noodles instead of the rice noodles. The dish was rustic with round, dark flavors; but like any good pho, it was still light. Buoyant, almost. I don’t usually like duck, finding it overly fatty or chewy most of the time, but this was nothing like that. Someone must have lovingly stoked a fire through the night to keep this meat simmering gently, because it was the most tender duck I had ever eaten. The flavors of the broth permeated the meat perfectly, creating a lovely harmony of meatiness with hints of five spice and a mysterious touch of cardamom. The noodles completed the triangle: eggy-yellow and curly like Ramen noodles, but thicker and with a satisfying, toothsome bite. We never figured out the owner’s origins. The place had a Vietnamese vibe, with Vietnamese-style coffee and tea, but the noodles could have been Chinese. Perhaps it was the drab surroundings of Pakse that made Mengke stand out like a shining beacon of taste bud delight. But I think it was just damn good.

The Southern Swing

The Southern Swing is another motobike trip through rural Laos that can be easily done in two to five days. It skirts up, over, and around the Bolaven Plateau, an area that has recently seen an influx of coffee growing plantations, but has been an important agricultural region since the French introduced it in the early 20th century. It also enjoys ever so slightly higher altitudes, and thus, cooler temperatures. A welcome change from the hotter and hotter temperatures we’d been seeing as we worked our way south. The motobike trip felt like it had a slightly less epic vibe than The Loop, what with not renting from Mr. Ku’s and not having a Log Book to flip through, plus the better quality of roads. It made us feel as though we had graduated to a more ‘grown up’ experience. And, in actuality, I think we had. The journey itself was fairly uneventful: we didn’t need to get anything repaired along the way; we were pretty responsible about switching drivers regularly to stave off arm- and butt-related fatigue; and we were way better at quick downshifts on the harder mountain climbs. We were simply more comfortable. The pictures from this trip were subsequently much more experimental, and deserve to be showcased, as such. They tell the story better, too.

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Elephants of Tad Lo

Did I say The Southern Swing was uneventful? That was mostly true except for the all-but-transcendental experience of meeting and riding the elephants at Tad Lo Lodge. The Hubs was determined to find this place that was known to have three gentle female elephants, and though I gave up and went back to our guesthouse, he persevered! Seriously, when does that man not come through? He returned, triumphant, and whisked me off to see the elephants for what turned out to be their afternoon bath time. I felt like I was watching the live-action version of that Sesame Street episode where you get to see the elephant getting its bath at the zoo. It helped that there were dozens of local kids there using the river as a swimming hole, and who happily vacated to watch the bashfully graceful beasts as they were led to their watery task.

We returned the following morning to take a ride on one of the elephants which left my cheeks aching from the maniacally wide grin I maintained throughout. The ride lasted about an hour and took us across a river, through the jungle, and into a small village before looping back again. The mahout, or elephant driver, rode on the elephant’s neck while we were atop a bench mounted to her back. We had to get used to the lilt back and forth with each of her loping steps, but we were on a freaking elephant, so we adapted. As was often the case in Laos, the language barrier was too significant to ask many questions, but just spending time with the elephants proved to be as instructive as it was mesmerizing. Their size and strength would be impressive on their own, but combined with their curious intellect and recognizable intelligence, I think I may have myself a new favorite animal. (Shh… No one tell the goats.) It was pure joy to watch their meandering trunks as they explored their surroundings or to gaze into one of their knowing eyes, framed by those impressively long lashes.

We pulled ourselves away eventually – the road ahead calling to us – but what incredible creatures! And the further out we get from the experience, the more it feels like such an incredible privilege.

Change of Plans

It’s been awhile since my last update, and we’ve done a bunch of travel since then (for which I will continue to write posts), but it’s now two countries and two motobike trips later… and we are going home. Met with the downside of motobike travel, The Hubs was off running a few errands and was hit by a couple of college students on another motobike. He got knocked off the bike, but thankfully, his injuries are minimal compared to what they could have been. A few contusions and a minor fracture will keep him on crutches for the better part of the next few months, and so we are making a return to California for him to convalesce and us to reassess.

The original plan was to be on the road for about six months and then check in with ourselves (and our finances) and see where our adventure would take us from there, be it home or onto another continent. But we’ve been handed a different opportunity for this reflective time. A hiatus, if you will. It’s funny how life can change in an instant.

It’s been an exhausting week dealing with the logistics of three hospitals, two insurance companies, and the canceling/changing/making of travel plans to accommodate a man who was already too big for most things Asian. But if these are our biggest worries, I can handle that. I can handle a lot more, actually, so long as The Hubs is okay; a fact for which I continue to feel so incredibly grateful. That and the unbelievable kindness and generosity of the Thai people who have helped us along the way and often in the face of significant language barriers.

The Loop (a.k.a., Our Motorcycle Diaries)

Prologue

Before we left on this trip, we said there were certain things we would never do, and renting a motorbike was definitely high on that list. How irresponsible would that be? I don’t even know how to talk to people who do that. And yet, we did. For those of you who know us well, you know how we can talk in sweeping absolutes and then one day, suddenly and inexplicably, change camps. This was one of those times. Our motorbike trip – or to use the local lingo, ‘motobike’ trip – was such a crowning achievement for us as travelers, as partners, and as human beings that I don’t begin to remember why I thought this was a bad idea in the first place. I mean, of course I do, and I think it has something to do with dead-in-a-ditch-somewhere, but we’re not, so it’s all okay. And people who don’t rent ‘motobikes’? I don’t even know how to talk to those people.

(Sorry, Mom and Dad.)

Things to Know about The Loop

How long is it? The Loop is a 450km loop leaving from Tha Khaek. You should give yourself four days and three nights.

Which way should I go? It is best done counterclockwise – or as the Brits call it, anticlockwise.

Where should I rent my bike? Only one right answer: Mr. Ku’s. He keeps his bikes tuned well for the roads and he is responsible for this stellar map of The Loop which will be indispensable on your travels. Better yet, he instills confidence in even the most beginnerest of beginner motobike riders. Also, he is available by cell any time of day to give you advice should anything go awry. He’s basically your mom.

Wait, I still have lots of questions?! First of all, get over yourself. Best thing to do is to show up in Tha Khaek, crash at the Thakhek Travel Lodge, and thumb your way through something called ‘The Log’ which is a big scrapbook of people’s recommendations and experiences doing The Loop. It’s super helpful and also funny. You will find yourself conveniently located next door to Mr. Ku’s rental office. Perfecto!

Getting Started + Learning to Ride

And we did just that. We made our way to the Travel Lodge, stowed our bags in their storage room, flipped through ‘The Log’ until we felt confident enough without feeling confused, and before we lost our nerve, we tucked in next door and asked to see Mr. Ku. Only he wasn’t there. You see, Mr. Ku doesn’t just wait around for folks like us. There is a grown-ass man whose sole job it is to sit in a folding chair outside Mr. Ku’s office and call him on his cell phone when people are looking to rent a bike. Seriously. That’s his only job. 15 minutes later, the Big Ku rolls up: cool, confident, and ready to rent us Lucky Number Eight. He walks us through the rental agreement and then whips out his map. I love watching people do things they’ve done a thousand times before. All those little red marks on the map? Those are his annotations that he writes in as he gives us his spiel, confirming things we’d already deduced, like which was the right way to go around, and how many days to spend, but also giving us pitch-perfect information on things like when to leave each day, where to spend the night, how long various legs would take, and when we’d lose the light in the afternoon as we drove through various valleys.

Then came the bike lesson. Now, I’ve never even ridden on the back of a motobike, never mind actually driving one. And moreover, I don’t know how to drive a manual transmission. It was clear to me that I would not be the one receiving the lesson from Mr. Ku. Too much was at stake. And so The Hubs stepped up and got the lesson, which included learning how to turn it on, learning how to shift the gears and how to brake, and then learning where Mr. Ku’s phone number was printed on the front of the bike. Smooth as ice, Mr. Ku drove down the driveway and back with The Hubs clinging onto the rear. Then, herky jerkily, The Hubs drove himself down the driveway and back. Aaaaaaand… lesson complete. We suited up with our little day packs and our helmets (we always wore our helmets) and set off into traffic. And let me tell you, The Hubs was awesome. He was amazing. It was so impressive watching him tackle this new thing and learn it, getting better by the kilometer, the gear shifts getting smoother. And I didn’t flinch! Or at least not verbally, too much, and thankfully he couldn’t see my face in the side view mirror.

Once we were underway, we dipped onto a quieter side road and The Hubs taught me to drive a motobike. I learned how to drive a motobike! He was patient and encouraging and never once condescending. We were doing this because we could do this and we were doing it together. That meant we were both going to be drivers and we were both going to be passengers. It was all like one big trust fall. Cheesy, yes, but that’s honestly how it felt. We had to trust each other to do this successfully.

Freedoms of the Open Road

Getting out onto the open road was so freeing! Need a bathroom break? Pull over whenever you want. Hungry? We brought some snacks. Need lunch? Oh, that might get a bit more interesting. How do you figure out what’s a restaurant when you’re suddenly not in a touristy area and nothing’s in English? The answer is somewhere between trial and error and testing out your charade skills. After a few stops, we found a place that was willing to sell us a plate of something, and with the help of a phrase book, we managed to communicate that we would like something with chicken. The rest was up to them. Thankfully, we knew the drill for a truly local joint: always use the outdoor sink to wash up before and after your meal. And after a few hours on a motobike, you better believe I was ready to wash the dust off just about every bit of exposed skin.

At some point that first afternoon, the pavement ran out, and I dutifully handed over the handle-bars. I could drive a motobike, sure, but it wasn’t clear how sharp my learning curve would be with new road material. And so The Hubs had yet another opportunity to shine that day. What a guy, truly. This is one of those times you could most decidedly argue that video games helped develop necessary life skills. The road conditions were crap. It was mostly packed gravel, but the potholes were so frequent at times that it wasn’t clear where one was supposed to drive. Since we never made it much above about 15mph, we had a good response time when a pothole snuck up on us, and it allowed us to take in the glory of our surroundings, too.

The last bit of driving that day was a stark contrast: on one side lush jungle, and on the other massive deforestation and flooding caused by a new dam. Hundreds of people were displaced by the flooding, and we found ourselves driving by newly-built ‘healthy villages’ which had a deserted and eerily-crisp feel to them. And yet the newly created lake was breathtaking, and we struggled with the odd conundrum that water is always beautiful, even when it’s for environmentally questionable reasons.

Petanque + Bad Road + Shock Repair

That first night, our spirits ran high, elated with the day’s success. As we pulled into our guesthouse, we spotted the petanque court right away, and it wasn’t long before we were out there for a game. The staff at this place was super friendly and included a crew of local men who seemed to be renting out a few of the bungalows on more of a longterm loan sort of arrangement. They took a keen interest in our game, heckling The Hubs when he started to lose, and pouring me small glasses of beer to help improve my throws. By the time we’d finished, we’d been taken into the fold, and were invited to join them for beers and home made bar snacks of banana chips and roasted pumpkin seeds. Despite a significant language barrier, their hospitality and overwhelmingly generous natures shined through.

The next morning, we set off early for what we knew would be another challenging bit of road. What we thought had been crap conditions the day before seemed like fresh asphalt in comparison to what we faced this morning. As many potholes but with much bigger rocks and gravel filling in the road, and curvier, and more hills. Up, down, around, it didn’t seem to get any better, and then… we lost the ability to drive straight. It’s true. Our intense and awesome road trip had cracked one of our front shocks, and Lucky Number Eight’s front wheel was now coming out from the handlebars at an unhealthy angle.

What happened next felt like it was out of an indie movie. The mechanic’s shop is part general store and part family home. The mother is out front pounding her laundry while children run around playing. Her eldest son – probably somewhere near our age – wheels our bike in and has the whole front section taken apart in a few quick minutes. We watch in awe over the next twenty as he busies himself tightening and re-tightening things, putting it all back together but better. We were wrong – the bike’s not really broken – we’d just loosened things riding on all that rough road. The kindest moment in all of Laos is as he’s handing it off to us, steadily refusing payment for his time. It’s only after The Hubs presses him that he accepts a meager square of chocolate as thanks.

And yet… Five feet out the door, we realize Lucky Number Eight is still crooked. Turns out we know more about motobikes than we thought. The shock is cracked. Irreparably. (Is it ever reparable?) And the next hour is spent sitting in the dust as our new friend replaces it. A whopping $20 is all it costs. But this was all still part of the trust fall, right? We were succeeding in connecting with the locals – through thick and thin, no less. That’s what this trip had become.

Konglor Cave

This is no ordinary cave. Our last day on the road included a detour to get to this 7.5 km long limestone tunnel formed by the Nam Hinboun river. Although it was a generally less bat-swooping experience than I had hoped, riding through this tunnel was incredible. It’s completely dark inside, and each boat requires two boatmen: one to steer and one to help push or pull the boat through low water points. The one steering wore a huge headlamp that flicked back and forth to various reflector points guiding the way. It felt like we were going about a million miles an hour and was quite reminiscent of the tunnel scene from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. Except, you know, a lot less creepy.

More Pictures…

There were so many good shots from the road, so I’m throwing a few more of my favorites in here.

Finally, a Farm!

The Organic Mulberry Farm

When I left Vermont in September, I did not expect to find my way back to a goat farm for some time. But the Hubs must have a sixth sense for these things. In the course of some routine research for our upcoming destinations, he discovered an organic farm in Vang Vieng. The Organic Mulberry Farm was established in 1996, “with the goal of introducing organic farming methods in an area where chemicals and deforestation were ruining the land.” The idea was to lead by example and show that organic farming could be “profitable as well as healthy.” This was already sounding right up my alley. In 2004, they added goats to their repertoire, bringing over the first four from France and since adding to their herd from Vietnam and Thailand as they established their own breeding program. What more, they offered affordable farmstay options and welcomed volunteers!

A Note on Vang Vieng

Vang Vieng is a beautiful spot, right on the Nam Song River, with spectacular karst scenery and lush jungle filling in the river valley. It’s long been a destination for outdoor adventure activities, with everything from rock climbing to kayaking, but has recently become a big destination for tubing – specifically alcoholic tubing – with countless bars springing up along the river. The routine is to rent a huge truck tire inner tube, be driven a ways upstream to an official drop off point, and then float your way back down river into town. Oh, and get completely wasted. Along the way, bars will throw you a rope weighted with a water bottle to grab onto and pull you into their establishment; it’s uncomfortably reminiscent of roping cattle. There are precarious water slides and rope swings at lots of establishments, claiming an alarming number of deaths each year. Loud music blares from competing speaker systems. In the middle of this idyllic natural setting, Jay-Z is effusing about NY and how “these streets will make you feel brand new.” It’s… weird. And sad. And then weird some more. We spent a lot of time discussing tourism and how and why things like this can take over an area. I’m not sure what the right answer is, but it certainly begs the question of what responsibility we have as visitors.

Despite this scene and the farm being on opposite ends of the spectrum, they are – awkwardly – right on top of each other. The official drop off point for tubing is next door to the farm, and across the river from two or three of the loudest bars on the river. Music plays steadily from about 11am to 5pm every day of the week. What a shame. The farm is doing what they can to rally visitors and petition city officials to do something about the noise pollution, but these things take time. We relished the peaceful morning hours when the farm felt more – well – natural.

The Goats!

We arrived at the farm mid-afternoon and set out pretty much immediately to explore the grounds and see if we could peek in on the goats. My nose told me they were close by, and my excitement was only barely contained. I was going to see goats! I am not sure I can properly express the level of joy I get from being around these animals. Their curious and loving nature combined with their relative ease around humans is just a delight. Whatever life holds for me after these travels, I hope it includes a few goats.

Just across the way from our bungalow were two raised goat houses and a large fenced field, where it looked like most of the herd spent their days. They had a large hay feeder chock full of freshly cut grasses and multiple buckets of water for the 20 some goats out there. Mostly does and kids, but I spotted at least one buck. It looked like some of the milking goats were kept in the goat houses, but we couldn’t figure out if that was a regular separation or just for that day. I should probably note here that I learned a lot about goats during my summer apprenticeship at Green Mountain Girls Farm in Northfield, VT, and my loved ones have gently made it clear to me that I can sometimes get a bit too technical when I am waxing poetic about my favorite ruminant. Consider yourself warned. (Note, too, the title of the blog… Not unrelated.)

As we explored the farm, it was clear just glancing around how different the systems were here than what I was used to in Vermont. But having done many farm visits over the summer, I had already learned that no two farms are the same, and so ‘different’ didn’t have to mean ‘bad’. Instead, it just raised all sorts of curiosities about why their systems were different. I found myself wondering about things like parasite management and herd health; whether they let first-time mothers nurse as opposed to milking them; and what their cheese making process was like. Unfortunately, there was a significant language barrier between us and the farm staff, making it impossible to ask any of these questions. But the general vibe was friendly and welcoming and they were genuinely appreciative of any help offered. And so we joined in on the afternoon shift of goat volunteering.

The afternoon round of chores consisted of herding the goats from the field into the two goat houses; getting everyone fresh water and grain; clearing out the old grasses from the feeders; and stuffing them with freshly cut grass to last them the night. I also opted to join the next morning’s round of chores at 6am, which was much the same, only in reverse, and involved more shoveling of shit. We started by sweeping out the stalls and clearing the dried and picked over grasses, then everyone got fresh water and another ration of grain to chow on before heading back out to pasture for the day. Same went for the milking goats, only their grasses got restocked, too, since they were staying in their stalls for the day.

Then came milking.

Milking was one of my favorite tasks as a farm apprentice. It was an ordered yet relaxing time, and provided rewarding one-on-one time with the animals as well as other team members. There was a strict protocol to follow, per organic certification recommendations, which included practices aimed at keeping the goats healthy as well as the humans consuming their milk. A good milking session felt clean, efficient, and productive. With this in mind, I had been musing to the Hubs about what their milking protocol might be here, and how many differences I would find. Indeed, there was so little overlap that I ended up struggling with some conflicted feelings over whether different now was bad.

The milking took place in each goat’s stall with the help of some clever design: one of the slats in the stall was set wider and only secured at the base, allowing it to slide at the top, and making it possible for the goat’s head to fit through and then be secured, just like on a traditional milk stand (which can be seen here). The person milking then took a 500ml plastic beaker and milked by hand, one teat at a time, crouched next to the goat. I couldn’t help thinking it seemed a little inefficient, and came away feeling confused about how many right answers there could be when it came to various health implications. On the one hand, this was a simpler system and probably closer to how farmers milked their animals for generations before the USDA came along or anyone had heard about organic certification. But even as I struggled with what the right answer was, I knew I lacked the knowledge to understand the full picture for this farm and this herd.

Northward Bound on the Nam Ou

Muang Ngoy

After getting our bearings in Luang Prabang, we felt equipped to head into the wilds of northern Laos. We were headed for Muang Ngoy, a tiny town along the Nam Ou River. It’s not accessible by car, so we bussed as far as Nong Khiew, and then took a boat another 45 minutes or so upstream. (You can actually see it on Google Maps here.)

The town claims one dirt road running dead straight paralleling the river and only has electricity for about three hours a day from 6-9pm. There are rustic bungalow guesthouses overlooking the river, which are typically one-room bamboo thatched huts on stilts with no soundproofing and plenty of chickens and other farm animals going about their lives underneath you. The bathrooms are quite spare: ours included a bucket-flush toilet and a cold-water shower. No sink. But hey, it’s like camping, right? Better, actually, since it wasn’t a squat toilet and there was even a mirror! Plus it was only $6 per night. Seriously, though, after the comforts of Luang Prabang, it took some adjusting on my part. But I was won over pretty quickly on two counts.

1. Natural Beauty.

Right outside our door was a verandah with two hammocks and a table and chairs overlooking the serene riverscape. The water had a beautiful blue-green hue as opposed to the more familiar muddied color we’d seen before and was surrounded by karsts on both sides. Not quite Halong Bay, but along that spectrum, for sure. A quiet place to take in the beauty of nature. What more does one need?

2. The Answer is Babies.

In case the natural beauty wasn’t enough to win me over, town was teeming with babies. So many babies and puppies I might have thought I was in Park Slope. Mothers and grandmothers with babies on their hips and hordes of toddlers running around willy nilly, all with big smiles for you and a wave. Also chicks and ducklings and puppies and kittens and piglets. The cute factor was off the charts. Having a tough day? Watch some day-old chicks learning how to hunt and peck. Do you remember what was bothering you anymore? No, that’s right. You don’t.

During our time in Muang Ngoy, we started to familiarize ourselves with the rhythms of village life: laundry on the line; bathing in the river in the heat of the day; cooking over a fire; watering down the road by your house to keep down on dust; sweeping a lot, always, for the aforementioned fight against dust. Quaint, in its way, but mostly practical. And comforting, at that.

Trekking to Ban Na

One of the draws of this region is the ability to do self-guided trekking with relative ease. Although we lacked a map of the area (I’m not actually sure one exists), our guidebook had a decent description of the walk towards three villages further inland. And so off we set. A narrow dirt path led us out of town, past some of the poorer family homes, past the school, and then into the jungle. The path was very easy to follow, as it was wide enough in most places for a tractor to come through. After a half hour or so, we came to a series of caves and a stream crossing (equipped with a bamboo bridge for the dry season) as well as a toll booth. For $1.25 per person, we were welcome to continue on towards the villages, and with it came our very own animal guide. For real, actually, although it’s not exactly advertised as such. As we crossed the bridge, a medium-sized black dog came flying past us on the path. Around the next curve, there he was again, looking over his shoulder, seeming to be waiting for us. We continued in this manner for a ways, thinking he would have gone off on his own, but then seeing him again around each curve, patiently waiting to show us the way. And so the magic of this country continues as I settle into the girlish gratitude that we somehow have a spirit animal guiding us on this trek. HE chose US. Awesome.

Of course, we definitely lost our way. It was bound to happen. As we entered some rice fields, we took a wrong turn and found ourselves in the middle of a huge herd of water buffaloes. The buffaloes were exceedingly docile, not terribly interested in getting close to us, or having us get close to them, plus Spirit Dog was there to herd them out of our way. They are huge animals. And they look positively prehistoric. They were mostly black, but a few were albino white, and there were a number of babies, too. We would tire of seeing them eventually, I knew, but right then, I was mesmerized. Sometimes losing your way is the best part.

We retraced our steps and got on the right trail again, taking us to the far side of the rice fields and into the town of Ban Na. We’d been walking for over two hours, the last bit of which was punishingly unshaded, and we were elated to have actually found the town. For a rural village, Ban Na has fairly new houses. All still in the traditional thatched bamboo style, they have a crispness that comes with newer construction, the edges yet to be softened by countless wet seasons. The rest of the sights were more familiar: dirt roads; multitudes of small children in various stages of undress; farm animals and dogs roaming freely; mothers doing the wash at the town well; and tiny shops at the front of family homes selling everything from a single-use packet of shampoo to a home-brewed bottle of rice whiskey (a.k.a., Lao Lao). Wanting to partake in the local culture, we decided to splurge the $2 and tote a bottle home with us. We had tried Lao Lao before, and found it to be not so different from a low-grade vodka. The home-brewed version proved a bit yeastier, and a lot less drinkable, but I suppose you can’t like everything you try. Carrying the bottle, we thoroughly enjoyed the looks we garnered from the locals, though. I like to think they were impressed, but there may have been a note of shock in there, too.

100 Waterfalls Trek in Nong Khiew

The self-guided trekking from Muang Ngoy was incredibly rewarding, but there were many more experiences available in this northern region which we were temped by: three-day kayaking expeditions, hiking to a summit and camping on the mountaintop, climbing an extensively waterfalled section of river. As we came back south through Nong Khiew, we wanted to partake in one of these excursions, but came up against an annoying truth about the current state of the tourist economy in Laos: there simply are not enough tourists in the country. And so instead of paying a per person rate for the experience of your choice, you are instead faced with paying a per excursion rate, which quickly exceeds 10+ times your nightly lodging costs and calls into question just how much an experience is worth.

We settled on the one-day 100 Waterfalls trek for $33 per person. It’s still tricky evaluating what price point is worthy of what experience. But what we came to is somewhere between what feels comfortable within our travel budget and what we might pay for such an experience at home.

The day was fantastic. We started off early in the morning with a ride on a tiny boat down the river. It was all still so novel, and being on a small craft, so close to the water, somehow made the karst cliffs that much more impressive in the morning light. We docked near a small village and set out into the jungle towards the river we’d be walking in for the day. It must have something to do with the geology of the rocks here, but we never lost our footing. Not even a little bit. For close to an hour we zigzagged our way up and up this river, scrambling through fast-running water and over surprisingly porous and rough rocks. It was delightfully cool with the river shaded in most parts and our hands and feet always wet. We finally reached the summit, and the most impressive of the waterfalls, where our guide nipped a few banana leaves to make a tablecloth for our picnic lunch of sticky rice, vegetable omelets, falafel, and a pumpkin dip.

The Long Boat to Luang Prabang

Instead of busing our way back south through Luang Prabang, we decided to give river travel a go. We’d heard so many good things about how beautiful the ride was, and had heeded the advice of several travelers to take the boat going downstream so as to avoid painfully loud engine noise, but we also knew it’d be a butt-numbing experience. And we were right. The boat was about four feet wide with laughably small chairs lining each side. It’s like they stole them from a preschool somewhere. What more, if they needed more seats, they’d just hammer another one in to the side of the boat. We were lucky to snag a few that had been hammered in relatively level and which sported cushions. As we waited to depart, we jealously eyed the empty boat next to us which had old captain-style car seats. Now that would have been high class. But I shouldn’t complain; the ride was breathtakingly beautiful, even despite any physical discomfort. I’ll let the rest of the images speak for themselves.

Luang Prabang: The Regal City

Luang Prabang is a Unesco World Heritage Site, which helps lend a casual elegance to the former royal capital. A long peninsula, the city is flanked by the mighty Mekong on one side and the smaller tributary, the Nam Khan, on the other. We were to be there five nights, and the guesthouse we’d reserved in advance was the first place we’d stayed that felt homey. Our room was one half of a single-story brick building, just large enough for a bed and a path around three sides with a bathroom in the back. There was also a mosquito net – a first for us – which hung along the wall during the day, but hooked into four points on the exposed-brick walls at night, draping us in a general aura of safety and mystery with a touch of that fort-like quality from when you threw a sheet over your bunk bed as a kid and made your own hideout. I loved it.

Our time in Luang Prabang was a great entry into the country. The city itself is not so fancy or modern, but it has a quiet, old fashioned grandeur, and is far more developed than the rest of the country, making it a nice way to ease into a more rustic experience going forward. We relaxed, we walked along the riverfront, picked our way through the most laid back night market I’d ever been to, learned how to say a few things in Lao, read up on the history of the country and the city, ate crepes, drank fruit shakes, and had the giddiness that accompanies discovering a new place.

And with that, new FOOD!

Sticky Rice

Sticky rice is at the heart of Lao cuisine. It is eaten at nearly every meal as well as in between. The rice is soaked and rinsed and then steamed in an open bamboo basket for 20-30 minutes, turned once. The cooked rice is stored in cylindrical bamboo containers, which allows the steam to escape, keeping the rice from cooking further. To eat, you grab a small amount between your thumb and first two fingers and then roll it into a ball, squeezing it in your palm to make it compact. Now you have your eating implement. With the same three fingers, you use the rice ball to scoop up some food and place it all in your mouth to enjoy! I’ll admit to some blunders and messes as we got acquainted with the new style of feeding ourselves, but within a few days, we got a compliment from a waiter that we were eating the sticky rice just like a Lao native. Hurrah! Tourist success!!

Laap

It’s tricky to describe laap. It is essentially a meat salad, made with chicken, pork, beef, duck, or even fish. I ate almost exclusively chicken laap or ‘laap gai’, the better to compare them throughout our time in the country. My first laap was in an outdoor cafe along the Mekong on our first full day in Laos. And like with so many firsts, all future laap was to be measured against this delicious example. The meat is tenderized to the point of being coarsely ground. When you order laap, you’re sure to hear the rhythmic sounds of knife on butcher block. The meat is then cooked, probably a quick poach, and mixed together with a host of chopped herbs – lemongrass, spring onions, cilantro, and mint – as well as chiles and sometimes diced long beans (like a green bean, just longer). The dressing is simple, with lime juice and fish sauce featured prominently. The resulting dish is light and easy to eat and is the perfect answer on a hot afternoon.

The Night Market

The night market was its own treasure trove. Crowded pathway with stalls on both sides selling everything from snacks to a full meal. And unlike some markets we’d been through, everything smelled amazing. At the front, women fried coconut milk fritters in a cast-iron pan with perfectly round divets, fitting them together into perfect little spheres to be sold for 75 cents for five of them. Best hot – like all fried food – they had a custardy consistency with a heftier toothiness and a subtle crunch at the outside. Although a logical dessert, we actually STARTED a number of our meals this way, unable to pass by the stand without getting a taste.

The rest of the food stalls opened into table after table of noodles and veggies in all thinkable combinations which you could pile high on a plate for $1. Need a little protein to go with your meal? No problem. Every place has a grill going with chicken skewered between a piece of bamboo for another $1 or a whole grilled fish for $3/4, depending on the size. Our first few visits we stuck to the chicken. It felt the safe option. And it was definitely tasty. But on our last visit, we went in for the whole fish and oh my god was that the right choice. Now, I know as well as the next person that fish is best done simply and when fresh, which this was, but I am honestly not sure if I’ve had another fish this good. Ever. I even ate the skin. And the cheeks. And the underbelly. And just about every other nodule of meat I could get off the thing. The outside was slightly crisped and nicely salted from the marinade brushed on (something with soy sauce, I assume). The inside had been stuffed with lemongrass and the outside had been scored, lending the meat a positively succulent quality as it expertly balanced the light, aromatic lemongrass with the darker, grilled exterior. It was meant to be shared, but given my feral reaction, the Hubs smartly backed off and ceded much of his half to me.

Beerlao

Beerlao is the national beer of Laos. And with a claimed 99% market share and a wide distribution, it seems like it’s the only beer in Laos sometimes, too. But that was fine by us. The beer is brewed with local rice, and imports the yeast and hops from Germany. As opposed to all the other domestic Asian beers we’d tried, which can charitably be called light lagers, Beerlao combines a crisp, well-carbonated experience with a rich, medium-bodied flavor and a pleasantly balanced note of hops. $1.25 bought us a 640ml bottle, which is the perfect size to share.

I don’t know what it is about people and places that sometimes make them click. I feel like we got to know Laos at just the right time, both for us and for Laos. And we bought in. Hard core. Sticky rice as an implement? I don’t even remember not eating this way. Only one brand of beer? No problem. It’s the ‘beer of the wholehearted people’, after all. And those are my favorite people.

Welcome to Laos!

I have so many positive things to say about Laos it’s hard to know where to begin. The pace of life here is aggressively unhurried. The food is simple but filling. Any befuddled attempts we make to speak Lao are met with BIG smiles. The people are kindhearted and exceedingly generous. And their children are adorable. This country is like a warm hug.

We flew into the Luang Prabang airport, made our way through immigration, baggage claim, and out to the ATM before seeing about a taxi to our guesthouse. Now, for those of you who read my post about arriving into Hanoi, this is about as far from that experience as humanly possible. Actually, it’s created a new dimension for itself, just to get a little extra distance between the two. We walk out of the airport to a desk where we purchase a ticket into ‘downtown’ and then one of about a half-dozen or so guys gets up to walk us over to his van and drive us the fifteen minutes to our hotel. So calm, it’s like… I don’t even know, I’m too relaxed to think. No one is hounding me for a fare or trying to sell me something I probably don’t need. But the real reason I know that me and this country are gonna get along real good is that there’s a bobble-headed white unicorn mounted to the dashboard of our taxi. Sit with that. Let it soak in. And then watch in your mind’s eye as the head bobbles around, like a shining beacon of all this is good and right with the country of Laos. Welcome! Or as you would say in Lao, Sabaidee!

At this time, it should be noted that this country is brought to you by the letter Beerlao.

Also, by the number Beerlao.

P.S. Beerlao.

Northwest by Northeast: Closing Out Vietnam

The Night Train

The first thing you need to know is how to purchase train tickets to Sapa, which was my own personal version of hell. There is so much about this experience that’s not in English that I’m not sure the English language exists anymore once it’s over. And personal space definitely doesn’t exist, either. There is a place to get a number and a waiting area with chairs, but if you get a number and sit down, rest assured that you are never – literally, never – going to be summoned to a window. Instead you must stand as close to an open ticket counter as humanly possible, and then step even closer. Somewhere between two and a thousand other people are also doing this with you, elbowing and edging their way closer to the ticket lady. By the time you’ve managed to get a turn and hand over your pre-written note with what you want (in Vietnamese, of course – as previously noted, this experience is not available in English), she tells you it’s not possible. She writes out the time of another train, but by the time you understand that this isn’t actually what you wanted, she has hit the purchase button, taken your money, and handed you the tickets. You stand at the counter, dumbfounded, confused, not even fully comprehending that the tickets have been purchased.

But the night train itself? One of the highlights of Vietnam. Aside from just sounding romantic, our difficulties purchasing the tickets paid off, because we ended up in a cabin with six other Vietnamese folks. There was a family of four with two little girls who shared two bunks between them as well as a woman and her elderly father in the other two bunks. We had succeeded in specifying that we wanted the lower bunks, which meant everyone hung out on our bunks until the train departed, watching our card game, scrutinizing the sandwiches we’d brought for dinner, and the hubs even had the pleasure of getting his bicep squeezed when I went out to the toilet. Apparently, our size is impressive. I think we were as much the highlight of their journey as they were ours.

Sapa, the town

Arriving into Sapa was discombobulating as any experience before 6am, but despite the lack of sleep, we had no trouble delighting in the absolute glory of mountains in the morning light. The landscape was intense, and made more so by the fog that plagues the area. I hadn’t realized how much I missed mountains! And it was cold. Not cold like at home, for sure. There was no snow. But remember that we only brought super lightweight wicking clothing for all the heat and humidity we were expecting to encounter, and when faced with weather steadily in the 50s we suddenly found ourselves wearing everything we owned. Lots of restaurants and cafes sported fireplaces and much of our downtime was spent cozied up in places like this. It almost felt like we were tucked in a small ski town in the Alps, although the hill tribe women rivaled that fantasy as they made their way to the Sunday market dressed in their intricate traditional clothing.

Trekking the Hill Tribes

Trekking is big in Sapa. There are hill tribes that live tucked amongst the mountains, managing rows and rows of terraced rice paddies and also leading tourists through a maze of paths to explore in and around their villages. Although the day began with a sea of other tourists being led down into the valley, we were lucky to be in a smaller group with just one other couple. Our guide was named Coo and she was from a H’mong tribe. We were accompanied by four or five other women from Coo’s village, picking our way down and down on ever more rustic roads and paths, often taking the hands of the tribeswomen to steady ourselves. It was fascinating to see the farming up close and to get some understanding of how the Vietnamese government has started to fund the modernization of these hill tribes. We saw a lot of infrastructure going in, from new roads to a new dam and even new school buildings.

Halong Bay

Halong Bay was just named one of the seven natural wonders of the world, and I would have to say that it lived up to all the hype we’d heard. Much as getting into the mountains felt both comforting and comfortable, so too did our arrival at such a beautiful space of water. It’s hard to explain Halong Bay or even really show it. Maybe a panoramic would do it justice, but even still, it’s hard to capture just how enveloped you feel by the landscape of karsts. It’s gorgeous in all lights. With lots of sunlight, you can see the craggy flora growing in the limestone cliffs and get a good view of the rough surface of the karsts. In shadow, they start to take on varying shades of blue, layering against the skyline and reflecting the serene water around them. And sunrise or sunset is just… so… beautiful.

During our three days aboard The White Dolphin, we got to see a floating fishing village; ride in a traditional bamboo boat (rowed by an ancient man with about three teeth to his name); go swimming off the boat at sunset; tour a pearl farm; hike to the top of Titop Island to take in the breathtaking view of the entire bay; explore in and around the karsts in a double kayak; and watch a group of spider monkeys eat lunch on the side of a karst. Yeah, that’s right: spider monkeys! I can now die a happy and fulfilled woman. The whole thing was like Camp Halong Bay.

My favorite moment of the whole cruise (except maybe the spider monkeys) was our first night on the boat, after a spectacular seafood dinner and swapping travel stories and recommendations with our boat companions, Kay (our guide) came upstairs, quite clearly inebriated, to inform us that the captain was ‘too much drunk’ and our evening activity of squid fishing would not be happening as the crew might have gambled away the eel light. Sure. Operative word here: might. None of us even skipped a beat – we all had headlamps! And so the four of us, under Kay’s patient guidance, bobbed bamboo poles in the water for nearly a half hour, freezing in the chilly night air, and trying to keep our headlamps trained in one spot. Needless to say, we didn’t catch any squid that night, but we did share some chocolate and our views on religion.

Cat Ba Island

We arranged to be dropped on Cat Ba Island at the end of our cruise to spend a few extra nights in the region. There’s a national park over much of the island, but we opted to stick to the coast and the somewhat untouched beaches facing out on the karst-dotted bay. It was a quiet few days at the end of our time in Vietnam. We were winding down both physically and emotionally after a very full month, and there were ups and downs to ride out. We were both fighting something off, enjoying the food and the people less, and suffering from a general lack of patience and good humor. It had been nearly a month; it was bound to happen sooner or later. But anyone who’s traveled knows that moment where you’re put in your place. And you have a choice: you can either laugh at yourself and move on or you can cry all the way home.

My moment was getting locked in the bathroom of our hotel at 10pm, fresh from the shower, wearing nothing but a towel and vulnerability. The door just wouldn’t open. We tried from both sides, but the knob was not having any effect. The Hubs went in search of someone from the hotel as I perched helplessly on the lid of the toilet. I remember actually making the decision not to freak out; this was just too incredible a thing to be happening. The Hubs came back with Hotel Guy who over the course of the next 10 to 12 minutes displayed a shining example of the true and determined Vietnamese spirit.

First, he tries the door. Then, he tries the door some more. After that, he tries the door really forcefully and quickly. Nothing. Next, with no warning, he tries to kick down the door. Repeatedly, he is trying to kick down the door, running at it with his whole body, and pausing long enough for me to start to try to say something, but never long enough for me to be heard. And then, like a true showman, he begins kicking off the doorknob. Again and again and again, he is kicking at the doorknob. At this point, my smile has faded a tad and I get up from the toilet to stand as far from the door as I can, because I am now convinced that when this doorknob is finally dislodged, it is going to come flying directly at my front teeth. It doesn’t happen, but still, it could have. The doorknob never even flies off. In some weirdly poetic handshake, Hotel Guy ends up dislodging it from the door by pushing it into the bathroom and placing it into my waiting palm. Alas! But no, it is STILL not over, because the little nubby thing that sticks into the doorjamb is still there, unmoving.

Have I mentioned yet that although the doorknob is a sturdy metal fixture, the door itself is just plastic? So I am now stuck in a bathroom with a plastic door with a small but gaping hole in it. Unbelievable. Hotel Guy goes for some more tools and is back in a flash, clawing at the remaining hardware, mangling the door more solidly beyond repair. A few more minutes of metal and plastic shards flying every which way, and the door – is – OPEN! I get to see my savior face-to-face, but fleetingly. Only long enough to confirm that no, this has never happened before, but a new one will be installed tomorrow morning. Sure thing, Hotel Guy. I bet the check is in the mail, too.

 

Vietnam: the Capital City

Taking in Hanoi

Our arrival in Hanoi came with more than a few trepidations. Certainly coming from New York City, we felt well equipped for the fast pace, but with motorbikes abounding and sidewalks seeming ever-more scarce, and then story after story of scams in every shape and size, we just felt a bit – well – put off. And many of the stories were true. Getting ourselves from the airport into the city should have been a simple affair on a $2 shuttle run by Vietnam Airways, but we were met by a dozen or more shuttles all claiming to be run by Vietnam Airways. Surely they can’t all be run by Vietnam Airways, right? Tentatively, we retraced our steps to the information desk in the airport, but they seemed disinterested in shedding any light on the situation. Yes, they explained, we had it right, take the Vietnam Airways shuttle. I found myself wondering whether it was possible for an entire country to be trying to scam us at once. And if so, why? In the end, we found a shuttle of questionable authenticity, negotiated a price we felt comfortable with, and then boarded. Because even if it was a scam, who cares? It’s still a very real bus that’s going to drive me to where I need to go, which at that point was all the really mattered.

Despite all this, Hanoi became home. And not in that fuzzy-feeling-on-the-inside way, but in the completely practical and normal way that results from spending a cumulative week here over our last two weeks in Vietnam, and because we walked probably 20 miles during that time, and because we didn’t end up doing much touristy stuff while we were here.

Hanoi is huge, with a fast-growing population already over 3.5 million people, and it was here that the guidebook finally failed us. How could it ever keep up? With the city always changing and evolving, new places opening, old places moving or closing altogether, you just can’t pin down a city like this. It was on the move, and so, too, were we. In search of a bookstore, it took three or four separate attempts – I honestly lost count – and we probably walked more than five hours over the course of two days. First, we couldn’t find the street, then we came back during the daytime to look again and thought we’d found the street, but still couldn’t find the right number. We stopped for a beer to regroup and asked there; in fact, the road had another section just around the corner, inexplicably running parallel to the section we had found. Fine, around the corner we went, found the number, but no bookstore. An elderly lady was there handing out bookmarks with the new address. They moved over a year and a half ago. Yup. The new location was about two miles away, and we walked directly there. It seemed like the most logical response, and in doing so, we discovered the charming ex-pat neighborhood of West Lake where there is – not surprisingly – a lovely lake; small, meandering streets; quiet lanes; and lots of local food. And the bookstore! It lived up to our epic journey with three whole floors of books and a wonderfully wide selection. Everything from Graham Greene to Haruki Murakami. We were in heaven.

One Touristy Venture

This, too, took us a few tries as it wasn’t until we went once that we learned one could only see Ho Chi Minh’s Mausoleum from Tuesday through Thursday, 8am to 11am with the last entrance around 10:15am. Buyer beware. It was our fault this time, at least, simply not reading that portion of the guidebook before setting off the first time. No matter, we made it.

Surreal is the single word I can think of to describe the experience of going to see Ho Chi Minh’s tomb. By far, it was the most organized we’d ever seen the Vietnamese. Everyone patiently waiting in an orderly, single-file line as we wound our way through a maze like a line for a roller coaster, as though one might need to be ‘this tall’ to see Ho Chi Minh’s tomb. There were so many stopping points for bag checking, scanning, poking, prodding until finally you’re forced to give over your camera altogether. One last time, we queued into a double line as multiple uniformed and armed men advanced and halted us towards the entrance, pausing to watch the both interesting and mundane changing of the guards in front of the door. Once inside, though, it was smooth sailing. Quite literally, in fact, as we were not permitted to stop walking. Up a set of stairs on the left, into the room, around all three sides of Ho Chi Minh laid out in his glass box, then out on the right, down a set of stairs, and back out onto the street.

Culinary Exploits

Bun Cha

Hanoi hosted our last culinary adventures in Vietnam. We were beginning to tire of eating out all the time, but learning of a few new dishes reignited our curiosity. For Thanksgiving, we began our search for the perfect bowl of bun cha, a dish of smoky pork patties, and about as far from turkey and mashed potatoes as one can get. The pork patties are grilled alongside thin slices of pork belly over an open flame on the sidewalk directly in front of the establishment. A fan blows the smoke further afield, allegedly to lure in more patrons. Along with the grilled meat comes a heaping plate of rice noodles, a small bowl of broth with some curiously bland raw vegetables cut in, and the requisite plate of herbs for self-dressing. Due to the small bowl, you add ingredients as you eat as opposed to all at once. The broth varied depending on the spot, but it tended to have a playful balance of light and dark flavors, the extremes of which were further accentuated by the herbs and meats. But the best part about bun cha? Due to the relative informal nature of the kitchen required for this dish, you’re practically sitting in someone’s living room while you eat it. Grandma’s in the back watching TV, and you’re up front sitting at some makeshift tables with eight-inch high stools.

Bun Bo Nam Bo

While bun cha had the feel of a regional specialty, we only ever found bun bo nam bo at a place with the same name. To be fair, we never really tried to find it elsewhere, and we were so over the moon for the dish both times we ate it, that we were far too distracted to glean any information about its history and context in the grand tradition of Vietnamese cuisine. For shame. The spot itself was forgettable, in a narrow little storefront with the kitchen in front, spilling out onto the street, and four or five picnic tables lining one wall along the inside. But the dish was a bowl of flavors I had yet to encounter in our travels. New flavors! The main ingredients were flat rice noodles, thinly sliced beef, peanuts, fried shallots, bean sprouts, mint, lettuce, and a delightfully sweet broth. I think my favorite part was the varying temperatures of all the ingredients when they arrived. Some of the veggies were room temperature, but the meat and broth were piping hot, so much so that they cooked some of the other ingredients throughout the course of eating. Cooked lettuce, you ask, wouldn’t that be gross? No. You’re wrong. It is freaking delicious because there is this peanuty broth dancing on your tongue while you eat it.

And to wash it all down…

Bia ahoy! Or rather, bia hoa, the Hanoi variety of ‘fresh beer’ we had encountered in Hoi An. Also in kegs, also a light and crisp brew, and also delightfully cheap (50 cents at most places). The experience of stopping for a cold glass of bia hoa was as much a cultural one as it was for the enjoyment of the beer. Those same tiny tables and stools were featured prominently at every establishment, spilling out onto sidewalks and even into the street on quieter alleyways. Often there were peanuts to crack, fresh or roasted, and the staff almost never spoke English, but they seemed pleased to have us, nonetheless.

Tucked in amongst the locals, unwinding at the end – or in the middle – of a long day, we truly felt like we were doing something right.