We gather on a ramshackle rooftop porch, dressed in basket lanterns and straw cushions on the cement floor.  Barely above the noise on the streets below, upwards of twenty of us sit together; all of us from scattered parts of the globe and none of us from here, but with no where else we would rather be.  A guitarist from Nepal sits in the front of the room and plays a song.  His voice is as soft as silk and his words are uncomfortably relevant.  An aptly timed orchestra of rain hammers down on the plastic sheeted roof like a snare drum.  On our last night in Vietnam, so far from home and yet so coiled in our history, we settle in and listen to the ribbons of words and inwardly think back to three weeks ago when it all started. 

The city is immediately and wonderfully offensive to our senses.  It requires every operating piece of us to function in a heightened capacity.  Crossing the street is an act of faith in the humanity of the twenty scooter drivers careening at us, and in the mercy of God.  Once the first carefully set foot steps out into the street there is no turning back and no slowing down or changing direction, only a surrender into the entropy of Saigon.  On the uneven and crumbling sidewalks the scooters are jammed in next to each other.  Women are tending to boiling pots of broth, or woks of frying food over open fires.  Girls wash the dirty dishes in plastic tubs and dump greasy water onto the already treacherous street.  The constant blare of horns is relentless.  It’s smelly, and loud, and chaotic.  Just being outside is exhausting.  Walking a mile feels like a marathon coupled with an American Ninja Warrior obstacle course. 

But mixed into the madness is a thread of something more substantial.  We visit modern art galleries, and eat at Japanese born-Vietnamese grown-Italian-pizza parlors.  We drop in on a science and robotics fair hosted in a youth creative warehouse built out of shipping containers in the shadow of a high-rise building.  One night we have dinner with friends from back home who have moved here full of enthusiasm.  The city is littered with craft beer bars that would rival San Francisco.  Buildings are draped with living walls and hidden coffee bars that echo Seattle.  This isn’t our parents Vietnam anymore, no longer content to be defined by a war.  Today’s Vietnam is in the hands of its youth, who in the slow tides of time will do with is as they please. 

After five relentless days of sensory overload we retreated to a beach resort a short flight north of Saigon.  We celebrated a birthday and slipped into a four day bliss that smelled of lemongrass, ginger, and mint.  Here nothing happened; and it was a welcome pause.  We watched the sun rise in a pink fury each morning, and set behind dark storm clouds each night.  In the dark the bright lights of the shrimp boats would illuminate the bay.  In daylight, only the depths of the oversized pool offered a reprise from the steaming outdoor air.  Four days and five nights later we were ready to re-immerse ourselves into the functional chaos of South East Asia. 

It’s been said by a famous TV food show host, that the only way to experience and see Vietnam is from the seat of a motorbike.  Although we hadn’t quite worked up our motorbike chops yet, his statement was no less true from the saddle of a bicycle.  Our first few pedal strokes into the tumult of Hoi An’s main road were a tumble of emotions; fear, primal survival instinct, shock, adrenaline fueled intensity, and finally an elevated synchronicity.  True to the words of the TV host, for the first time we didn’t feel like visitors watching the entropic chaos from a distance, but rather a minuscule part of it; a leaf floating through whitewater rapids without a collision.  We knew we were viewing the country from the vantage point through which is it meant to be seen.  Call us crazy, but the whole of humanity, after five continents and many more countries, somehow makes a whole lot more sense from the seat of a bicycle in the mid-day traffic in Vietnam. 

For the rest of the three days we would wake early enough to brave the impending steam room humidity and pedal our two wheelers around the small tourist town.  Like all good tourists in a town functioning wholly due to the industry we gladly took part in all the hallmarks of the trade.  We visited silk factories and bought brightly colored scarves.  We attended an all day market-tour/food tasting/cooking class where we collected a book of recipes we promised to cook at home knowing we’d most likely have a hard time finding the ingredients. And we walked through the pedestrian only streets criss crossed by hundreds of silk lanterns where we took pictures sometimes by ourselves and sometimes in the company of an unsuspecting wedding party.  When it got too hot in afternoons we’d pedal back to the confines of our hotel and hide from the heat in the courtyard pool.  When our stomachs would protest at the thought of another meal of spicy foreign ingredients, we’d take refuge in an all day Aussie cafe serving traditional gut bombs and safe raw green vegetables. 

Ten days into our SE Asia saga we left Hoi An no longer exhausted by the innumerable differences of life in this part of the world, but instead invigorated by them.  We’d seen this place from behind the lackluster protection of handle bars and we were drunk on exhaust fumes and humid air.  Although we’re only halfway through our time here we’re thirsty for more.