If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.

Vietnam.

Adventure of a life-time? 

Probably. 

No. 

Definitely.

We planned loosely.

Boarded a few planes and 

flew to the other side of the planet.

Got my second first stamp in my passport.

For two weeks we explored.

Watched. Listened. 

Everything new. Different.

We walked and walked and walked and walked.

Down streets.

Through temples and caves.

Over bridges.

We dodged motorbikes.

A lot of motorbikes.

Ate our weight in noodles.

And rice.

Became pretty good with a pair of chopsticks.

We floated down rivers.

Jumped off boats.

We swam, and kayaked, and snorkeled.

Watched sunsets and sunrises.

From beaches and rooftops.

Danced in the rain.

And in the waves.

Learned a few words in an ancient language.

Laughed with locals as we tried to speak them.

Lived on only what we could carry on our backs.

Slept in hostels. Huts. Bungalows.

One really old amazing train.

Got drunk.

On happy water. On ten cent beer.

On the simple idea that

this was our home.

For now.

 

 

 

 

 

"And now I want to tell you about my late Uncle Alex. He was my father’s kid brother, a childless graduate of Harvard who was an honest life insurance salesman in Indianapolis. He was well-read and wise. And his principal complaint about other human beings was that they so seldom noticed it when they were happy. So when we were drinking lemonade under an apple tree in the summer, say, and talking lazily about this and that, almost buzzing like honeybees, Uncle Alex would suddenly interrupt the agreeable blather to exclaim, ''If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.''

So I do the same now, and so do my kids and grandkids. And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ''If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.''

That’s one favor I ask of you."

-Kurt Vonnegut