We’ve arrived in Vietnam, Da Nang, to be precise.
Getting here required what was supposed to be a short flight from Bali, though VietJet somehow transformed it into ten hours of airborne purgatory. I don’t think I’d fly with them again, but that’s a story for another day and possibly a formal complaint written after several beers.
By the time we landed, Will and I were exhausted, hungry and carrying ourselves with the stiff-legged determination of men who had spent too long sitting in seats designed by someone who clearly hates the human spine.
Our hotel is called the Phuc Long Luxury Hotel. Yes, I booked it entirely because of the name, despite being fifty years old, I’m still the sort of person who laughs at things that sound vaguely rude. Thankfully, the hotel also delivers on the luxury promise.
After checking in, we ventured out in search of food and found ourselves at a local seafood restaurant packed with locals, bright lights for ambience and tanks full of creatures awaiting their fate. Neither of us particularly likes seafood, which raises the obvious question: why did we choose a seafood restaurant? The answer is simple, travel works best when you occasionally ignore your own preferences.
Vietnam takes freshness seriously; they point at a tank and show you your dinner swimming around, blissfully unaware that its evening plans are about to change dramatically.
We ordered squid and some seafood spring rolls, washed them down with a couple of local beers, and watched the city carry on around us.
It’s late on a Monday night, the air is warm, and the streets are still alive. Somewhere outside, a scooter is making noises that suggest basic mechanical sympathy is optional in Vietnam.
We’ve only been here a few hours, but I already suspect Da Nang is going to be one of those places that will win us over.
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