Phu Quoc, Vietnam

Well, here’s what I’ve learned about writing in the last 7 weeks: when you’re not relaxed, you’re not ready for it. I had (have?) lovely intentions for the blog, but I haven’t been in the proper mindset to bring them to fruition. I have managed to fill a few more pages in my journal recently—hooray!—as I’ve been managing to finally unwind, but before I hit you with my musings from Indonesia, let’s rewind blog train to my birthday.

Recap!

There are a few select traditions I’ve insisted on over the past several years that I work hard to preserve.

Step 1: Get a new passport stamp. Check! Good morning, Vietnaaaaam.

Step 2: Receive a happy birthday serenade from Momma and Poppa H. Check! They even had two chocolate cupcakes aflame on their end atop the Special Day Plate. They wished for my happy and safe travels before successfully blowing out the plastic 2 and 9. Bonus: Dad called me an “old hoe” before signing off, claiming it’s something he says now, citing a work story involving “ho, ho, ho.”

Step 3: Chocolate cake. Partial check. Is it my fault for not mastering the words for chocolate sponge in Vietnamese before scootering to the bakery? I was wary at the salesgirl’s hesitant nod, my pointer finger pressed against the glass next to a particularly festive slab of sugar. My worries were quickly dismissed, however, watching my name curlicue its way onto the frosting. Even more of a thrill: getting to select my own plastic candles and complimentary cake knife, to the tune of “LOOK AT MY CAKE, LOOK AT MY CAKE!” We motored home, one arm clamped possessively over the pastel pink baker’s box, the other clutching Eric excitedly around the middle. Hours later we would discover the 9 to be fire resistant; the innards of our dessert to be 5 parts angel food, 1 part a mysterious, gelatinous substance looking eerie caramelized onions. The garbage ate the majority of my cake. The chocolate hard shell, while tragically misleading, was at least salvageable thanks to one E. J. Thovson.

On top of the basic requisites, we managed a beautiful day to celebrate my 29th year. After a a plateful of a banana pancakes, we headed north on the scooter in search of alcohol with a paper umbrella garnish. Through Duong Dong town center, over an abandoned airport runway, and up the coast, we dropped our first anchor at a beachside resort. No umbrella, but a glossy maraschino cherry decorated my first attempt at intoxication. Pressing ahead, over dusty red roads, pitted with a minefield of shallow ponds and jagged rocks, we made camp again along the shore. No booze to be found, but also no tourists. Seemed like a good opportunity for no clothes, and a lazy float in the shallows appropriately clad in my birthday suit. The water was so warm, I told Eric he better stop peeing in the ocean, which generated no laughter but my own. (I think I’m a lot more hilarious than he does.) Following a proper swim and documentation with the underwater camera set-up, we dried off, and bump bump bumped back into town. Another drink—WHERE are the umbrellas to be found?!—an Indian feast, and an adventure to the harbor market rounded out a day of brilliant festivities.

Good to meet you, 29. You’re off to a great start.