What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my weekly confession.
For the past week, I’ve been vacationing in Nha Trang, Vietnam. It took 14 years to finally get round to visiting this country, and after seven days I can say I wish I’d come sooner. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
My flight was early out of Don Muang and so what I should’ve done on Saturday was stay in, go to bed early, and try to get a little shut-eye before the trip, especially since it started to rain around 20.00. Instead, I grabbed a brolly and hoofed it t’Pong. Because you never know if the plane’s gonna crash, and you don’t want to spend your last night on earth sprawled on the couch watching YouTube videos like a little bitch. So I had a beer, a scotch, and a mini Cuban whilst watching the soggy tourists trapse back and forth in Patpong’s puddles.
I managed to get 3 hours’ sleep before the alarm and a Bolt taxi to DM. The airport was surprisingly more streamlined than I remember. I used the self-check-in and breezed through all the stops in under 20 minutes. My seat–7B–meant I’d be wedged between two others. I was the first one on the plane, and waited anxiously to see what abominable travelers would be perched to my left and right. The latter was a giant Russian man in his 60s. No surprise there. In fact, I’d say a third of the passengers were ruskies. They all chatted to each other like strangers who’re part of an exclusive club. The former was a skinny young lady from…..I want to say Bangladesh? Or maybe Sri Lanka. I’m not good with those “exotic” races. The Russian dude took up both arm rests with zero compunction. Every time I made contact with his hot hairy arm it felt like scraping up against a grizzly bear. The girl had the window seat so she just stared at the skyline the entire way.
The flight took 90 minutes. On landing we flew over the town and circled back to the beach. The airport is basically on the beach. I loved Nha Trang from the first glimpse out the airplane window.
Customs and Immigration took 5 minutes. I got a Viet Sim card for 10 bucks and then I was in a taxi, windows down, speeding past luxury spas, sand dunes and palm trees on a breezy, partly sunny day toward a row of distant dark green hills. Drivers honk every time they pass or approach another vehicle. It reminded me of the crazy roads in Costa Rica. Different honks had different meanings, and the cars, buses, and motorbikes all chatted to each other in their own monotonal patois. Nha Trang made me think of a cross between Thailand and the Caribbean, though the composition of the rocky hills and some of the foliage growing on them are very similar to the topography of Southern California. The smell of the air had a slight tinge of sweetness.
The taxi driver just assumed I was Russian and said something into his translator that came out looking like Cold War era Soviet propaganda. I said “English” and then his phone said, “If you need to go anywhere while you’re here you can call me.” I’d come to Nha Trang on a quasi-mission and wasn’t sure how far I’d have to go to complete it, so I took his number just in case, though the fare for 20 mins on the road was 883b so I didn’t plan to ride with him again.
When he dropped me at the Panorama Star–a high-rise situated at the apex of the bay with stunning views and close proximity to most of the town’s hotspots–the room wasn’t even close to ready so I went in search of what made Anthony Bourdain love Vietnam more than Thailand—the food. The concierge took my bag, but not before I pulled out the obscenely fat envelope full of cash that was meant to last the whole trip. Never mind that my laptop ergo my livelihood was left behind. My first meal in country was a bowl of beef pho that won me over with the first bite, but I’m reserving all descriptions of my Vietmeals for a Substack post that’ll go live probably tomorrow or Tuesday, so if you’re interested in hearing all the culinary details of the trip, you’ll have to pop over there.
When I’d polished off the pho and was sat idly sipping a bottle of Saigon Lager I thought, why not sample more of the menu? So I ordered a pork banh mi. This one was simple: pig in sweet sauce and slightly pickled cucumber on a baguette for 50k dong. I guessed if you wanted the good banh mi, you had hit the right locations. I’d done my research and found reputable places nearby, but they’d have to wait till I’d gotten some rest. Meanwhile, I chomped on my sandwich and waited to check in.
A gross, fat Russian lady sat down at the table across from mine and flashed a big smile. I wasn’t sure if it was a come-on or simply a “hello comrade” from one perceived ruskie to another. I returned her greeting with the smallest smile possible and then never looked in her direction again.
There were Russians everywhere. The men all sport one of three haircuts: short mohawk, buzzed bald, or no haircut for at least 3 months. The women tend to be old, fat, and repulsive—except for a contingent of young hotties that seemed to sporadically come out of the woodwork at random times.
From lunch, I went back to The Panorama and hit the restaurant, where I was the only customer and they had the aircon turned off, so it was sweltering. I ordered something called a blue margarita listed on the menu for 120. 120 dong is around 2 baht, so I figured you must have to throw three zeros on the end of the list price. After a couple minutes, they turned on the air. ‘Twas quite considerate considering I was the only one in the joint. As I hit the bottom of the glass, the concierge came to fetch me and take me to my sea view room on the 26th floor, which was spectacular. I grabbed a much-needed nap on the very comfy bed and then headed out to search for a tiny cigar and wine shop half a block from where I stayed. I was on the street for 2 minutes before being offered a prostitute by a rickshaw driver. I declined and walked on to the stogie shop.
I picked up a two Partagas Serie 5 and headed down to the beach bar, aka Sailing Club, had a Tiger and a SoCo, and felt the bliss bleed into my molecules. My only blunder was leaving my mp3 player behind. Earbuds cover a multitude of social sins, from screaming children to terrible DJ choices. The SoCo was watered down but I didn’t care. I was just happy to have my toes in the sand, feel the salty breeze, and watch tourists attempt to live their best lives. I sucked down the SoCo and ordered an espresso martini, because when I’m on vacay I drink all the odd shit I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking back home. It was fucking excellent.
Nha Trang is a small town with a big city feel. The skyline is all high-rise resorts, malls, and hotels, but the street level action is quiet and sparse. Their famous night market is about half the size of Patpong’s and it’s the only one in the city center.
The boardwalk is like so many other communist public areas, with kids rollerblading, couples canoodling, multiple photo ops, and group calisthenics. I was surprised to see throngs of preteens loitering in gangs like children in a Mad Max movie. I guess their parents just let ‘em run rawdog in the streets at night.
According to the internet, there’s no redlight scene in Nha Trang. And that’s true. But a monger attracts clunge like Jack the Ripper drew melancholics. As I walked back to my hotel from the beach, I got approached by 3 separate middle-aged freelancers.
After the beach I needed more booze, so I stopped in at King Beer, a huge establishment next door to the hotel, and ordered a Tiger and shrimp spring rolls. And goddam if they weren’t whole shrimps, head and tail and all, wrapped in a fried roll with chili sauce. This is my most common shrimp-related error in SE Asia and I can’t fully express how much I hate it. God never meant for humans to eat exoskeletons. I thought of that episode when Bourdain had snake and bird embryos, and ate them by halves, unwilling to gnaw on a tail, while enduring the obnoxiously loud club tracks and strobe lights. Many of Nha Trang’s night spots have an identity crisis. Is it a club? A rave? A restaurant? A bar? A shisha lounge? A gogo (two girls in cat masks and short kimonos gyrated onstage)? In actuality, they’re all of those and none at the same time.
Then I shuffled back to my hotel room and sipped a beer on the balcony to the docile rhythm of the hustle and bustle below. And thus began my holiday in Vietnam.
Some of you in the know might be asking, why Nha Trang? It’s overrun with Russian families, and all the shorttime gals moved to more punter-oriented destinations like Saigon. The answer is a 2-parter. First, because I was captivated by the photos of the beach. Having grown up on PCH between Sunset and Camarillo, stayed in Newport Beach during uni, and dated a girl who lived in Oceano, I’m a sucker for long lazy stretches of sand. Second, the whole time I lived in Phuket I had a drinking buddy who left just before Covid to take a job managing a high-end resort on Nha Trang. We lost contact then, but before he left, he extended an open invitation to visit him anytime. And so I was on a mission to locate my old friend, of he was still breathing. He was always something of a hellraiser.
The next day I rolled out of bed specifically to stare at the stunning view of the South China Sea. Then I did my digital nomad job for 2 hours, then I argued with housekeeping over the meaning of a “do not disturb sign.” By then it was midday, and I headed down to the street to find the banh mi shop that was supposed to be the best in town, according to the internet.
I tried going the previous day but it was shut. “Tomorrow ” said an old lady in a plastic chair. But when I rocked up the second time, the entire alley had been dug up and four guys were going at a pipe with a jackhammer. So much for that idea. So then, I decided to go searching for my friend. I knew he was at one of three places, and the closest was the Intercontinental. I got polite but strained looks from staff after staff as I stalked around the place like a detective on a manhunt. Have you seen this man? The only photo I had was one he sent me when he randomly met Robert Downey junior in a hole-in-the-wall bar somewhere in town. “Yes” the staff kept saying. “That’s Ironman.” No no, the other guy. “Oh…..no.” From there I checked the Sheraton, with similar results. Then I swung into Lotte Market and bought a bottle of Sangiovese to drink on my balcony later. As I trudged back in the direction of the hotel, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything and was veritably shaking with hunger. Yet somehow, I found myself on a block filled with minimarts, spas, ice cream shops, coffee shops, and gold shops, but no eateries. I ducked down a side alley where a beautiful blonde Russian woman sat selling tours for ruskie tourists. I guessed her age at around 30 (she later told me she was 35), which would normally be too old for me, but in Nha Trang, beggars can’t be ageist. She smiled and said something in Russian. I assumed it was something to the effect of “Hey comrade, you wanna go snorkeling?” I told her I was Amerikanski and she said “It’s OK, I can still take you.” I told her my holiday was on a more relaxed track, yanking my thumb toward the building behind me. “I think I just want to drink wine on my balcony.”
“Which floor?” She asked. 26. “Ocean view?” Yepper. “I wish I could do that,” she said. I told her she’s welcome anytime. She took my Line and said, “Maybe tomorrow.” It all happened so fast and effortlessly I was sat at a restaurant and halfway through another bowl of pho before it dawned on me that that chick might want to bump uglies. But since sex with a white girl had never come that easily, I assumed she’d 1–not message me or 2–come by, drink all my wine, and then leave. I decided I wasn’t fussed either way.
The pho was better than the bowl from the day before. The broth was cloudy, like it had chicken stock in it. I eased up on the lime and even added mint leaves. It was heavenly. For good measure I got baked oysters with cheese which were fantastic. As I polished off the oysters it started to rain. I ordered a banh mi to go and headed to my room whilst dreaming of the Russian blonde.
As the sun set on day 2, I hopped to the balcony with the remaining Partagas and vino. A sheet of rain spilled into the sea a couple miles offshore. The breeze was cool enough that I had to put on a shirt. I thought about heading to a beach bar for a cocktail, but then the rain rolled in, bringing with it a pretty spectacular lightning storm, and didn’t let up all night. So that was a wrap. A Cuban and a Sicilian red with a view of the beach and mother nature’s light show. Not bad. I fell asleep on the balcony to the soft rhythm of rain and the din of Cars on the road below.
The following day, I headed out early in search of 2 things: the trio of taco shops listed on Google maps, and coffee. Vietnamese coffee culture is famous, and while I only really drink it to psyche up for work, I couldn’t help but notice the prevalence of coffee shops and the eclectic collection of very unique types on offer in this town. My first go was a sour coffee famous in Hanoi. For a description of that beverage, I refer you to my Substack.
With each passing day, I felt more and more at home in Nha Trang. Not enough to abandon my harem and the comforting view of a gogo stage, but now that I’m a digital nomad I could see me coming here for weeks at a stretch—provided I could find a steady bedroom playdate. Speaking of, when I first arrived and fired up Tinder, I found exactly four girls in this tiny beach town who matched me—a grimly small list. The barista at the coffee shop was cute enough, but I failed to see how this old curmudgeon could possibly turn a java order into a poon-pounding. I finished up my beverage and left without saying anything to her.
Then I was on the hunt for Mexican food in Vietnam. The first stop, Tim’s tacos, was shut. Spots 2 and 3 were in the same alley opposite each other: Cactus and La Mancha. I fell into the former, ordered beef tacos for 185k (250b or $7.65 US) and a Coronarita at an undisclosed price.
Walking back from Cactus I was again accosted on the street by a middle-aged Viet freelancer. She asked in Russian if I spoke Russian. I shook my head, pointed at my earbuds and walked on. Before heading back to the room, I swung into a market and picked up a bottle of red, just in case the Russian decided to make an appearance, plus a bag of beers to ingest while I waited for her. On the counter were boxes of flavored German mini cigars in apple, cherry, and vanilla. Against my better judgment I got one of each and skipped up to my room to smoke a few on the balcony. As daylight faded from the sky, another mild storm moved in complete with thunder, lightning, and a soul-quenching shower that stippled the surface of the bay like icing sugar atop a cake. The slow, undulating currents put me in a state of hypnosis in its eternal slow-rippling surge beachward. These waters are unlike the Andaman, and the Gulf of Thailand, and the eastern side of the Pacific. Nha Trang’s bay, with its visage and sounds putting forth a constant message of “calm, calm,” quiets the quintessence of this savage beast in a way I’ve only felt once before, on the northern coast of Sardinia.
At 20.30 I admitted to myself that the ruskie wasn’t coming, so I showered and dressed and headed streetward to find a chair at a beach bar where I could get shitfaced in solitude. As I stepped out the lift into the hotel lobby, my phone buzzed. It was the Russian. Her: “What are you doing?” Me: Nothing. Her: “Do you still want to drink wine?” Me: Yes. Her: “What time can I come to your room?” Me: Anytime. Her: “OK I will send another message when I’m coming to you.” I quickly returned to my room, stuffed my dirty laundry under the sofa cushions, re-showered and shaved my nuts, and put the wine in the fridge to cool.
When two hours had passed, I began again to doubt she would show, and was on the verge of giving up on her when the message came through: “I’m in the lobby.” I went down and got her. She was still dressed in her work uniform: light blue polo, white visor, white shorts, white trainers. While in the lift, I asked how her work day went. She heaved a big sigh, and said, “Not so good.” I didn’t know how to respond so we fell silent. It made for an awkward lift ride, so I said, “Did you eat yet?” “Yes,” she said, and again went quiet. Aw shit, I thought. She’s uncomfortable, and I don’t see a way out of it. She was mute all the way to the door of the room. When I opened it, she immediately rushed to the balcony, taking in the view and letting out something between a moan and a squeal. I grabbed the wine, eager to let the intoxicant kill the wave of anxiety welling in my guts. She asked if she could take a shower, and I said “Of course.” To give her privacy, I went and sat on the balcony. Usually, I can predict what people will do, because most people are very predictable, but I was lost in that moment with no idea how the encounter would play out. Eventually she joined me, wrapped in nothing but a hotel robe. She put her foot on the side table, exposing one tanned, toned leg all the way up to her thigh. I turned my gaze toward the bay. Then she poured herself a glass, slouched back in her chair, and asked me a series of questions—Where are you from, What do you do, Why are you in Nha Trang, Do you have a wife. I answered them all in succession and then asked her only two questions: How long have you worked here, and do you enjoy it? That sent her off on a very long monolog, 60% of which I didn’t understand, but I nodded along anyway. She seemed very happy to talk about herself. She’s been here for six months after divorcing her husband. She loves Nha Trang, hates cold weather, is learning to surf, hardly ever talks to English speakers. We were getting along swimmingly, however it occurred to me then that I had no clue if or how or when or why to transition from friendly conversation to something more X-rated. None of the tricks I’d learned to seduce Thai girls would work here, and I was racking my brain trying to remember how I wrangled white girls back in Cali when suddenly she let her knee fall just enough to allow a peek at her vajay and said, “I used your razor to shave my pussy. Is OK?” My heart stopped beating and as I stared at her magnificent cooter I wondered whether she was asking if it was OK that she used my razor or if her minge looked acceptable, so I said nothing.
And because of 14 years of brazen crotch grabbing experience in Thailand, I didn’t hesitate to reach over and give her nethers a gentle feel. Because Trump was absolutely right when he said to grab ‘em by the pussy. It has literally never failed to work for me. The mistake most men make is grabbing to aggressively. You have to stroke it, like you would a cat. I kept waiting for her to slap my hand away, but she didn’t. In some small way, it felt like a test. Could I rub her the right way? she almost seemed to be asking.
Then she caught my hand, pulled me up, and led me inside. She pushed me down on the couch—right on top of my dirty laundry—and straddled me, linking her hands round the back of my neck. “How much you give me?” she asked. Finally, I was back on familiar ground. “How much do you want?” I replied. “One million.” I was still not great at the baht-dong conversion in my head, and that sounded a bit high. “How about 500 thousand?” I asked. She let go of my neck and stood up, and I thought that’d be the end of the tryst. She paused for a moment, as if in deep thought. Then she knelt between my knees and said, “500 for blowjob. Tomorrow, I come back again and you give me one million.” I couldn’t talk for some reason, so I only nodded. Then this wild blonde she-beast pulled off my shorts and gave me what I can only describe as the hardest-earned nut of my life. It went on for 20 minutes. Every time she sensed me getting close, she stopped, looked into my eyes, and gave a smirk. I was clearly out-sexclassed by this woman, and thought if this is how all Russian women approach a wang, it’s a wonder we didn’t lose the Cold War, just from honeypots alone. When the end finally came, I think I actually blacked-out for a second. The she-devil stood up and asked “Was good?” Again, I was struck dumb and could only nod whilst trying to catch my breath. She then casually strolled back out to her chair on the balcony and resumed drinking her wine. I went to rinse off and then rejoined her. She saw my box of mini-Cubans and asked for one. I gladly obliged. As she lit up and leaned back in her chair, the stogie in one hand, the wine in the other, the robe falling open, her blonde hair tousled by the breeze, I wondered—If I’d met this chick 10 years ago, would I have straight-up married her? And the answer is yes.
Once the wine bottle was empty, she said she had to go and went into the bathroom to change back into her work uniform. Five minutes later, I handed her 500k. She gave me a hands-around-the-neck hug and said, “Tomorrow I come back.” I asked if I should get more wine. She said yes, then blew me a kiss and was gone. I went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and sat back down on the balcony, awash in recent events and humming with the kind of satisfaction that can only come from transactional contact with a hot piece of ass.
The next morning, I was up and out early because the hotel announced it would test the fire alarm system every 20 minutes from 8 am till noon. The sunny, breezy, salty, tropical Nha Trang morning fit with my physiognomy like a hand in a glove. ‘Twas a short stroll to the Sailing Club where I was too early for lunch and so had to choose a breakkie from an eclectic list of weird combos designed to cater to everyone from Crete to Canton. I asked for a bloody mary. The server went to see if the bartender had heard of it. He returned and explained they didn’t have tomato juice and so could not make me one. I ordered something called a red dragon instead, and the Farmers Breakfast: eggs, chorizo, bacon, mushrooms, potatoes, tomatoes, capsicum, roasted garlic.
Every few minutes, bikini-clad Russian girls strolled past. Magnificent, luscious, sex-charged Russian girls. I flirted with the idea of trading up my 35-year-old for one of these 20somethings, but then thought better of it. Thai girls make me forget that, outside of TLOS, I’m just a goofy old man with nothing to offer a hot young thang but wisdom and a smug sense of superiority. So I eschewed that lofty idea (for about 24 hours) and when my hot babushka messaged to say she’d be over around 18.00, I replied “OK.”
After breakfast I went back to my balcony and just watched the bay’s slow, sedating, circular waves that from atop the hotel looked more like ripples on a gigantic green-blue pond. Then in the afternoon, I set out for a bowl of what Tony Bourdain called “the best soup in the world,” bun bo hue. And lord have mercy, I wasn’t disappointed. But again, if you want to read about the food you’ll have to pop over to my Substack.
For the exact amount of time it took to scarf down the bo bun hue it absolutely pissed down. When I paid and walked out, the sun was glaring again and steam was rising from puddles in the street. I became instantly soaked in sweat, but it didn’t deter me from taking another stab at finding my missing friend. I hit two more high-end hotels with no luck, and resolved to try a different tack, albeit equally as futile, which was to wander around Nha Trang by night checking random dive bars in hopes of running into him by happenstance. But that would have to wait till later, because the hot babushka was coming over again that evening, and I needed to prepare.
On the way home, I picked up another bottle of Sangiovese and half a dozen cans of beer. Then I went up to the room to shower, tidy up, and wait for the girl. When she arrived, I went downstairs to wrangle her. Once again, we didn’t talk in the lift, but this time she leaned against me and held my hand. And again, she showered first and emerged in just a robe. This time, though, she skipped the balcony and the wine, tossed the robe, and flopped down naked on the bed. Then she looked at me and patted the spot next to her on the mattress. I disrobed and lay down. She rolled one leg over mine and ran a hand over my chest, then down to my wedding tackle. “You have condom?” she asked. I nodded and grabbed one from the nightstand. She went down on me long enough to wake up mini-Seven, then put on the condom and climbed on top of me. Then she stopped. “You can give me two million?” For a split second, I raged at the cheek of the girl. Then two things happened. First, she reached down and cupped my balls, and second, I realized she was asking for around 2,700 baht—not bad for a once-in-a-lifetime vacay row with a Russian sex croshka. I nodded, and what ensued was a cockthrottling like I hadn’t had in years. Her body was like a lascivious amusement park. Every muscle, bone, and sinew seemed crafted by a perverted sculptor. She controlled every second of the encounter. I was merely a passive participant in her epic solo battle for my baby batter. It was over in under five minutes. We took turns showering, and she put her work uniform back on. After giving her the cash I asked if she wanted some wine. She declined and said she had to meet some friends for dinner. Then she blew me another kiss, and was gone, with no promise of another liaison. I guzzled a couple beers and then decided to go searching for my friend. After two hours of boozing in tiny bars around the town center with no sign of my long-lost buddy, I gave up and went to bed.
In the morning, I was in a state of limbo—unsure if the babushka would message again and even less sure if I wanted her to. For shits and giggles I returned to Tinder and realized I had my age settings on 18 to 19 years old. When I changed it to 26, I suddenly had several dozen more prospects. But as I flipped through them, I realized two things: first, Vietnamese girls all look strikingly similar. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. 90% of the Tinders had almost exaggerrated hourglass figures, porcelain skin, and nearly identical facial features consisting of long, small noses, dark alluring eyes, and perfect smiles—all appealing in appearance, but quite uniform. The only unique look was the odd blonde-haired gal. I went ahead and clicked “like” on everyone, embracing the small chance of a love connection before my flight home.
It’s been a struggle to not take naps in the afternoons here in Vietnam, and by struggle, I mean I fall under the comforter at around 2 pm with zero effort. It’s especially easy to do when an afternoon shower rolls in from the sea. I just slide open the balcony door and doze to the pitter-pattering sound of the rain, or watch mesmerized as it moves in sheets from the distant islands to the beach. It would truly be a charmed life if I relocated here….and if a harem could be cultivated from the local 20-year-old clunge population. My short-term goal was to find at least one Vietnamese chickie to nail and then nail down for future visits. The old Russian, God bless her, wouldn’t do for repeat visits. She was simply too much woman for my old depleted bone(s).
And here, friends, is where I will end this post. I know, one or two of you might be wondering, “What about your lost buddy?” and “Did the Russian come back?” and “How about those Tinder matches?” All I can say is, at time of posting I’m still in Nha Trang, so this business hasn’t ended yet, and this blog is already too damn long. So for closure on all the above, come back next Sunday.
This week’s Members Only Gallery is a photo album of gogo dancer Bee, who used to be the commander at The Strip and who now dances on Soi Cowboy. Some of the pics were taken by me in the gogo. Others were sent to me by Bee, who loves the camera as much as it loves her. The link can be found here: https://bangkokseven.com/members-only-gallery-just-bee/
but only if you become a Member. The price tag is $1 per month, and new content is added weekly. I’m too dumb to figure out how to link the weekly posts to a single button on my website, so I post the links on my social every Friday, and provide a summary of all posts at the end of each month. Sorry for the inconvenience.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Sorry for all the typos. I didn’t proofread. Check back next Sunday for another summary of this redlight life. In the meantime, you can read more Bangkok-centric stuff on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Slideshows from previous blogs going back several years can be found at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
My buddy Jack and I host a growing Facebook community with lots of nightlife-related content at: https://www.facebook.com/groups/thaiagogo
and I’ve got a small but robust group of pervs posting photos daily at a group called Super Hot Asians here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/374120690195407
Follow me on Twitter/X @BangkokSeven for daily monger material, along with these other profiles that’re chock full of photos of hotties:
@bar_thigh
@BangkokNightli2
Thai chick-related artwork can be purchased at
https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
And until next time fellow BK Bukowskis and Bathshebas, keep your balls (or tits) warm, your beer cold, and cheers to another week above ground in the greatest country on Earth: Thailand.
Pro Tip Post-Script: If you’ve never been to Vietnam, you need to go. It’s not nearly as sexy as Thailand, and nothing can replace the TLOS redlight, but every other aspect of this place is phenomenal–especially if you hit up a near-perfect beach town like Nha Trang. The Panorama Star is fantastic, and in low season it’s around 550 baht per night.
