I officially have less than a week to go, and I’m in a funny place about it. Part of me is happy to get back to my North Carolina life, as I really cherish my jobs and friends there. Being here reminds me how special it is to feel included in something.

Another part of me, however, wants to ride off into the wild blue yonder. My mind keeps replaying the final moments of that early ’90s travelogue flick Captain Ron (really). The feather-light comedy follows a family sailing around the world. In the beginning, they can’t wait to get off their boat. But by the end, they find they can’t leave. When they reach their final destination, which they’ve been talking about the whole trip, they just keep on sailing — and continue farther off the grid. The movie probably isn’t anything to write home about, but I saw it when I was 9, and thinking about that ending tableau still makes me smile.

Please understand me. I’m not staying in Vietnam. But being here is a reminder that the world is so big. In my American life, the weeks and months blend together, but here every day is another reality. I love my North Carolina routine, but here I’m busted out of it, and it’s such a pleasure that I’m involuntarily biting my lower lip as I write this. I have this itch, this constant hunger to travel. Even here, I often feel better on a plane or a train than I do sightseeing. I love moving forward and constantly finding somewhere new. Sometimes I feel like I need that to live. I don’t know if that’s a gift or a disability.

Anyway, I recently returned from two spots: the mountain town of Sapa and the coastal getaway of Ha Long Bay. Both were fairly equal parts incredible and tiring, and at both I felt incredibly lucky, as I have nearly every day of this trip.

Sapa

Tucked away in the far northern mountains, this remote spot was a real mix rustic quaintness and out-and-out touristy capitalism. For visitors these days, the thing is to go “trekking,” which basically means hiking through areas that aren’t completely geared toward it. On the way, you see a world of rice paddies and bright green terraced farming open up in front of you as women from the local villages plead with you to by their handicrafts. To make matters a bit more complicated, you absolutely need them as you slip-slide down slick, muddy hills. Then, when you reach the bottom, you’re so happy to be safe, that you kind of don’t mind spending more money than you should on embroidered purses, earrings and bracelets that you don’t need.

At least that was me. Sapa was one of those places I was hankering to see from the moment I spotted it on a map while on the plane, and I was so strangely pumped up about it that when I got there I couldn’t help but be let down by its introduction. That first morning, after an overnight train ride and a rough bus haul, I ate a mediocre buffet breakfast at my hotel and then was whisked down a steep trail to a little minority village. The place, which had concrete sidewalks and a gift store that blasted traditional music, felt more like one of those living-history villages that recreate the colonial times than a town where people actually lived. I felt sad and ultimately a little responsible for it all, and when our guide sort abandoned us on the walk back up, I didn’t even care.

The next day, however, the world was all new again during my soggy 6-mile trek. Maybe it was the sleep, but I felt renewed. My guide, named Shum, was sweet and hilarious, and she kept warning my group not to step in the “buffalo chocolate.” Perhaps best of all, I met Steph and Tyson, Australian journalists I would randomly run into again less than a week later in Hoi An. We talked for hours as we walked through the rain with our ponchos and rubber boots. The scene was so simple, really, just chatting and walking forward through mud and drizzle, but it might have been my favorite time on my entire trip. I can close my eyes and be back there instantly.

That night, we slept in a guesthouse in the middle of some remote village. I hung out with the group and listened to tales told by a retired Czech lady and her English husband and tried to learn a new card game. That was unsuccessful, but I did learn I can’t hold my rice wine. I ended up in my mosquito-net-festooned bed sicker than I ever have been. But, strangely, I was still in a good mood. I was in a haze but I still knew that my Vietnam experiences, nausea included, were all mine and would be mine forever.

Ha Long Bay

For me, doing nothing usually comes with a side of guilt. I’m not much for kicking back and taking it easy unless I’m in a heavy period of denial (not unheard of). So, I had gone back and forth about Ha Long Bay, a spectacular body of water dotted with craggy rock formations that tourists often use as a backdrop for heavy partying. I figured I didn’t need it, that I could leave that sort of laid-back thing to the folks who were better at it, or were at least looking for it. I thought I was immune to all that touristy relaxation stuff.

Like so many other times on this vacation and in my life, I was pleasantly proved wrong.

I ended up having a nice, decadent time on a nearly fancy junk I had booked sight unseen. I shared a kayak with an Irish doctor of a certain age and met an American college professor and his bubbly, sweet 12-year-old son. I delighted in the fact that my singleton suite had golden pillows, dark wood and a real shower (not just a shower head angled over the entire bathroom). I didn’t even mind that I had to put in earplugs to drown out the engine at night and that my bill for sodas and maybe two cocktails was $17. I was on vacation, and I felt it acutely.

The sole night I spent on the boat, there came a point when nearly everyone jumped off the second floor into the sea. I couldn’t pass that up. The brine was a comforting, almost-warm blanket, the perfect antidote to all the crowded streets and screaming motorbikes I’d been hearing for weeks. Lying back, I was in love with my salt water womb and the quiet darkness that surrounded me. People were talking and splashing not too far away, but I felt delectably alone.

For a few minutes, before all my mind chatter and worries returned, my head was wonderfully thoughtless. And I was just there, floating.

Must resist beautifully constructed tchotchkes...

The most exciting part about all this is that there is so much going on here that you get lost in the craziness. You are anonymous. I love it, and I had no idea how much I was craving that.

As a side note, last night I had to undergo a couple of painful, pricey rabies shots. They were ones I should have received seven days ago but was given bad advice at the time. Anyway, whatever. It’s all part of the adventure (and the part that will keep on giving for months — as I pay it off). The beautiful thing was how friendly and attentive the medical personnel were. One young guy talked to me about living in Colorado, where he did his studies, and when I asked him if he ever skied, he sort of brushed it off and explained it was too dangerous. When I told him the traffic seemed more dangerous here, he proudly said he’d never been in an accident. Again, the awe is kicking in.

It looks like this beehive will just be a stopover for me. I’m headed on a train to Sapa tonight, and when I get back I’m going to head off to Ha Long Bay for a few days. Part of me wants to sink into the craziness here, but I’ve got forces pulling me east and west. One of my doctors last night summed up Sapa by calling it “very beautiful and very weird.” I don’t really know what that means, but it sounds kind of perfect.

These kids looked like they were having a good time in Hoi An.

Well, I leave you with more pictures of Hoi An, my last stop. So far, that small town has been my favorite of the journey. It has a gentle feel to it, one that’s hard to describe but almost instantly palpable. One of the days I spent there I just rode a bike all across town, and that juicy bit of freedom was enthralling. I loved exploring little back alleys and small country roads and finding slices of life off the beaten path. I already miss the quiet, personal feel of the place, and I’m happy I’ll be there again soon.

Until I find another internet outlet, here are some more pictures of Hoi An.

This woman makes all kinds of pottery at her shop, a mile or so out of Hoi An.

I found this overgrown Chinese cemetery as I wandered around Hoi An on my rented bike.

This 90-year-old woman makes her living selling 50¢ ceramic animal whistles to tourists. Of course I bought a few.

These ruins at My Son (near Hoi An) were created by Javanese people centuries and centuries ago.

A couple looks into the ruins at My Son.

I met this lady in Hoi An's old town. She never stopped smiling as far I could tell.

Anyway, I’m sitting in my hotel room in downtown Da Nang. I don’t have time to find out whether this big, busy, pungent city has a lot of charm, as I’m flying to Hanoi in a little more than an hour. Soon after, I’ll be off to the northern mountain town of Sapa, which is just a few kilometers from China. I can’t wait. I think what I’m most excited about is getting away from everything. Here or in Nha Trang or Ho Chi Minh, the moment you step outside any building, you feel like prey. Part of the challenge of being here is having literally hundreds of people a day come up to you wanting to steer you toward their restaurant, tailor shop or motorbike tour or whatever. You get to a place where you actually get wary of smiling faces and start to hate answering the inevitable question of where you’re from. You feel attacked from all angles, and you are. It reminds me of being in high school, actually, because the pressure is similarly never ending. You get a point where you realize that it will never change and so, instead, you must. I’m happy to report that I’ve said “no” more times this month than I probably have all year.

But God, please don’t think I’m having a bad time. I’m having the time of my life. Every day, I feel lucky to be here, challenges and all. My mind might be full of half-formed plans and I might spend about 23 hours of every day covered in layers of sweat, but part of me feels refreshed. I think it’s the part that has now been reminded that I can still surprise myself.

This is more of Hoi An, a small, touristy fishing village on Vietnam's coast. I just left it, and I already miss it.

Anyway, there is much more to be said, but I’m about to hop on my plane. I know it sounds decadent, but the alternative is about 35 hours on buses, and while I can be insecure, but I’m not that masochistic.

I can’t wait to see what the north has in store.

So long, Nha Trang. It's been good to know you.

I’m in Nha Trang right now, but I’m just about to head out to Hoi An on a “sleeper bus,” which will be an adventure in itself. The bus will consist of maybe 30 “beds” — seats that look like a hybrid of a plush bus seat and a poolside lounge chair. For about 10 hours, I’ll be almost completely horizontal, except for a slight incline against my back, and I’ll see the dark Vietnamese countryside go by until (hopefully) I squeeze in a couple hours of fitful sleep. I’ve chosen a bed on the upper level of the bus, which kind of adds to the excitement, especially since Vietnamese bus drivers seem to look at pot holes as more of a challenge than something to avoid.

In the last few days, I’ve had so many experiences, from being bitten by a dog (the rabies vaccine is surprisingly easy to come by in Nha Trang) to snorkeling in a murky section of the ocean, to drinking 45¢ beer with a lovely, young British couple. I don’t know how to distill all this, how to boil it down and come up with cool little anecdotes. Everything is happening so fast, and I’m constantly fearful that I’m not doing enough or that I’ll run out of time. There is so much to take in that I don’t know where to start, but I suppose trying to figure that out is part of the fun and challenge of being somewhere new. I love traveling, but it’s humbling and perhaps perfect to know that it’s not always easy for me. Not at all.

But, at least I know how to do one thing, and that’s snapping pictures of children and animals (well, as long as the latter don’t attack my ankles again).

Paul, these are for you.

Jessica's dad is Australian, and her mom is Vietnamese. I met her right before a fateful run in with a dog.

I know ... this one's a little hard to take.