WALK REPORT: “The Devil Didn’t Show Up, But the Booze Did”
According to the ever-dramatic HCMC weather report, it was supposed to be cold and windy — and miracle of miracles—they actually got it right for once. A rare day indeed! What greeted us was a full-on meteorological tantrum: fierce winds, sideways rain, and an unexpected UFO (Unidentified Flapping Object) in the form of someone’s underwear sailing majestically through the air. If that’s not fierce weather, I don’t know what is.
Once we reached the ominously named ‘Heart of Darkness’, the storm had calmed its dramatic flair and the skies returned to their usual sulky grey. I fully expected a satanic ritual to kick off — at least a goat sacrifice or someone reading Latin backwards while standing in a chalk pentagram.
Possible expectations included:
- A deal with the Devil,
- A soul-binding demon pact, or
- At the very least, a questionable karaoke performance.
Alas, none of that happened. The only unholy agreement made was between us and the trail: we’d walk (or run) it, despite the chalk arrows having been washed away like sins in a baptismal downpour.
The walk, surprisingly, was a serene and peaceful affair — more Zen than Satan. From our dark little HQ, we wandered around the city toward Ba Son Station. There, we stumbled upon some epic construction, where massive steel poles were being driven into the earth with a pile driver that looked straight out of Da Vinci’s steampunk dreams. It was hypnotic. Some stared in awe, others took photos, and one or two may have fallen a little bit in love.
As we neared Vinhomes Grand Park, the ever-resourceful Rocky presented us walkers with a life-altering choice:
- Option A: Walk the scenic Cầu Thủ Thiêm bridge — 3km of elegance and leg work.
- Option B: Take a shorter, beer-hunting shortcut.
Naturally, Rocky’s group (which included myself and other proud efficiency experts) chose the beer-forward route. The other group, perhaps still clinging to pride, fitness goals, or Google Maps, took the longer way.
We — the enlightened shortcutters — glided across the Cầu Ba Son bridge, giggling and slightly damp, until we hit the shimmering oasis of civilization: the GS25 beer stop. Cold drinks awaited us, and we soon joined forces with the returning runners, uniting like warriors of wet socks and warm beers.
It was then that the merriment escalated. The official measurement for our state at that point? “Pissed as a fart.” Spirits were high. Beers were higher. Sanity was questionable.
After some time, the runners vanished into the mist, and we walkers followed shortly after — minus Rocky, who nobly stayed behind to guide the lost tribe of walkers who had opted for the long, scenic pilgrimage across Cầu Thủ Thiêm.
They eventually found their way via the Hàm Sông Sài Gòn bridge, no doubt led by Rocky’s glowing halo (or possibly the smell of beer and sweat).
Eventually, we all regrouped at the Heart of Darkness, spirits lifted, bellies full, and expectations still high for some kind of satanic ritual.
Spoiler alert: Still no Devil. Not even a minor imp.
Instead, we did what we do best — drank more, laughed louder, and got gloriously, unashamedly pissed as a fart.
The night ended with a resounding “On-On!”, and a vague memory of the underwear that started it all.
Scribe of the week
Chemically Castrated