Nestled in the northern reaches of Vietnam, Ha Long Bay and Cat Ba Island offer a tapestry of breathtaking landscapes and serene waters, interwoven with the rich texture of Vietnamese culture and history. My recent voyage to these iconic destinations was an experience that danced gracefully between relaxation and adventure, leaving me with memories etched in the beauty of their natural wonders.

The passion of the fans was palpable. From the moment we entered the ground until well after the final whistle, the Suhoshin, the name given to the hardcore fan group situated in the North Stand, never stopped singing.

On this afternoon, the streets were abuzz with local life; the lack of expats in the crowd hinted at this hutong's authentic day-to-day vibrancy. Families, scooters zipping by, and the kaleidoscope of traditional Chinese fast food coalesced into a singular visual feast distinct to hutongs. It was in the narrow side streets, however, where a quieter story unfolded—one that allowed my camera to focus on scenes less traveled.

I joked with a friend that I had been Beijing’ed. My family and I moved here last June, and ever since, I’ve felt my connection to the Iranian diaspora slipping–this week hammered that home. My mistake, missing the ever-important kick-off event to the Nowruz season, wouldn’t have been a thing back in DC. But, if I’m honest, this disconnect isn’t anything new. I mean, we grew up in rural Kentucky. So, it felt like everything Iranian happened in a vacuum. While we knew we were Iranian, my father’s maintenance of our cultural touch points was basically limited to rice with every meal and facilitating a love of radishes.

Back then, it was known as a nightlife hotspot. It was where expats and young Beijingers went for a night of drinking and dancing—a Beijing version of DC’s Adams Morgan or Dupont Circle. As things go in Beijing, however, the area isn’t as hip as it once was. The new chic area of town moved further east, down to Sanlitun.

I fell in love with Tokyo quickly. Like maybe immediately. I don’t know. In the first few days there, I kept thinking about how it reminded me of New York City. It’s big, bustling, and full of life. But it’s a calmer, cleaner, and cheaper version of the Big Apple. Sure, Shibuya is Times Square meets Bourbon Street, but the rest of the city operated much slower than I expected for a city of 31 million.

If you missed the sign out front indicating Epilogue was for Liverpool supporters only, you couldn’t miss the other clues on display as you entered. Patrons clad in red, a collection of the most recent kits worn by the Mighty Reds. Posters and signed jerseys hung from the wall. Liverpool pint glasses are stacked neatly behind the bar. Graphics from The Anfield Wrap hang from the doors along a back corridor.

In fact, the craft beer industry in Beijing and China is quite robust, mature, and producing high-quality craft beer on par with anything I have consumed in the US. Despite that, the beer culture remains vastly different from what you can find in the States. This stems, in large part, from differences in tastes, practices, and purchasing trends.

I had a choice to make, and it was one that would affect the direction of this piece. I could continue the night’s festivities and end up with something akin to Hunter S. Thompson’s essay on the Kentucky Derby. While it would probably have made for a great story, I didn’t believe it was in my best interests to roll those dice here in Beijing.