My Son

That is a place name; I have no offspring to tell you of.

Booking up on a tour of My Son, the collective (Sam, Gemma, Liz and myself) took, first, a bus to the ancient Cham Towers at My Son, then, afterwards, a boat down the river to Hoi An. For once in Vietnam, you got what you pay for (ie not much), as opposed to the luxury tours we had been treated to further south.

The towers themselves weren't anything spectacular, to be honest, especially compared to Angkor Wat (sorry to keep harping on about it) and even those at Sukhothai and Ayutaya in Thailand. Not just because they aren't on such a grand scale or without the detailed etchings of those mentioned, but also because a lot of it had been damaged by those pesky Yanks during the B-52 carpet bombings in the Vietnamese-American war.

The boat trip wasn't much to write home about, either. We made the mandatory "Oh, look, here's a minority village, and, oh, look, they just happen to have finished making something that you can buy," stop.
I had a look for my lens cap in the river while we floated down, but couldn't find it.

Afterwards, we returned to our tailors to check up on the garments. Needless to say I looked sharp as a knife.