I've started to realize that quite possibly my favorite thing about traveling - adventures and friends and freedom aside - is breakfast. Our morning routine. The unhurried start of our day.
I love waking up slowly, catching up on social media in bed while Reece showers. I love finding our favorite local breakfast spot in each city, taking the guesswork out of where we start our day. I love when the cook grows to recognize us, and knows what we plan to order. I love sitting on tiny plastic stools sipping strong iced coffee (oh yeah, I've become a coffee drinker in Vietnam). I love lingering at our roadside table long after we've finished our meal. Most of all, I love being a quiet observer of local life, absorbing it in a way you can only do when no obligations pull you away.
Yesterday, I was so filled with joy and gratitude for moments like these that I was brought to tears over our shared dish of pork and eggs and rice. Watching women selling produce on the sidewalk, feeling the rush of motorbikes whizzing by, squinting my eyes from the smoke of the street-side grill, playing with passing puppies, pondering where the afternoon might take us. Many a breakfast has turned into a lunch this way, as we eat and drink and talk and savor this life we're living. And what better time to pause, take it all in and appreciate it, than over breakfast.