Science was always my least favorite subject in school. I understand the importance of it—it just wasn’t for me. I hated how rigid the process was and how definite the answers had to be. I always found myself longing for something a little more nebulous and open to interpretation.
Chemistry was the worst. Just a bunch of schmoes in oversized lab coats and ill-fitting goggles measuring this and mixing that, looking around to see if their tube turned the same color as their neighbors’ tubes.
It should come as no surprise, then, that I’ve retained almost nothing from my time amongst the Bunsen burners and Erlenmeyer flasks and all that other goofy shit named after DWEMs (Dead White European Males).
A Saigon street performer breathes fire near Bia Bệt while the author enjoys an unending stream of Tiger Beer
The one nugget I will always remember, though, is the difference between a physical change and a chemical change. I found it fascinating to learn that some things change but really don’t, while other things really do, and can never change back.
[Editor’s note: A wise woman once sang, “I like a good beer buzz early in the morning.” A few years later, she sang, “I think a change will do you good.” Both of these statements are true and fair and righteous.]
For those who’ve forgotten or maybe weren’t paying attention the first time, a physical change is like ice melting or water freezing. At the end of the day, it’s still H2O. That’s life, right? Some days you’re a glass of water. Some days you’re an ice cube. Some days you might even evaporate or condense. But at the end of every day, you’re still you in some form or another.
A chemical change, on the other hand, is like lighting a match. Elements react and rearrange and combine in different ways to create something new—something that wasn’t there before. The process is intense and exciting and produces a flame as a result, and the match can never be the way it was before.
For me, travel is like a chemical change.
Travel is indelible and irreversible. It’s a permanent transformation into something new by something new. New food, new drinks, new people, new customs, new cultures. There’s no going back. You’ll never be able to regain the self you were before experiencing all those new things.
But as enticing and exhilarating and moving as all that new can be, a small bit of the familiar here and there can add credence to the experience. For me, that bit of familiarity is usually a poundable, mass-produced Lager that promotes chillage and stays out of the way of the local cuisine.
Unfortunately, Coors Banquet is only sold in the United States (including Puerto Rico), Canada (minus Newfoundland), and the Dominican Republic (¯\_(ツ)_/¯), so that means if I’m traveling to one of the other 193 countries on this goofy, green Earth, I’ve got to find a new go-to.
On my recent trip to Vietnam, that beer of choice was Tiger (Tiger and Chill). It was available all over the place—both in Hanoi and Saigon—and even if the alleyway food stall didn’t sell beer, they’d send someone down the street to grab you a can if you asked.
Served moderately cold, it was a great temper to steaming hot phở, helped round out the sweetness of bún chả, mellowed in the background next to an intensely flavorful bánh gối, and simply could not have gone any better with a big ol’ fresh bánh mì.
But it was also a completely crushable companion for an evening of people watching on Saigon’s walking streets, where traffic is shut off after about 6pm, restaurants and bars start relocating to the pavement, fire breathers put their facial follicles on the line for tips, and roaming vendors try to sell sunglasses in the middle of the night.
You could also find Tiger chilled in four-packs at every Circle K, which, in the cities, seemed to be spaced approximately 700 feet from each other. The convenience factor cannot be overstated.
The year prior, it was Club Colombia Dorada (Dorada and Chill) in Cartagena. “Dorada” translates to “gold” in English, which gave me some distinct Banquet vibes. The beer itself is a little thinner and a bit more astringent, but it still goes down quite easy. It was also the perfect partner for all the arepas and tamales consumed streetside, the ceviche consumed in less street-adjacent locations, and a great prelude to a nightly deluge of mojitos.
Similar to Tiger, Dorada was for sale everywhere, including out of a beat-to-shit cooler next to a remote mountaintop waterfall in Minca. Which, let me tell you—after an hour-long hike during which sweat was pouring off my elbows like the aforementioned waterfall—was absolutely heavenly at the end of the trail.
And the year before that, the Icelandic chiller of choice was Gull (Gull and Chill). “Gull,” coincidently, also translates to “gold,” so at the very least I’m consistent. To be perfectly honest, it tasted a bit more like a High Life than a Banquet, but I was thoroughly okay with that, too. On the food side, it was mostly paired with rich and hearty stews, or seaside lobster soups, or the occasional—surprisingly popular and absolutely delightful—hot dog with crispy onion sauce.
Gull was also a way to help pass time in the darkness, quasi-reclined in a parked RAV4, smack dab in the middle of nowhere, unable to see much of anything, really, waiting for the Northern Lights to reveal themselves. They never did. But Gull helped keep things interesting during the futile wait.
All of these trips were hugely transformative for me. Returning from each, I arrived back home altered in ways I hadn’t fully anticipated, more attuned to my surroundings, my habits, and my place in the world. I think that would’ve been the case regardless of which beer I chose to drink along the way.
But I honestly believe that having that little bit of familiarity along the way—that constant to help put all the new in perspective—made the experiences that much more impactful, and the memories that much more enduring.
All of which is to say: Travel and Chill.
