It was dark when we arrived at Kompong Cham, and the bridge over the Mekong was ablaze with blue lights. We had driven a long and dusty road, so the two high-rise hotels (10 or 11 floors each!) and the bustle of restaurants and traffic had a mirage-like feel.

After dinner, we strolled back to the hotel along the river. There were street vendors and skateboarders and a group of school kids playing a game. There were open-air shops and music blaring. It was nothing like what the word Mekong means to me.

The Mekong flows through China, Myanmar, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam. But it’s Vietnam that has colored it for me. Seeing the river now makes me feel like my mother did when we rode a train through Chateau Thierry and other World War I towns in France, names she remembered her father mentioning from his time in the signal corps during the Great War.

Hanoi, Gulf of Tonkin, the Mekong. These are not names I associate with ice cream carts and a warm summer evening. They are full of war and pain and death.

Or at least they were. I changed my mind about one of them last night.