We rode our rented bikes, the ones we got from down the road from our hotel, all around the city that day – hours and hours and miles and miles, with no real direction or purpose. We spotted a lake on a map and so we rode there. Along the way we stopped for snacks, we waved at schoolchildren, we bought coffee in bags and marvelled, once again, at Shwedagon Paya. When we finally got to the lake, just in time to see the sun start to set, we literally jumped up and down for joy. We met locals with ground-up bark swirled on their cheeks as protection from the sun. We borrowed a guitar and sang songs that echoed across the water. Us blondes pretended to be brunettes, and vice versa. We retraced our paths nearly all the way home, but decided to visit the same restaurant we had eaten at the night before, it was just that good. Sitting in the streets of Yangon on hard plastic chairs, dining on delicious food, drinking cold Myanmar lager, laughing and singing and making new friends, I can’t remember many more times when I was so happy.