Hot
Hot in Vientiane Laos
Hot travel story in Vientiane Laos by Lary Kennedy, travel humorist and writer behind Living Like I’m Dying, exploring extreme Southeast Asia heat and daily life.
Hot weather, insect bites, and massage culture in Vientiane Laos including traditional Laos massage experiences while traveling in Southeast Asia.
Patuxai monument and Pha That Luang Vientiane Laos travel highlights within a hot Southeast Asia travel narrative by Lary Kennedy.
Hot-blooded. Check it and see.
I’ve got a fever of a hundred and three.
I’m hot-blooded.
I’m hot. Period.
Boiling, actually.
Walking outside doesn’t just shut my phone down—it shuts me down. My entire system overheats, slows, glitches.
Every insect bite—past and present—has risen up in protest. Histamine-fueled, swollen, itchy, angry. My skin feels like it’s staging a full-blown revolt. I swear, it’s not the big things that drive you insane. It’s the drip… drip… drip of a faucet you can’t turn off. The low, relentless buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. The agonizing itch you can’t scratch that’s just out of your reach.
Then, out of nowhere—kabam.
I can’t take it anymore.
I’m scratching everything, everywhere, all at once—fast and frantic, trying to get the old bites, new bites—it doesn’t matter. They’re all over my body vying for attention at the exact same time. Blood gathers under my fingernails, then onto the sheets, which I’m constantly cleaning to avoid getting charged for ruining them.
My only respite from the bugs, the heat, the stagnant air is to take refuge in my hotel room.
So I buy a bag of ice, wrap it in a towel, and curl around it in the fetal position. Curtains drawn. AC cranked as high as the occasionally cooperative electricity will allow. I lie there, half-naked, clinging to the cold… the only thing keeping me sane.
Relief only comes when the daylight finally starts to fade. Ten degrees cooler, no sun beating down on me.. suddenly I’m semi-functional again. Perhaps a massage is in order. Could help drain my clogged lymph nodes.
At least one massage parlor sits on every street corner in Southeast Asia. No matter your station in life, massage is practically part of basic healthcare. Masseuses stand outside their shops at all hours, calling out every time you walk by, asking if you’d like a massage.
And if you pass by again ten minutes later, they’ll ask again.
“Massage, madam? Massage?”
No thanks.
Try as I might, I can’t ignore the constant barking. Maybe the goal is to wear you down until you give in. Or give you a headache—which, coincidentally, I happen to have tonight.
As sunset approaches, I slide my curtain open just enough to confirm it’s dark enough to venture out. I push open the lid of my makeshift casket and head out for a 7 PM breakfast, passing a cool-looking massage parlor with stairs leading up to a loft. I can just make out what looks like private massage rooms.
I’m a sucker for a loft of any sort.
Relieved, no one comes charging at me with the usual “massage, massage, massage, madam.” Instead, I find myself perusing a laminated menu sitting on a wire patio table out front. Aside from the usual list of massage options—with varying times and prices—they also offer waxing services.
My lawn could really use some mowing.
Eventually, a woman emerges from the lower level of the building.
“What service can I help you with?” she asks.
(What is it with these places? is there a middle ground between full on in your face and pretend you don’t exist mode?)
“What kind of wax do y’all use?”
Her quizzical expression tells me it’s the painful kind.
“I’ll go with a traditional Laos massage,” I say. I make it a point to try the traditional option in every country.
“I’m just going to grab a bite to eat. I’ll be back at 21:00.”
Finished with breakfast (pork larb with rice and two glasses of Cabernet—juice, obviously), my masseuse shows me to the room. I disrobe, lie on my stomach, and the massage begins.
In every country, I’ve taken full advantage of the low cost and have had at least 30 massages up to this point. All different techniques and rituals, different pressure points, etc. Zero complaints thus far.
Per usual, my massage starts with my back. Damn, my shoulders are sore. This gal likes to move her hands fast—both at the same time—with a decent amount of pressure. Different, but pleasant. My body relaxes. My mind starts to drift.
Next thing I know, little miss masseuse is moving up and down my right leg, then the left each time stopping just short of the jackpot.
Hmm… this is interesting. I’m not wearing underwear. Normally some sort of modesty covering is provided… when the establishment requires it.
She’s done this a gazillion times. She’s a professional I tell myself .She’s not aiming for the bulls eye.. Right?
Time to flip over. along with the sheet covering the entire front of my body, as she moves to my arms.
Silly girl. Everything’s on the up and up. Stop with the paranoia
Next thing I know, she snaps the top sheet from my shoulders, landing it on my hips.
Oh. My. God.
With these sand things over my eyes, I can’t tell by sight if my weedy grass area is making an appearance. But I’m feeling a bit of wind rustle through the whippoorwills.
Okay… now I’m in uncharted territory. What the hell is happening?
Her hands move to my chest.
Breathe. Think. Don’t freak out. This has to be perfectly normal.
Remember that massage in Langkawi? That lady went full on boob.. That was a traditional Malaysian massage.
I figure it’s a Buddhist thing.
Laos is all about Buddha.
Now she’s caressing the ta ta’s faster and faster. Okay.. now I’m getting hot. Half from the obvious, the other from oh shit, what have I gotten myself into
Fingers crossed, images of broccoli and my grandmother naked work some kind of magic. She does not need encouragement at this point. What the hell am I to do?
This far into the ordeal, it would be impolite to stop. What would I even say? I’m actually pretending I’m oblivious to all of it. No way I want to hurt her feelings… but there was nothing in that menu indicating a happy ending situation.
Glory be.. Time’s up.
Clothed and rushing down the stairs, I pay the amount owed with an added ten percent tip. She scoffs.
Hahah.. funny thing.
I came in hot. She tried to make me hot. Then got hot when I didn’t tip. And I left.. still hot..
Hot damn.
Come to find out, it’s the annoying chase, the constant massage, madam every five seconds – those are actually the legit places. Go figure.
Hot or not, I cannot leave Vientiane without checking out two very iconic landmarks.
So into the heat wave I go.
Laos’ most iconic monument is essentially a giant ‘thank you for leaving’ note to the French, built with stolen airport concrete.
Known as the ‘vertical runway,’
Vientiane’s Patuxai is a concrete middle finger to colonial rule that literally out-arches the Arc de Triomphe.
Why build an airport when you can build a massive independence monument out of the CIA’s leftover cement?
The “Vertical Runway”: In the 1960s, the U.S. donated funds and cement for a new military airbase. The Royal Lao Government famously used those materials to build Patuxai instead, honoring soldiers who died in the war for independence against France.
Cultural Rebranding: Although it resembles a French triumphal arch from a distance, the details are purely Laotian. The ceilings and towers are covered in Hindu deities like Brahma and Vishnu, and mythical half-human, half-bird Kinnaree figures.
Unfinished on Purpose? A plaque at the base refreshingly admits the monument was never actually finished due to the country’s “turbulent history” and describes it bluntly as a “monster of concrete” when viewed too closely.
Observation Deck: For a small fee, you can climb the seven floors to the top. Each floor often houses souvenir stalls, and the top offers the best panoramic view of the wide, palm-tree-lined Lane Xang Avenue.
Meet Pha That Luang: a 148-foot golden pyramid that houses a piece of the Buddha and serves as Laos’ literal and spiritual north star.
Forget gold-plated; this national icon is dripping in 500kg of real gold leaf, proving that in Vientiane, faith is the most valuable currency.
Plundered, bombed, and abandoned, this World Precious Sacred Stupa’ is the golden comeback story of Southeast Asia.
It’s not just a monument—it’s the soul of Laos, so sacred it replaced the hammer and sickle on the national emblem.
From 3rd-century legends to 1,000 pounds of gold, Pha That Luang is the ultimate flex of Laotian identity and resilience.
To keep me out of the hot seat, I’ll go ahead and say it:
Some of the historical heavy lifting for Patuxai and Pha That Luang was assisted by Google’s AI.
Everything else? Straight from me—unfiltered, overheated, and very much still living like I’m dying.
