Chicken satay simmering on wood sticks in open air markets and streets flooded with toxic sweet sewage water, barking dogs, yelping touts, and jasmine sweltering air of Bangkok? No.
Winter-crisp August air purer than pure at thousands of feet of elevation in the Swiss and Italian Alps? No.
Crunchy dead-red leaves with the last warm gasps of wind, mixed with that nose-filling freshness that is coming death of east-coast American autumn? Yes!
