The flight over here was strangely painless, considering it involved spending over 16 hours in a seat clearly designed for armless children. This is what I get for not shelling out for business class, I suppose. The airline is clearly punishing me for not being rich.
Every time I fly out to Asia, I end up reading a Murakami book. This time it's "Kafka on the Shore." I've read almost all of his works by now, save for the ones not involving call girls, caves and dreamworlds. The one exception was "Norwegian Wood" and I thought it was just okay.
As expected, Ho Chi Minh City's hot and humid. Every time I'm about to walk out of an air-conditioned place, I can literally see the heat and humidity crouching outside, waiting impatiently to pounce on my cool, sweat-free ass.
But luckily there hasn't been much precipitation, only persistent people trying to sell you shit. And mopeds ... fucking ... everywhere. Coming at you from every imaginable angle, carrying up to four people, even five-foot sheets of glass.
I actually woke up at 5 AM today, and it was as if every moped in town decided to drive under my window. Rush hour at fucking 5 in the morning. AND last call at 12. No joke, the clubs and bars shut down at midnight, except in the backpacker district. These people clearly hate themselves.
I really dig Saigon, though. So much happening every few feet right on the sidewalks of this town. Walk down less than half a block and you see five shirtless old guys sitting in a circle on red plastic chairs, a girl trying to put a hat on her dog while her mom chops cucumbers, and a tiny woman hoisting two baskets filled with the strangest, most delicious fruit I've ever tasted.
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