If Silence is Golden, I'm Dirt Poor Right Now

I'm sitting in our hotel room in Saigon, we're in the tourist/backpacker district, and even though we're on the third floor and our windows are shut and the fan and the air conditioning are both running and it's 11:15 at night, I can hear four British guys outside on the patio drinking a case of beer and having a totally pretentious conversation and one of them just broke out into a verse of "Every Breath You Take" by the Police and I actually thought he was doing a pretty good job of mimicking Sting's accent until I realized, hello, he's British; REM's "Losing My Religion" is blaring at the bar around the corner and some dance tune is pulsing behind it; I can hear the scooters and the vans and the motorcycles zooming by, the noise of a thousand people talking, the horns from the buses and vans, the sound of the diesel-powered generator, the blenders from the fruit shake ladies downstairs, and the sniffling of my ill and desperately-trying-to-sleep husband next to me as I clackety-clack on the keyboard.

There's a gigantic millipede in our bathroom.

Also, I am lame.