Clothed in Lonely

I'm sitting in the restaurant of the Rex Hotel, watching motorbikes zoom by outside. The rooftop of the hotel was where the US military would give daily press briefings, saying how well everything was going. The Five O'Clock Follies, it was called by the reporters, who, when it was over, would walk to the edge and watch mortar attacks against their own take place on the outskirts of Saigon.
It's not Saigon anymore. But people still call it that, even shops and restaurants carry Saigon in their names.

During my midday break I went up to the rooftop for a little swimming in the pool.

I leave tomorrow. I'm ready to go. I'm feeling lonely. Traveling can be lonely. Enough strained conversations with "moto" taxi drivers, trying to shout at them where I'm from, above the honking horns, bus air brakes, squealing brakes. Enough monkeying with the language, entertaining the newsroom with my poor command of Vietnamese.

Enough fiddling with my extension webcam late in the night for a maybe chance to talk to my dad in Florida during his breakfast hour.

Enough insomnia. I miss my bed, my friends. Mostly I miss my dog.