Same Jeans...

Same Pants too.

OK, strolling off the plane into HCM Airport the muggy humidity hits you square in the jaw. It's no worse than any other far eastern country but it's not exactly pleasant. Nor, for that matter, is getting all visa'd up. After already having applied for it weeks ago I got to fill out the forms again and I think I like filling out forms as much as I do sitting still for twelve hours. Gragh. That said, I think I suit the 'vague surprise' expression that I wear on my official papers, so that's fine. Some Vietnamese beaurocrats are in for a real treat if I get up to anything that requires my immediate deportation. I ended up being one of the first to the baggae carousel though, which made the waiting all the more fun. Once all the bags had rolled on and been claimed (even that one fugly bag that everyone ignores a few times before its owner sheepishly carts it off when he thinks you're not looking). Now, my Vietnamese ain't great (I'm pretty sure the language isn't even CALLED that) so trying to get my bag back in French was hi-freakin-larious. Luckily there was a chart and some pictures so it got done in the end. Also the form was in English as well, so I the official's attempt to foil me was futile. I think. Bagless and weary (like Mary and Joseph in a way...) I slouched out of the arrivals terminal to be met with a young lady (no idea what her name was, I was barely awake and it wasn't Hannah so...) and a taxi to my guest house.

My taxi ride. Wow. The cab was clean etc but the awesomeness was the fact that every other vehicle on the road was a scooter. OK, maybe not every but most. Feh. Oh, how they duck and weave. Oh how they ignore all known traffic laws. Oh how they smell. They duck in and out of each other, cut each other off and en masse they look like their drivers are psychic because I'll be damned if I know how they avoid crashing into each other and flipping out. The horns are a lot quieter than Azeri ones too, which is something of a boon. If you ever been to Baku (oh how I laugh) you'll know of the cacophony that greets you every time you come close to a road. What? Yes, it is all close to roads. Yes, the noise is a constant background hum. No, I didn't get used to it. I don't mind the scooters though. Not at all.

Um, the Guesthouse 'California' makes a token effort to seem American in ther lobby. Well, whatever comes below token. There's a bottle of Southern comfort and some Disey crap sat behind the counter. Oh, and Batman Forever commemorative glasses from McDonald's. I may be stealing these on the way home. Val Kilmer is an underappreciated Batman (Again, how I laugh). My room is clean and has two fans, the shower comes up to my nipples (bless these tiny folks. Did I mention that I saw a Vietnamese midget on the plane? He was the smallest adult I ever saw. Awesome. If only he was female, I'd have me a wife to bring home) and the bed is made of steel. Ok, maybe not steel. Maybe just harder than the soupy mattress I'm used to. I do get HBO Asia though, meaning I watched Casino Royale for the first time, subtitled and still two thirds of a good movie. WTF is it with that ending? Hey did I say ending?

Trains, Trains, Trains, Trains, Trams, Planes, Planes and Automobiles.

So much like a kebab I'm hot, sticky and smelly. God I want a kebab.
It's been roughly 24 hours since I landed here in Ho Chi Minh City and I'm finding it hard to get a grip on the place because of my massive jet-lag.
It took me four trains to reach Heathrow's terminal five, essentially a huge US-style shopping mall with the occasional plane and\moaning Norweigian. They were all on time and they were all pretty clean. I read the paper, I enjoyed some tasty cookies and apart from a seem,ingly endless period of time in which the carriage was invaded by football hooligans (from the South of all places) quiet. Ok, probably quiet. That hour was the only time I heard noise not emanating from my MP3 player. This is a sound I will come to miss. Oh, and the London Underground on a Saturday? Eeeeeerily quiet. I suspect terror. That or the Circle line visits precisely no stops of interest.

The last of these fine rail vessels brought me to Heathrow's shiny new Terminal Five. Or as the press are calling it "the biggest British embarssment since Mark Thatcher". 'Terminal Shit' is also being bandied about. I had a ticket that need a quick change, due entirely to Liam related Visa-snags, which meant I had to join the queue for the ticket desk. On a normnal day this would be a ten minute job. On this particular day it took an hour, an hour throughout which I was surrounded by irritated tourists and smiling airport staff. I hate airport staff. I hate people smiling while doing their jobs. Airport staff should be neither seen nor heard. Jobs should make you miserable. Together? My hangover was looking like the least of my problems.

Ticket swapped, liquids put in a clear bag (before going through an X-ray machine regardless. What was the fucking point of that?) and shoes removed I was let though security without even the most cursory of cavity searches. Feh. Now upon entering the collossal departure area, I was struck by how many of no-one's favourite chain stores were there. Also present were precisely zero Lonely Planet style guides to Vietnam, because no-one sane ever comes here. Luckily there was food and free samples of food. I like both of these plenty. I also like having huge black coffees and sitting on my ass. Four hours of things I like passed pretty quickly, during which time you'd think it would be possible to PUT MY FUCKING BAG ON THE PLANE. Let's pretend for a second that this happened shall we? It will make the following eleven-hour flight much less stressful. Ignorance is bliss folks.

So, seat sat in and bag safely stored (down the side of my seat, thanks to crafty online checking-in) I get settled ion for eleven hours next to a fat smelly man who is seemingly incapable of joy. Long haul is awesome like that. To sum up the flight: The Office, 30 Rock, Enchanted, No Country for Old Men, Bee Movie, ContONE HOUR OF SLEEProl, Everybody Hates Chris. Another way of putting it: Coffee, Beer, Fish Pasta, Orange Juice, Peanuts, Cranberry Juice, Cranberry Juice Cranberry Juice, Weird Breakfast Bar, Cooked Breakfast, Orange Juice.
One final way? Getting Out of my seat. Yeah, that happens LOTS when the guy in the aisle seat is passed out and insurmountable. The food wasn't nightmarish, but it would have been better ifit hadn't seared the flesh from my tongue with the first mouthful before giving me brain freeze with the next.

Honk Kong airport is a lovely place to run through, I do hope that someday you OR MY FUCKING LUGGAGE gets to see it. Me too for that matter, because my transfer took an interminable time for no real reason so the run from arrival to departure was a swift one. Also the in-flight entertainment lasted for a full quarter of the flight and I'd already finished reading Q.

Then I arrived in Vietnam, and everything that had gone wrong thus far was brought into sharp, smelly focus...