Don't get me wrong there's still some absolute assholes in Vietnam like the taxi driver who slammed the car door on De Campo and pulled a billy club out of his trunk and threatened to beat me with it when we said he was an absolute asshole for trying to rip us off on cab fare coming back from Ho Chi Minh's place.
De Campo, teary and shaken, took his number down, he sped off, a shopkeeper notified the police, we ran into our travel companions outside a Parisian cafe on the way to the police station, filed a report, then had a rejuvenating shot of tequila and a beer chaser back at the aforementioned cafe with our friends. Whew.
It was 11.45am.
Man that guy was a demonic dickhead.
Perhaps my pink polo shirt and baby blue fanny pack made me look too vulnerable and fatalistic like Judge Reinhold playing Harvey Keitel's pimp in Taxi Driver.
I told Blake and Contessa about my ironic Brando dream the night before and Blake said he'd 'been trying to get a booking with Brando for weeks and weeks and nothing.'That raised my spirits if not my fortunes. Heading to dinner the ATM ate my bank card. Got to the restaurant and had more rejuvenating tequila shots.
Da ting about extremely chaotic cities like dis is that the highs are galvanising and ecstatic and the lows call for rejuvenating tequila shots.
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