For some reason, my Blogger interface is in Japanese even though I'm holed up in the business centre of a Vietnamese hotel. Not that it would be any better if it were in Vietnamese.
Anyhoo. It's cats and dogs outside, and I've been dashing from shop to shop along Dong Khoi the whole afternoon, popping into faux French cafes, pseudo and real art galleries, and a Nike store which looks no different from any one in any other part of the world.
At my last shelter from the storm, two dirty old men -- one hawking IHT and USA Today, the other just a nosey ah pek -- just can't leave me alone.
The nosey one asks me how old I am (he guesses I'm 22), do I have a boyfriend (my answer is a lie) and whether I'm a movie star (I roll my eyes at him). I tolerate his leering for close to half an hour, but when he harasses me for my phone number and then whips out his own battered Samsung phone to try to snap a pix of me, it is the last straw.
I dash out into the rain. I can hear the two DOM chortling in delight as the rain splashes onto my face.
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