We pulled a couple tables together in the room and threw a bed sheet over them. The chairs in the room are old and heavy and dark and wood. The doors are tall and broad and there's a nice balcony with French doors that open wide.
Every morning at 7am, the Thought Police come on the loudspeaker right outside the window with a broadcast of The News For Today And The Plan For Tomorrow. It's loud enough to cut through the cacophony of motorbike horns and there is no escaping it. Communism is dumb as hell. Morg and I laid awake in our beds trying to ignore the racket. Are they serious? Morg asked. It's hard work trying to keep minds in cages my man, I replied. You really have to mind the store.
Stephenson and Aut went down a few blocks and picked up 700,000 Dong worth of KFC. Gar bought a fifth of Wall Street brand spirit. It is a rotgut combination of blended whiskey and rotten piss apples. I took a sip of Wall Street on the stairs as I waited for Gar to come up. It was filthy and loathsome and there was no irony lost on me then.
We sat around the table and held hands and Gar said grace. The meal was awkward and chaotic, as these things can sometimes be. The mashed potatoes were delicious and I was glad to be in Hanoi on Thanksgiving with this strange and unlikely band of dreamers and freaks.
Happy Thanksgiving from room 101, Prince Hotel, Hanoi.
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