Basically, we all went drinking at this backpacker's haunt down a Saigon back alley called Le Pub where they had $1 cocktails. After many, many, many, we all stumbled back to the hotel we were staying at shouting, quoting The Matrix, imitating each other's accents and generally making nuisances of ourselves along the way (I believe there is even video evidence of this somewhere...)
The next morning, Brock was supposed to meet Sam, Jen and I at this vegetarian cafe for breakfast and didn't show. The three of us were a bit worse for wear so didn't plan to do anything anyway and just kind of hung about, zombified. I think we even went to Brock's place around the corner to try and find him, but in our semi-drunk state made no sense to the girl on the desk.
Eventually, after seeing no sign of him for about six hours, we went back to his place with a digital camera and showed it to the lady (who already suspected we were either crazy or alcoholics) with a picture of Brock on the screen.
She laughed.
Pointed.
Laughed some more.
And then got him on the phone.
He was still in bed. Shell-shocked after a night of sharing with the worst English roommates ever.
I've just typed this and realised that the only people who will find humour in this story or even appreciate it were the ones who were there.
Oh well.
I'm not deleting it as I like it.
I HEART LE PUB.
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