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The road behind me fell away, as the old taxi coughed and wheezed on its journey back to my palace. The wheels crashed against the asphalt; every sporadic jump mimicked my heartbeat. It stopped at the junction. My driver, a burly man with a thick northern Vietnamese accent, lit a cigarette, took a puff, then snuffed it out, taking care not to let any smoke inside. It was very considerate of him, and I was glad. My motion sickness is bad as it is without the smell of tobacco. But as the light turned green and we were moving again, my stomach could no longer withstand its suffering, and I started expunging my breakfast into a bag. The smell of half-digested eggs stung my nostril, threatening another bout of bowel clearance, and I cursed whoever invented cars. I could feel my temples throbbing, and for a moment, I channeled my inner Hamlet and pondered whether it was worth it to continue. Yet, if Odysseus could brave through countless dangers in his 10-year journey back home, I too shall endure this plight.
