I remember the voice rising in sing-song, pausing, starting again, climbing in soft melancholy, conveying the sadness of the world, stopping and starting again.I remember the pagodas everywhere, the nights cold, days without cover, crowds thick and a language impossible to understand. I remember the dogs fighting in the bushes while I haggled for something I didn’t want and then I was beside a truck, fighting to be heard. I remember my dusty feet, my bruised kidneys and my battered knees, feeling out of place and wanting to get home.