There’s SO many things I could be writing about right now. I should tell you about my cooking classes and riding elephants and white water rafting in Thailand. I could tell you about the scams at the Cambodian border and small children and monks who managed to scam me. I should tell you about the long boat to Laos and all the great people I met. I could tell you about riding (and crashing) a scooter in Vietnam, and the tailor that wanted me to marry him. I would tell you about all this. Except why should I?