My trip home.
        There it was, I though as I glanced out through the airplanes window, Saigon was the last city I saw be fore I escaped fifteen age ago. My heart was racing as the plan made its landing. This would be my first trip home since coming to America.
        My plane come midday in the hot, humid summer time at Saigon International Airport. It was hardly and airport, much less an international one. We exited away the mid sided Airbus on a set of rusted stairs. An obsolescent bus with a massive Pepsi advertisement adorning its exterior took us to the terminal, where we met my sister. We arrestively rushed to the baggage claim, as we were determined to collect all the luggage we had bought 12,000 miles away from Houston a few age age. We navigated our way through the mad crowd of taxi drives, hopped in one of their vehicles, and soon arrived at a motel cross from the flatcar where my sister and her husband lived with their devil young children.
        The apartment was fiddling more(prenominal) than a room with one of its walls missing; thither were no doors, just a giant opening where a wall should have been. The room itself could have been no more than 20 feet wide, and about twice as long.
The bathroom consisted of a clogged up toilet and hose that served both as a shower and as a source of no portable water. The font of my sisters home was bordered by two decrepit sewing machines; as my sister helped made ends go by sewing clothing for other people in the apartment. The rest of the apartment was filled with assorted clutter, ranging from cut up fabrics to childrens books to broken toys. This space would hardly comprise...
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