Saigon enmeshes you as life blurs into architecture. The same beating sun, the same sweat and dust cover every child and grandmother and dog coursing through the rivers of bikes. The streets are an open air museum of humanity, doors unannounced until the second floor of the city. Garage becomes garden becomes living room. Cigarette smoke drifts between palm trees and neon temples. Jackhammers join the crackle of love ballads and fruit vendor megaphones. They drill the sky and hide its cracks with monuments to expedience. Saigon has always been too humid to be worried. Sometimes it would rather take an afternoon nap. But the world grows louder.