My room is next to the bathroom. Or, more correctly, the toilet, which resides in a tiny room almost exactly the size of the toilet. The walls are thin and I can, unfortunately, hear every small grunt and sigh, even from my bed, far away from the bathroom wall.

I have terrible insomnia, exacerbated by the fact that the room has no clock and I wear no watch. I did bring my cell phone, but when I set the alarm the first night, it drained the battery. I feel as lonely as that one bar of remaining power, sitting in my dark room, sniffing its vague fried-chicken-and-sweet-disinfectant smell, and not knowing what time it is. Is it only 9pm and do I have the whole yawning night before me? Or is it 3am and are only the taxi drivers awake with me?

I lie awake. If someone were to run me over tomorrow, no one would know who I was or who they should contact. I resolve to put a small card with this information in my wallet tomorrow.

Someone enters the bathroom. I want to cover my head with the hard French pillow, but it turns out to be more of a bolster than a pillow, long and thin and unsuitable for blocking out the rich sounds emanating from the wall across the room. It is only the second day.