A Baby Jellyfish In My Vagina

You know you're not in Kansas anymore when the driver for hire (a tuk tuk in this case) literally pulls over so he can take a call. I find the antiquated ways of the third world equal parts charming and frustrating. In New York I would likely be up in arms at the blatant disregard for my dire need to get wherever it is I was going, but here, I am just along for the ride.

If only I could employ this que sera sera attitude in my everyday life. Or rather my life back in the 'real world.'

Just across from my abode for the evening I sit in a papasan chair that may or may not contain mold, bugs or other's pit and but juices but tonight is mellow and I fret not. Instead I greedily slurp down my pineapple shake, listen to some Jurassic 5 and read up on addiction and abuse as I wait for my diner companion.

Garreth meets me for dinner and we dine under the stars before he coerces me into making moves to Otres 1 where soon find myself amongst a throng of 21 year olds waxing poetic about the meaning of life at Ibiza Beach Club, replete with black light paint and fire dancers.

We chat. I sit quietly in my gauzy gown and when my age is revealed - by me - the collective gasp is audible. And welcomed! A 27 year-old Aussie, who I later found out slept with one of her students, says she thought I was younger than her. Brit boy says he doesn't understand why everyone in the worldages better than the British. Its the little things... (and it was dark)


Around midnight the boozy bunch partake in fire limbo which, I don't know about you, but sounds like an EXCELLENT idea to me and the fire boys with their lithe and flexible frames are impressive and mildly sexually arousing.

As much as I enjoy watching the mating rituals amongst the inebriated, it is getting late and time for this old timer to leave the party. Though my new friend articulates that he is in the mood for 'affection,' I am not and take my own personal tuk tuk back to my private room that I am currently sharing with a gaggle of insects and turn in for the night around 3 am. Not too shabby for an old broad abroad... (yes - THAT will be the name of my future memoir - it is decided)

Our promise to meet for a kayaking adventure is met and though I am late the sun is high in the sky when Garreth and I climb into the brightly colored boat. 

On this particular journey I am crossing paths with people in my age range and it leaves me thinking, wondering, contemplating. What is 35?

Young at 35
Wise at 35

With little sleep we schlep our way out to the island situated in the crook of the bay and set up shop - at least for a bit. 

Its has a nice Blue Lagoon quality - with the exception of the sting. The sting one can only experience if they sit in the sand, allowing the sun to warm them and the waves to wash away their sins and... allow baby jellyfish to slip under their neon nylon and situate themselves all up in one's vagina. Being a girl is just fun.

Garreth and I enjoy the rest of our day on the beach back on the mainland before he has to head his way and I have to head mine. I am in my Yankees cap, trying to maintain my already freckled face when two young girls come up and ask to make us bracelets or feed us fruit. We order pineapple and mango and listen to the two girls chat and giggle in Khmer but really 15 year old girl is the same in any language.

The girl with my matching hat on makes me an anklet, despite my repeated insistence that I was not interested and, as she ties it to my bronzed ankle tells me it will bring me good luck. Lets hope.

Such a lovely time is had that I decide - on the fly - to stay another day. After one more night in smelly room #2 I will be left with just a little over a day to shop for loved ones and catch my breath back in the capitol before beginning the long journey home.

Breakfast and one more night in smelly room 2, leaving me a little over a day to shop for loved ones and catch my breath before the long journey home.

The idea of having to go back to the streets of New York and bother with putting shoes on my feet before walking out of the front door is not something to which I look forward.
Vendors 15 year old girls - same in any language

My last night on Victory Beach I am gifted with a breathtaking cotton candy sunset

While pondering papasan style on the darkened beach it occurred to me that 6 months ago, to the day, I was in Egypt. Not only was I in Egypt, but I was in love and, for the most part, I was happy.

It's amazing how much tragedy and torture can be fit into half a year. It's incredible how your life can be destroyed and your entire person irrevocably changed - all in a season or two.

Getting a bit too maudlin I decided instead to turn back to my WW II novel and attempt to lighten the mood...

Belly filled with Cambodian cuisine I walk home in the dark along the sea.Walk home in dark along the sea.

My last morning in Southern Cambodia - and quite possible in Cambodia in general I meditate on the beach in a wicker chain chained to a tree. Or, at least I try. My mind is like Grand Central Station at rush hour and I try desperately to just breath. I try to calm mind, to quiet it, to focus on my breath but there is undoubtedly a pop song playing in the background and a to do list formulating in the corner. I am thinking of loves lost and whether or not my socks are clean. They say women are multitaskers and generally I'm proud to be one. But here it proves problematic.

Time for a pancake (note: not plural) and tea and before and you know it the bright orange minibus was parked on the bright red soil and, just like that I was off.

And deeply sad to leave

Luckily I met lovely British Carla - here traveling for a year and I have an ally in transit. Especially helpful when creepy gay sex worker is lounging in the back of the bus with an oily leer and a mustard button down. Even making eye contact with him immediately made me feel the need to bathe. Ick. 

Barefoot in the Jungle

Something about not needing to get up early and having no agenda makes the body rise with ease as does the sun. I am up to see the early morning light through my blue tinted glass sliding door and though a bit sweaty, as the fans turn off with the electricity at day break, I feel pretty good. 

I know I need sustenance and there is a dining area a few bungalows down that sits over the water at (Matt) Saracen Resort, last time, I promise. 

I order an "American Breakfast" for a change and pray my funds hold out until I am back on solid land.

My camera is behaving tempormentaly and I fear I won't have a functioning one for all, if not some of the remaining trip. I do, however, take this in stride. My legs are so insect bite ridden that Helen Keller could read my fortune and I only have $40 to last me while I am here. I believe there is a point when Murphy's Law is so deeply ingrained in your life that it is ALMOST amusing. I am choosing here to be amused.

The waitress who brings over my cutlery and orange juice needs to make sure that I'm alone for some reason, as so many people in this country seem to need to. Never before have I had so many inquiries into my solitude. It's like I have an open wound and they are all own stock in Mortons.

I don't care what anyone says about Americans being loud and brash and obnoxious. Mix that with no regard for others on the road and no sense of personal space and you have the Chinese tourist, impervious to cultural acclimation or volume control.

My American breakfast is American priced and subpar, but food is food and I move on, down the beach as I resort hop. Please note that resorts on Koh Rong Samleon are not "resorts" any other place you've ever been. Resorts here are accomodation and it would seem that most house their own restaurant or bar and, along with beautiful temperatures and access to the beach that is what this island offers.

Around 4pm I decide to head to Lazy Beach. The remote beach on a remote island, located a few kilomteres through the jungle on the West side of the island. A quick nature hike through the jungle in my chucks, a Yankees hat and a bikini - I can hear Helen Reddy amongst the screaming monkeys and the squealing crickets.

Once the jungle parts ways there is an oasis; there is Lazy Beach.

It is breathtaking.

I essentially run to the sea, sticky from my hike, drop my belongings and plunge in. It is me, and the bay and no one else. 

I have become so spoiled by the beauty of the world. So used to seeing new, far off places that every so often I do try to take a moment and really soak in that I am out in the Gulf of Thailand on a beautiful afternoon swimming in the sea. It is a palpable moment for me, and one I savor.

As I drag my drenched body back up to the shore the Lazy Beach resort - a series of huts on the beach with a main lobby that is an outdoor-hammock-chill sort of getwaway presents itsself and I immediately see the British bloke, Gary, from the night before.

I ask if I may join him and we settle in to listen to Bonobo on the soundsystem and watch the sun sink beneath the clouds. I order a Lazy Sunset, the girliest drink on their menu and later fish and chips because I am pretending to be adventurous and eat fish caught just outside but also getting it fried so it mostly just takes like fried. The cocktail is ok and remains half drunk, as is the marlin, when my British bud and I have covered everything from childhood trauma to cycling in France and make our way back to the East side through the jungle.

The moment I saw Gary in this particular gin joint I knew I would later be using him as accompaniment through the jungle. I was uneasy walking through during the broad daylight, but it is now dark. The sun is long gone, but the creatures are not and CalTrans has yet to set up any roadside spotlights for tourists here. I am scared. Legitimately scared and the fact that homeboy thinks every stick is a Boa Constrictor is not helping.

Half way through I realize that this city girl does have some country in her, or at least some iPhone in her...bag. Thank you Steve Jobs for putting a flashlight on your iPhone. It only took me 5 years to figure out how to use this feature, but man is it helpful when traversing the dark unknown.

We exit at the beach, lit up blue by the moonlight and make a right at Octopussy bar back to Blue Green, where Gary is staying and I am using electricity before returning to my hovel. Some approximation of iced tea is served and some more opposite of small talk is had before we both walk way out to the ocean, the cosmic pull having brought it what seems like miles from shore and bathe our feet in the warm night before saying out goodbyes. Two kisses, one on each cheek, just like the French do it and a sincere thank you for sharing your time on this tiny island with me.

iPhone flashlight

Another hike back. A quick shower and a revisiting of Noah's Arc, a little show on Logo 10 years ago and the only videos I have on my phone. Who doesn't like watching a situational comedy about 4 black gay men in Hollywood before nodding off?

And again, early to rise.

I check out of Freedom, not knowing exactly what my next move is but knowing my camera is working occasionally at best and my funds are rapidly dwindling - you try PMSing on a budget!

This time at Saracen Resort I opt for a more traditional Asian breakfast and I am not disappointed. With excellent Wifi I chat with a friend back home, the kind of friend that makes you feel at home even when you're 9000 miles away (yeah, thats you, Holly) and I plot my course of action. 

An arbitrary booking for a room at the Orchid Resort a mile down the beach is made and I have made my choice - to stay in Koh Rong Samleon, for at least another day.

The morning consisted of a chat with one of my oldest and dearest friends Holly and my internal calculator working overtime while figuring out whether or not the cash I had on hand could get me through another day.

This island is a place so quiet the insects omit a deafining noise.

Dexter, Frank, Zak and Gary.

No, these are not the new fangled members of New Edition. These are the four man who helped me through my journey.

This trip has been a particularly tough one for me and the kindness of these strangers, whether for a plane ride or just a walk on the beach helped me survive. Helped me in ways they will never know. And for that I am grateful.

I love this place. I love the magical beach. The sea filled with fish just like the ones I used to own and name and become fond of right before they took their final swim down the porcelain shoot in my father's bathroom.

Having waited a bit too long to traverse the island back to my humble abode it is dusk and the monkeys are squawking - and I am scared.

The evening is spent PMSing on a huge fruit plate at the Orchid while writing and watching 'The Voice - Cambodia' - or so it sounds.

That night I am met with a hot shower - for what feels like the first time in ages. Hallelujah.

As wonderful as my room for the evening is with all it's rustic charm, the walls are thing and the sext door neighbors rowdy. I couldn't quite tell what they were doing from the noises emitting through the wooden slats separating us. But I can attest to the fact that they kept me up - and made me sufficiently uncomfortable.

Luckily I slept. Luckily I survived.

Few things in life or more powerful than listening to Leonard Cohan on a white sand beach at sunrise.

The morning offered an amazing sunrise and a moment of peave.

After checking out the morning is spent watching the proverbial pot boil or, as is the case here - waiting for my boat to come. Just when I think it never will I am directed several hundred yards down the beach where a refugee dinghe is schleping visitors to shore.

Travel at it's finest.

This means I had a couple more hours to luxuriate, check my internet goings on and figure out where I will be spending the evening at the Blue Green.

I almost book a dorm at Otres Beach, then think about shared bathroom. Getting older is a beautiful thing in many ways. Not physically sure - but it does allow you some perspective and often a few extra sheckles to spend on a private commode. Decision made. Pineapple juice consumed and my LL Bean bag and I board the dinghe headed back to the mainland.

As the ship about faces I was truly sad. 4 days ago now seemed like a lifetime and I have grown to love this tiny island upon which I only spent a few days of my life. By sometimes that's all you need

I mount the stairs to the top level of the boat - trying to get every UV ray possible to permeate the outer layer of my epidermus and who do I happen upon than a nice looking fellow sporting a brightly colored LA hat.

The hour or so boat ride back goes by in a flash as I chat with this amiable man in his mid 30s who lives in the UK but claims South Africa as his home - creating an interesting accent and an interesting perspective on life.

We make dinner plans and as he boars the shuttle bus, I hop on my own personal tuk tuk out toward the beach. Along the ride we putter past the police hut where I was incarcerated for many moments and I am forced to relive this painful experience all over again.

After a long and winding ride I land at Footprints Hostel at Otres Beach 2 which will be where I will be living - at least for the night.

Perhaps it is aftershocks from the hallucination I had last night where a man came to my window banging in the middle of the night only to wake me, rouse me from my bed and, when I reached the glass door disappear, leaving me shaken and disturbed, but this day has been exhausting.

As I settle into Footprints one thought meanders through my mind. My Dad was right, beauty fades with happiness, not with age.

The Hunt For The Red October, I Mean Internet, In Prostitution City

I awake not to the sounds of roosters but to the cool clean air of night. Morning is here but the sun is not yet and I debate getting up and beginning my day before the city does, or going back to bed. After some internal struggle I fall back asleep. It is only for 30 minutes but it is that deep lucid dreaming sleep that leaves you disoriented, almost paralyzed by the time you wake, blurring the lines between reality and slumber.

Once I gain my bearings I see an email from Frank and not a minute later he is knocking on my door and I'm pulling back my dirty hair and pulling on leggings, ready to face what he describes as a 'relaxed' day. No plans myself, other than locating a computer at some point to properly book the next leg of my journey, I'm game for anything.

Frank has eaten but I'm a baller and don't bother with the hostel provided faire. Just across Road 20 we locate an empty eatery where the staff is feverishly studying the drink menu written out on a white board. A Cuba Libre seems particularly challenging for them. As I consume Khmer Pad Thai I not only discover the Thai version is better but I discover when you eat at a fancy restaurant such as this, your waiter stands watch at your table, just in case you're in need of anything. Can you say awkward.

Adding insult to injury when I request the bill said waiter immediately turns Frank to confirm we do in fact want the bill and when he returns hands it directly to my male table mate. No wonder Hillary didn't win!

This actually did inspire a quick Trump talk and I got an interesting perspective from one of Americas neighbors - just not the ones tan enough to require an entire fictional wall to be built to keep them out.

Having spoken with a camo clad tuk tuk driver who offered a decent rate we returned to his corner to negotiate price and discuss what sights he could show us, settling on a tour of a few temples, the war museum and the killing fields.

Never in my life did I think I'd be visiting a site solely known for mass genocidal atrocities, but while in Rome...

Wat Bo - a main attraction in Siem Reap is quiet and lovely and I think it is safe to say one of my most favorite temples ever. It's washed out colors and shady locale nestled underneath the trees offered a tranquility of which I was in much need. Despite the fact that it was actually closed for the day didn't detour me from leaving contemplating a life devoted to Buddhism.

Back in the tuk tuk and camo pants suggested that we skip the museum and the fields and head to the floating village 20 kms outside of the city, for a new low low price of course. We agreed and after a quick beer and gas stop we were on our way.

It didn't take long in the back of the open air tuk tuk to realize that the lush green Cambodian countryside was worth the cost of admission alone.

At this point in my life I've traveled enough, been enough places to have created and tested some theories about the world. So here we go.

I believe there are three dileneations of cities throughout the word.

Since most major airports are located in Capitol cities I call these first tier: Casablanca, Bogota, Guatemala City. These cities are often dirty, congested and offer some remnants of a culture that once existed but are now be strangled by modernization with large buildings, hectic traffic and an obligatory KFC. This is where you land, acclimate yourself and, if you know what's good for you, get out of as soon as possible.

Next is the second tier: Florence, Luxor, Siem Reap. In these cities you find a more authentic cultural experience and a slower pace of life. They're often amenable to tourists with plenty of eateries and shops, local artisans and a plethora of older women draped in clothing they picked up at Chico's.

Third tier are always more rural and a little bit more off of the beaten path. Panajachel, Hoi An and, in my experience offer the best view of what life is like in said location.

This felt like we were seeing how Cambodians really lived. Stilted homes, roaming chickens, pantless children.

Vibrantly green rice paddies are far as the eye can see.

Many many kilometers down the road we turn off onto a dirt path and pull up to the ticket booth. $20 dollars seems excessive for a trip such as this (and we later found out, it actually was) but we were at the mercy of the kind man behind the window wearing a shirt that had California written over the breast pocket so we handed over the cash and continued down the adobe colored pathway. 

One more check of the tickets by super hot mysterious Cambodian dude who didn't take off his shades and was flanked by adoring children on both sides and we climbed aboard a ricketing old ship that we had to ourselves, save for the jort adorned driver who, if his hat is to be believed, at one time or another worked for the NYPD. 

The water is low and the engine in the back sounds like it is working awfully hard. So hard in fact that 10 minutes down the murky waterway we abandon ship and hop inot another one standing by in a culdesac for no particular reason. It was in this culdeasc that my fight or flight instinct kicked in and I wondered if I was about to star in my own personal version of the killing fields, certain we would be raped and pillaged only without the incomporable Sam Waterson by my side.

Crises averted and, another 15 minutes down the watery road we were at the floating village. While in Thailand a couple of years back I went to the floating market outside of Bangkok, so I thought I knew what I was getting myself into, but there are no goods to purchase here, no children pushing their wares. This is an actual village, a functioning fishing village that exists in tin and wooden homes built up above the fluctuating water levels created by the feed from Tonle Sap Lake. It was beautiful and fascinating and filled with children captaining ships on their own. 

My main takeway, however, is the boatload of money I will make when I bring the 'Cambodian Fisherman Workout' back to the states. Screw Tai Bo, these caramel colored men were taught and tight and no one seemed to have a card to GNC. First Buddhism, now fishermanism, either way I am a convert.

They had mentoned when we bought tickets that we could go into the forest, but neither Frank nor myself expected the forest to be sea of Mangroves manned by a sea of older ladies brightly adorned waiting to drag you through the trees. Our boat has a lovely woman with frizzy hair at the helm and her ornery 5 year old bringing up the rear. Though Frank said this was on his bucket list this is something I never in a million years anticipated doing, let alone visiting Cambodia in general, so it was all gravy. 

After the quick detour we got a spin around Tonle Sap, a lake so large you cannot see the other side by a long shot. A nearby boat made sure I didn't get too melancholy while writing in my book by serenading us with Meghan Trainor before we stopped for a meal atop a stilted restaurant and made our way back to the mainland. 

Back on solid ground we were offered souvenir framed photos they had paparazzie'd of us upon entrance and mine was so fantastically unflattering I had to buy it. Happy Birthday, Mom!

30 minutes back into town. And I knew I needed to source a computer with some internet as our quickie around the city became a 3 hour tour and I still had no idea where I was going to be the next day, how I was going to get there and where I would sleep when I did.

With the internet stop just outside of our hostel being closed because they felt like it and the one I was directed to not existing and the next one someone told me to go to closed for 3 days to 'clean' the place I was growing frustrated and considered running straight to Burger King to calm my nerves. But I perservered and located a side alley with ancient PCs where I could utilized the world wide web for an hour for a buck. 

I bought a flight on Cambodia Air to Sihanoukville in the South, saving myself a 14 hour bus ride for an hour flight and booked a 2 night stay at Out Of The Blue Hostel located in the heart of the city to give the beach a try. 

I certainly needed to get out of Siem Reap, or at least judgementville. I know when I am back in Manhattan I have dressed like a whore. I've worn crop tops. I've worn booty shorts, but there is something about the throngs of tourists showing their thongs a plenty that seems terribly inappropriate and in poor taste. I know, I know, I am 100.

Feeling accomplished and more certain about the next 24 hours of my life, I reqarded myself with a pineapple shake and a tuk tuk ride home. 

Frank and I had arranged to have a last dinner together before we parted ways and our 2 days in Cambodia became a distant memory. With similar travel sensibilities we simply headed in a direction we had yet to take and stumbled upon Mr. Grill, an ourdoor eatery with large banquet tables with large, Asian families. Seemed as good a bet as any.

Our meals were lackluster, but the foyer had a full sized Christmas treet and a Clinton Santa playing the sax, so it wasn't all bad.

Back at Bun Kao I spent nearly 30 minutes wondering how the exact same amount of shit I brought with me now seemed to take up twice as much room. So I repacked my bag, put on some Gilmore Girls and Netflixed and chilled all by myself!

Plans for a morning run were thwarted by some unsettling emails from back home and real life business to which I needed to attend. But alas, I was up early enough to have a birthday breakfast with Frank at Sweet Dreams hostel and restaurant just across the way. They offer a large sunny deck and an American- adjascent breakfast for a decent price. We dined and hugged before Frank headed back to Angkor Wat and I headed to the airport. 

It has been a lovely few days in Siem Reap and the company of my Canadian cronie came at a much needed time. I am truly grateful I got to enjoy a few days with a strange man in a strange city and I wish him luck on his journey ahead.

As I roll out of Siem reap and I see yet another pair of drop crotch elephant print pants I think to myself - do all of these bitches have thigh gap? Am I the only one who has experienced the inexplicable pain of a good chafing, promoted by the hot sweaty temperatures of tropical environments? Am I the only one in need of spandex coated thighs to avoid such travesty? I think not...

But I digress.

My driver to airport was named Lucky, which I took as a good omen. With this and the forced donation at Angkor Wat to light incense, which I often substitute for candles in a catherdral whilst in Buddhist countries (one for Dad, one for Brie), I figured things were bound to turn around.

After checking in for my flight I check out the pastries at the Blue Pumpkin cafe and log into airport Wifi. Some meaningful conversations with friends back home leave me teary, big shock, I know and the woman next to me, an American reaches out, literally and asks if I am ok. I am equal parts touched and embarrased and realize that I have, in fact, become that girl.

Luckily, it is only moments later I discover I have lost my credit card. 

Tickets torn and the long walk to the small plane waiting on on the tarmac begins. We board and the smooth sounds of Kenny G blare through the soundsystem to put the passengers at ease. Some doodling and writing and 60 minutes later and we are bumping our way through the atmosphere to land in Sihanoukville. 

A nice older man with very limited English skills asks me where I am from, where I am going and confirms that I do not in fact know any of the other people on this plane but an in fact just one. ONE - he uses his index finger for confirmation.

He tells me about the island off the coast from which he hails and just as I am about to think he is trying to sell me a time share of some sort he insists we split a cab, as he has one waiting. It is not until we get in that he informs me in no uncertain terms that he will be paying the fare in total. True generosity does exist.

I am silent in the backseat as the driver barks into his cell phone and my pink polo'd friend screams with enthusiasm into his, at one point laughing putting me at ease that there isn't a fight brewing.

After many wrong turns we locate the hostel and I give the nice man a handshake and the most sincere thank you I can in a language he doesn't fully understand. 

I am shown to room 5, for which I have splurged to have airconditioning and a terrace the next two nights and I am famished.

Logic would dictate to walk away from where I am staying, in a small cluster of open establishments and walk toward the water for action. Logic would be wrong.

Thanks to my new friend Frank I now know Google maps will show you where in the world you are whther or not you have access to wifi, part amazing part terrifying so I head toward what looks like a Chinese restaurant. No such luck.

I stop into a quickie mart thhinking maybe salted broad beans and oreos will have to be my meal for the night when the man tells me to go back into town. Apparently the strip upon which my hostel sits is the town. Wow.

Lucily I dont listen to him and instead located a Japanese restaurant just next door with outdoor seating that literally buts up against the Gulf of Thailand. The rhythmic sounds of the waves and warm sun offers a peaveful place for me to watch busloads of Chinese tourists disembark, pull out their ipads, take a number of photos of themselves in whacky positions to prove they were there, and then turn around and get back on the tour bus. 

My curry looked like it had been consumed before it was served to me and the insistence that pork be included in every meal makes me wonder how a Jew can successfully get around Southeast Asia, but I am happy to be outside. Happy to be someplace warm. 

Back up the hill and into town I am again on The Hunt For The Red October, or internet, at which point I am pointed every which way.

How do these people, who live in towns of population 20 not know names of places or where to go. How can you be so confused? You could ask me where to find a burger spot in the village and I could give you a name and a fairly accurate estimation of location. Is this what being mellow is? Is this the definition of giving 0 fucks? I seriously need to know.

I've become the weary traveler. Tired, hungry, unbearably dirty and in dire need of someone who either has a grasp on the language I speak or on direction in general.

I'm pointed down the hill, then up.

I am told to try downtown, as it's only 2 Kms away then I'm told it's 6. I love other cultures. I appreciate differences and respect that I'm the fish out of water here.

But sometimes a girl just needs a computer fix and she is willing to cut a bitch if they send her out into the sweaty mosquito infested night to ogle ancient men, heads holding on to the last few hairs with all their might, to shop like puppies in the window for young nubile girls with too much makeup and too little education.

I've been witness to prostitution from time to time in my travels. The first time was in Wakiki Beach, Hawaii - and perhaps this is my ignorance or my fortune to have the fundamentals for success from early on as well as a very present father, but the sex industry before your eyes is painful. And the men seated in these dimly lit bars next to girls on the precipice on menses, young enough to be their granddaughter, revolting.

So revolting in fact that I almost forget my own need for Internet, being concerned with human rights and all.

It's exhausting thinking about others...

I decide to get some decent sustenance before retiring at 8 pm and I head to The Corner, on the corner, because I've seen patrons there all day so I figure it's decent.

The first few days seemed so promising here. Every meal was delicious and if not delicious, at least interesting. Perhaps my ordering acumen is lacking - but this noodle dish is as well but it does resemble several necessary food groups so I dig in under the yellow lights and oscilating fan.

Before leaving the establishment I'm able to speak briefly with a local. Sort of. Theres a friendly man, most certainly circling 80 with a thick French accent and three business in town. He has been here for 11 years and says there is no time to be bored. I'm guessing this is due to the fact that he has a 20 something wife and a three year old baby.

He asked me if o had the desire to be a mother to which I replied emphatically yes and he assured me the 'right men' do exist. God, do I hope he is right.

And I hope he is not 80. Saggy balls gross me out.