Four Men And A Little Lady

Having made my new friend and with it being my last night I splurged and ended up at the Billabong Resort. A single room for $20. I'll survive.

Aaron Spelling most certainly consulted on the building and branding of the Billabong because I half expect Amanda Woodward to push me into the blue tiled pool located in the courtyard flanked by lounge chairs and neatly folded towels. 

My clean and comfortable room, located on the second floor and has shampoo in the bathroom and a mini fridge. It's basically the Ritz.

After unloading my bag I meet back up with Carla and an Austrian friend of hers for dinner. Sister's Restaurant is just down the road and for a couple of bucks will serve you something with indistinguishable seafood and indeterminate flavor. Needless to say - it was a bad call. My dinner companions didn't seem up for the night market so we all, instead, take the short walk back to the hostel and have banana splits and break up talk in the courtyard. 

My sleep was restful and rise early. Giving me plenty of time to utilize the reliable wifi to catch up on on Netflix. A super cultural experience.

I was the black and white Mark Duplass film 'Blue Jay' and marvel and his ability to capture the tragic beauty so often found in life. 

I make it to the pool by 8am with absolutely no shame as I am trying to get my last drops of vitamin D in before heading back to the Northern tundra of New York city and run into the homies from the night before as they gather to head to the killing fields. For a moment I consider putting on appropriate clothing and joining them. 

Part of what I've learned from traveling is that I must accept I cannot see everything. Much like in life you have to choose door A or B and I realize getting my niece a doll means more to me than a place of pass genocide.

I pass affectionate skinny Asian girls with exposed tracks and the Eastern European man who 'love' them, or who have at least paid for said affection for the weekend as I meander my way to the market where I get something for everyone on my life with riels to spare.

When I return to the hostel with my newly purchased goodies I reunite with the cast of Cambodia Place and we share from the day - what see, eat, avoid.

I pack my bags and relax at the hostel, and head out to the night market with Karla and British baker Matt who will be leaving in the morning to surprise his Mum for Christmas.

We, once again, don't make it to the market but we do land at an open air restaurant and I order WAY too much in hopes of sharing and instead buy my companions and beer and consume all solid calories alone. The dinner is lengthy and chatty and although we were denied service solely based on our being Caucasian the food was aplenty and the bill was low. 

With some reticence make it back to Billabong and I gather my things before hoping into yet another tuk tuk (I love them so much!) and head to the airport. 

The joy of starting your period, just as you start your two day journey home is one I can't quite put into words. The joys of being a woman are boundless. As are the joys of travel.

I will not pretend to be filled with joy or hope, at least not at the moment. But with country 36 checked off of my list, with the help of four men and a little lady, I am filled with experiences. And for that, I can be thankful. 

I love you, Cambodia. 

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.