Nothing beats the breeze, or offers the views, of a breezy tuk tuk ride. Late night food carts replete with tiny plastic table and chairs line the streets upon which skinny men perch to dine on discount cuisine late at night. Just like Williamsburg, only with more melanin and less irony.
After a restful few hours of sleep at the Starwood Inn, the chickens that inhabit the alley way by my window were up and at em, letting me know that even though the sun wasn't up,I should be.
The humidity leaves me puffy, swollen with swear and regret.
But eventually I pry myself off of the overly firm mattress, take a cold shower, tie back my airplane air hair laden and make my way out onto the steamy streets of Phnom Penh. It's much like the tour books detail, crowded, noisy, filled with scents and colors and speeding motorbikes.
A lone caged cock catches my attention (yeah, I did that) only to be thwarted by a nearby cage of the cutest most rambunctious puppies you've ever seen. And as I stop to chat with them, because how could I not, I desperately pray that these pups won't be appetizers for Christmas dinner.
Meandering down Preah Shihanouk Boulevard I stumble upon Ratanakiri restaurant where I debate the suitable outdoor dining weather with the waitress for a bit before I am treated to fresh pineapple juice, cashew chicken, steamed rice and a papaya salad, accompanied by a water-like beverage I've decided is supposed to be brown in color, all for under 10 dollars. When I get Yummy Thai delivered to my door back home that's the cost of the salad alone. Needless to say I am satisfied and ready to take my sluttily exposed shoulders on the road.
I knew my tank top wouldn't do from journeys East before, but my fingers were crossed that a scarf would suffice to cover my ever freckling shoulders. It did not and a 3 dollar t-shirt was purchased to ensure that I was 'that guy' wearing the freshly purchases DMX shirt I just copped at the show - so not cool.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. A morning run in a foreign city is one of life's simple pleasures. After the roosters woke me up at 3 and roosted me into eating half a can of Pringles as I lay in bed, only darkness around me, I thought a little workout wouldn't kill me. It's 7 am and the city is bustling with bumper to bumper traffic and cafes chalked full of residents having their breakfast noodles. Thinking I was walking toward a park or square in which I could get my jog on, instead I'm met with endless streets lined with motorbikes. Who could possibly be in need of one in this capital city is beyond me but I've got the sun on my back and Neil Young warbling in my ears, making me feel, as I do often in life, that my dad is still with me. Even though I he is not.
The temperature, currency and language may be different. But no matter where in the world you are, the problems remain the same.
Before exiting the establishment I prove to be such a head turner that a shoe-less little girl in flannel pajamas stumbles and falls while gawking at my foreign beauty. Day made.
Down the main drag and past a euro trash couple making sure to get just the right oops this is so candid shot in front of the independence monument, caboose and all, and I'm lost as to how ancient monuments now exist simply to provide backdrops for selfies . I know the Grand Palace is somewhere near here but as the breeze picks up I find myself less concerned with finding my destination and more content to wander. No agenda helps with midday pockets of meandering. As I watch merchants tend to their booths and grown men attempt to balance large objects on their very small motorbikes I realize I like third world living. As antiquated as the term, as well as the life, may seem. It makes sense to me in its twisted simplicity and lack of sterility.
I locate Tonle Sap river which, according to the map runs down from the lake of the same name, and I sit. I sit in the breeze and watch a shirtless man wash his pots and pans in the very dirty water, and I am at peace. As he proceeds to squawk and guffaw and rant at said aluminum objects I love him all the more.
Not too far down the road is a posh American inspired cafe that has wrap around balconies and offers a peaceful view of the river, if you just ignore the cross direction traffic honking and whizzing in front of you of course. The breeze is worth the New York prices and it is here that I finally see white people. Lots and lots of white people. Mainly in pairs. Mainly white as fuck of the British or Australian variety. Old couples enjoying their limited social security in inexpensive South East Asia and young pairs on holiday, deep in the throes of youthful love and exploration.
I hate to admit it, but I envy these people. Not their atrocious sense of fashion or their taste in a mate as none of these people are swoon worthy, male or female, but the excitement of holding hands in a foreign land. I will never know what it's like to have a boyfriend, or sex, in high school. And I will never know what it's like to have a gap year with my paramour. I will never know what it's like to feel comfortable going bra less in public without warning small children of imminent head injury, but I sure hope, someday I'll be in a foreign land, on a romantic adventure with both my passport and the man that I love.
Sigh.
Onward and up. To the Royal Palace.
I knew my tank top wouldn't do from journeys East before, but my fingers were crossed that a scarf would suffice to cover my ever freckling shoulders. It did not and a 3 dollar t-shirt was purchased to ensure that I was 'that guy' wearing the freshly purchases DMX shirt I just copped at the show - so not cool.
Regardless the palace was breathtaking and in very un-Briana like fashion I was able to step outside of myself and marvel at the craftsmanship and beauty within the palace walls. The tile work, the carving. It truly was awe-inspiring. I felt the eerie presence of my father and hoped, for a minute, that he was proud of me for exploring Asia, a culture for which he always held great admiration and I always held little interest.
Tears were almost brought to my eyes, once again, when I spotted a devastatingly handsome monk - a work of art in himself.
After exiting the GP, I took a brief reprieve in the nearby park for some location acclimation and a little lighthearted prejudice. A street hustler came up to offer his guidance, for an assumed price, and when I seemed wholly disinterested, offered me a little friendly advice to stay away from the Filipinos, for they would rob me blind and kill me for $100. You gotta love people hating 'their own.'
With kids out of school the park was filled with teenagers gathering around small tables to gossip and girls practicing their skateboard moves around temples erected long before their attire was in style the first go round. The bright sun hung low in the sky, dancing off of the marble tiles paving the monuments and radiating through millions of balloons that seem a popular roadside purchase. It was truly beautiful.
As I attempted to sort out which way was 'home' I had to take a quick detour around the old peoples brigade in adult strollers - all old, all white, all fat flanked by tanned and sinewy partners pushing them along from behind. No white guilt in sight.
My hostel is clearly a bit off of the beaten path so I thought it safer to grab some grub before retiring along with the sun so Yummy Pork Roll seemed as good as any with limited options. At least they had pictures on the menu. Not unlike a Vietnamese bahn mi sammie, which I did not sample while there, this hoagie gone wrong put vegetables and what I can only hope is pork protein in my belly in a strangely unsatisfyingly sweet way. Coupled with what looks like an iced tea but tastes like an anus dinner was served. Bon apetit!
Luckily my decision to recharge was just in time for a tropical storm that came in with a furry and soaked the streets through in a matter of moments. Warm showers always feel like the washing away of sins and I gladly sat on the sidewalk and watched children dance carefree in the puddles as the clouds cried upon them.
A few blocks that seem to be numbered in no particular order later I located The Starwood Inn and quickly retired to lucky room 212 to eat Cambodian Pringles and watch Cambodian Aaliyah on TV.
It's raining and dark and though I perish the thought of an actual vacation and pride myself on my adventurous travel - my old age has taught me some times, you just need to take it easy...
After a night of discovering Bridesmaids is a whole lot funnier when you can directly relate to the story line, and no I don't mean shitting in the street, I was fast asleep.
At least for a few hours.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. A morning run in a foreign city is one of life's simple pleasures. After the roosters woke me up at 3 and roosted me into eating half a can of Pringles as I lay in bed, only darkness around me, I thought a little workout wouldn't kill me. It's 7 am and the city is bustling with bumper to bumper traffic and cafes chalked full of residents having their breakfast noodles. Thinking I was walking toward a park or square in which I could get my jog on, instead I'm met with endless streets lined with motorbikes. Who could possibly be in need of one in this capital city is beyond me but I've got the sun on my back and Neil Young warbling in my ears, making me feel, as I do often in life, that my dad is still with me. Even though I he is not.
Turns out the park is not lush or green, but offers a cushioned run as it is the Olympic Stadium. Musiq Soulchild gets me through several sweaty laps and only half the time was spent openly weeping on the spongy track. Back at the hostel I took a quick shower, throw on a dress with no concern about my Italian Stallion hairy legs and went go down to the lobby for some Wifi action and a bus ticket, to Siem Reap. With as little direction in Cambodia as I currently have in life things are truly moment to moment and today, while lathering my pits over the toilet I decided to take the night bus to another town. Choosing the 20:00 departure on a ''hotel bus'' I realize the trick of saving on a night of accommodation by taking night buses is wasted when you arrive at 2 am alone, unable to navigate the streets and unable to use your Google Maps.
$12 bucks to bring me up North seems worth the risk and with a couple quick taps on the Toshiba laptop graciously provided by the hostel and I have three nights booked in Siem Reap - home to Angkor Wat - the largest religious structure in the world.
With travel plans arranged it was time to get my grub on. I'd passed a place on the corner, Chheang Zheng Reataurant, that looked hopping and I took the short jaunt to sit among outdoor metal tables filled with Asian men chattering away, clearly more familiar with the customs than me.
Rarely do I felt so out of place at an eatery. So unfamiliar with the customs that I didn't know whether or not to eat the bread already Saran-wrapped up on the table. How to order, where to sit. A friendly woman offered me a couple options and I dove in with noodle soup. No chicken, ok - pork. Then came a cavalry of cutlery and dishes of indistinguishable items. With a little direction from her on what to put in what and how to consume this and that, I dug in.
Meats of various textures and colors floated in a savory broth accompanied by a multitude of meatballs served both hot and cold. Though my waitresses English was limited, she did know delicious, and it was.
I was unsure what any of the meat products were but I was feeling adventurous and sampled most. The tiny ineffectual napkins used in emerging worlds use confuse me and I filled the wastebasket located underneath the table almost as quickly as a street dog could retrieve and consume them.
It wasn't until I was near the bottom of my bowl of breakfast soup that I saw what appeared to be a shrimp and was extraordinarily grateful that I am not allergic to shellfish. Thanks for the lesson in safety, Ross Geller.
I'd met an adorable 19 year old back at the hostel, just finishing up a three month Mekong adventure with a group that was congregating there. He was from San Francisco and ready to go home, which was slated for the following day.
It's strange looking at a young person, just branching out into the world while you sit there, not young, as someone who already has.
The particular time in history in which I've adulted is an interesting one. Especially for international voyages. When I first began traveling there were cell phones, but they were far less ubiquitous and far less smart. I've sat in many a booth chatting feverishly with my father as I pay a peso a minute, detailing the things I've seen or phoned a bestie from the base camp at Macchu Picchu just to check in, as it had been weeks.
Now, all I need is my iPhone and spotty wifi and it's as if I'm in Los Angeles, New York or Timbuktu. This establishment has no booster seats for the small, shoe-less children eating with their families and the seating is butted right up against the flow of traffic where the exhaust fumes are certainly not up to smog check standards, yet the man seated across from me is watching cooking videos on his Instagram feed at the table, just like my suburban friends back home.
It's a strange privilege to watch the world change before your eyes.
Rarely do I felt so out of place at an eatery. So unfamiliar with the customs that I didn't know whether or not to eat the bread already Saran-wrapped up on the table. How to order, where to sit. A friendly woman offered me a couple options and I dove in with noodle soup. No chicken, ok - pork. Then came a cavalry of cutlery and dishes of indistinguishable items. With a little direction from her on what to put in what and how to consume this and that, I dug in.
Meats of various textures and colors floated in a savory broth accompanied by a multitude of meatballs served both hot and cold. Though my waitresses English was limited, she did know delicious, and it was.
I was unsure what any of the meat products were but I was feeling adventurous and sampled most. The tiny ineffectual napkins used in emerging worlds use confuse me and I filled the wastebasket located underneath the table almost as quickly as a street dog could retrieve and consume them.
It wasn't until I was near the bottom of my bowl of breakfast soup that I saw what appeared to be a shrimp and was extraordinarily grateful that I am not allergic to shellfish. Thanks for the lesson in safety, Ross Geller.
I'd met an adorable 19 year old back at the hostel, just finishing up a three month Mekong adventure with a group that was congregating there. He was from San Francisco and ready to go home, which was slated for the following day.
It's strange looking at a young person, just branching out into the world while you sit there, not young, as someone who already has.
The particular time in history in which I've adulted is an interesting one. Especially for international voyages. When I first began traveling there were cell phones, but they were far less ubiquitous and far less smart. I've sat in many a booth chatting feverishly with my father as I pay a peso a minute, detailing the things I've seen or phoned a bestie from the base camp at Macchu Picchu just to check in, as it had been weeks.
Now, all I need is my iPhone and spotty wifi and it's as if I'm in Los Angeles, New York or Timbuktu. This establishment has no booster seats for the small, shoe-less children eating with their families and the seating is butted right up against the flow of traffic where the exhaust fumes are certainly not up to smog check standards, yet the man seated across from me is watching cooking videos on his Instagram feed at the table, just like my suburban friends back home.
It's a strange privilege to watch the world change before your eyes.
With the Central Market at my destination du jour I took a quick perusal of the map and headed out into the 90 degree heat in the general direction, figuring my inherent sense of direction and landmarks would lead me there. Imagine my surprise when shortly thereafter I came upon a 4 story indoor market place with the word center on the outside and a claustrophobic maze of pathways inside. This had to be it! (It was not). Faux central market was a cacophony of sounds and very pungent smells. Nearly anything could be procured here: padded bras, dried fish, pig snouts and scotch tape. I am telling you - Target ain't got nothing on this place - except perhaps a ventilation system. After making a round up top where seamstresses hand beaded prom dresses from heaven I was done with this overload for the senses and ready to brave the swirling street traffic yet again.
Headed in the general not-toward-my-hostel-direction, imagine my surprise when I then came upon the actual Central Market just moments later, an Art Deco indoor mall that more closely resembles Montgomery Wards in it's final days than the third world shit storm through which I'd just walked. 10 minutes here was plenty for me.
As I made my way further East I saw that the older, white, fanny pack packing population was growing by leaps and bounds and thought I must be headed into the tourist friendly part of town. And, I was.
Not far from where I had enjoyed a Coca Cola Light the day before, I parked up at an outdoor cafe with prime vagrant watching capabilities with every intention of reading a novel my sister highly recommended and who's first 30 pages I have not been able to break. With such a lovely afternoon in mind, it would make total sense that, instead, I log onto Wifi and hop on the phone for a 4 hour or so international phone call with the one person I cannot resist, and the one person I should.
My kryptonite kills and having learned from years of openly weeping on subway platforms, waterworks in public comes naturally - even it if does illicit the stares of genuine concern from the children beggars trying to make enough for dinner.
A long and emotionally exhaustive conversation was had resulted in my feeling frustrated, incredibly sad, hurt and less than worthy of love.Looking for the silver lining I consider that that my father is not here to see his beautiful, brilliant, independent daughter crumble in a pile of emotional turmoil and self doubt with a single text. Ain't love a bitch.
My brother--in-law had made the joke for years that my dad raised two excellent sons (me and my sister) and so often do I find this to ring true. Aside from my tear ducts having a mind of their own - I am strong and fearless and committed. I like to spoil take care of the person I love and there is literally nothing I wouldn't do for them. I am downright chivalrous.
When the phone call comes to an unexpected and abrupt end by way of my discussing my suicidal ideation met with actual, literal snores, Bruce Banner takes a backseat and I am all Hulk. I have never experienced this emotion before, or at least so rarely no memories spring to mind. Sadness is my default. My natural inclination is to be hurt by rejection or guilt ridden my mistakes I have made - but this was different. This was pure, unadulterated rage. Rage so palpable that my jaw locked and my gate quickened as I made my way back to the hostel, map free. I was so enraged I didn't even reach for my camera on the 45 minute trek during twilight and, instead made way like a banshee on a mission, barely pausing as motorbikes and cars swerved my way.
Sadly, it was on this anger fueled walk that I realized where the cool part of town was, upon which I had not yet happened and made note to revisit should I budget another day in Phnom Penh before heading back to the states.
Now, back at the hostel waiting for my 8 pm bus to Siem Reap I am torn. I don't know what to do. I've joked about the Irish blood coursing through my veins for years, but depression is real and when life throws some very big very real shit in your face it can take over. I know there have been times it has with me and now, just having come up for air for the first time in months I feel pushed back down, the undertow often too powerful to resist.
Every time I think my heart can't possibly be shattered anymore. Every time I think I have hit rock bottom. I haven't.
The temperature, currency and language may be different. But no matter where in the world you are, the problems remain the same.
