From our hands, not mine

I came here with some vague ideas of what I wanted to accomplish, besides teaching -- I thought, sometime in the winter I'll produce something, though what the something was was a bit uncertain.

I had heard some things about Cambodian classical dance, and knew I wanted to do something with it, learn it, and fuse it somehow with my own background. Simple enough, but I had a certain attitude about, a very western developed kind of attitude, that somehow my work would be essential in advancing the form. That part of my 'mission' was indeed to help develop and expand the classical structure.

There's nothing wrong with that; and indeed, many Khmer people I talked to about it seemed to be saying the same thing, that the form needed to be modernized. Aren't I special, I thought.

But there have been some things happening the past week that have been shifting my focus, not drastically but dramatically, small shifts that affect everything.

The first was a conversation with the program director at CLA, who loved my idea and even offered the suggestion -- which I love -- of taking a good long time in the studio with my collaborator in order to really find that true fusion. However, she did offer a word of caution: the Ministry of Culture, she said, can get a little sensitive about the idea of 'developing' the form, as they are just trying to keep it alive period, worried about losing thousands of years of culture and tradition. Something that nearly happened during the Khmer Rouge.

The next, was the realization at some point during one of my workshops that I have some very talented dancers there, kids who are really great movers. Suddenly I thought, what if they were my dancers, and not some expat professionals? They get a professional performance opportunity, it forces me to learn enough Khmer to lead a rehearsal, and they bring me a Khmer audience. It seemed right, and felt good.

The third was the Cambodia is not for sale film, when suddenly I looked at myself as the westerner, well-meaning but utterly oblivious to the reality, exactly what our development efforts do and the destruction they could wreak. It is not my place, I realized suddenly, to develop anything, to make something make progress. What I can do is simply investigate this fusion, just to see what happens.

The last was a highly dramatic story involving someone who was going to give me contacts and then apparently, for some crazy reasons of the heart that I haven't quite figured out, deciding that we were no longer friends and thus leaving me with no access at all to the contacts. But the thing is -- they were expats. They were expat ideas, that people are already doing here, like doing performances in clubs.

I thought this morning, you know, if they aren't available, then that is not where I should be looking. In fact, everywhere I turn, it is leading me away from the expat community, away from the westerners giving shows for the westerners. It is telling me less about how I can influence the Cambodian classical dance and more how much it can influence me.

The shift is enormous. I am still doing the same thing, still trying to make the fusion, but everything has changed. I am not looking to develop anything at all, just investigate. Not do the expat thing, but do something entirely new, something that doesn't need to be western or Khmer or cater to one or the either, but a true fusion, in everything -- from the dancers, to the choreography, to the production itself.

I can't wait to see where it takes me.

Cambodia is not for sale

The Goethe Institute runs an arts hub in Phnom Penh called the Meta House, screening free films and documentaries about relevant social issues pretty much every day of the week. They have a café, and sell T-shirts hand-painted by Khmer locals, as a way of raising money. It's a beautiful space with a beautiful mission.

Last night the topic was land rights, and featured a series of short documentaries about how private companies have been taking farmland for exports in sugarcane, at the expense of the residents -- in life, in housing, and without any compensation whatsoever except violence.

I didn't think I was that interested - I don't know anything about land rights, I don't really deal with politics -- but then I went, and discovered that it wasn't about politics, or land rights.


The audience was primarily Khmer people, which surprised me. Women and children, mostly, but with people of all ages, including the conspicuous monk with an iPad. There were many people in T-shirts saying "Free the 15, stop the violence." They were handing out lotus flowers to everyone.

The place was packed to the gills, people crowding in from all sides. It started late, but nobody left, and then the films began. The first two covered a particular incident around the Boeung Kok lake, where 5000 families were evicted, and their homes destroyed -- all in the name of development. The residents fought back. During one particular protest, 13 women were arrested, the police turning violent.

The pictures on the screen -- police dragging away a kicking older woman like a dead body. The Khmer audience clucked and chattered, pointing, and suddenly I thought, they must know these people. These are their lives, their friends, their land.

The women were sentenced to 2.5 years in prison, in a sham of a trial. Defense lawyers were not given time to prepare and defense witnesses were forbidden. The two public defenders assigned to the case walked out of the coutroom, and were summarily arrested.

But that wasn't the end; the community rallied around. The children, the friends. Free the 15 became a movement, peaceful protests everywhere, people lighting candles, making shirts. The lotus flower was their symbol. A month later, with international and national protests streaming in, the women were allowed an appeal.

Over 5000 people gathered outside the courtroom. When it was announced that the women would be released, the celebration was unmatched. The film showed them riding back to their communities in prison jumpsuits, people standing on the street to welcome them, to cheer them. A man half-naked on a bicycle riding by, whooping it up with sheer joy.

Let's just say, I clapped with blurry eyes.

It wasn't about land rights, it was about people, about stunningly courageous and compassionate people, about coming together and fighting for what's human, and decent. It was about seeing what happens in the name of development -- most of this madness has been done until the EU Everything But Arms initiative. Good ideas, but in practice they pave the way for private companies to screw over the locals in the name of progress.

I came here as an outsider, and there is nothing I can do to become Khmer. But I am learning, and opening my eyes to what I -- and many of the so-called developed, civilized countries -- never wanted to see, or hear about. Development is a good thing, right?

I'll have to dedicate another blog post to how my own vision for my work here has drastically changed over the course of the three weeks I've been here.

But in the meantime, I want to say: the 15 may be free, but thousands more are imprisoned, because they have lost everything; their land, their livelihood, their homes, the only thing they have to hold onto. Free the 15, until every one is free.

Stop the violence.

Riding out the downs of culture shock

I have nothing but good things to say about adventures, about throwing yourself into life, about following dreams with obsession if not blind, then at least consuming. That’s what you want to hear about, I’m sure, it’s why you’re reading this blog.

But please excuse me, if you would, a paragraph or two about the darker side – not the bad side, because I don’t believe that exists – but the times when where you are is too far, and you are very alone in a very big world.

It’s all part of the adventure, and I know it – I’ve been here before, I know how it looks and that it’s not forever. But it doesn’t matter: each time is like the first. Doesn’t matter how many times you’ve been down that road, it’s still the same.

Today is the day when everything is harder. I couldn’t download a very important file and got told off for asking it to be compressed, then got up early expressly to get to café with high speed internet and nope, doesn’t work there either. Followed shortly by a lunch in which I got told all the reasons why I can’t do what I want to do, with all the excuses I’ve heard before: not enough funding, people won’t be receptive, yada yada yada.

Frustration is not good for culture shock. The thoughts running through my head as I biked to work were not charitable in any way: I am tired of being the only white girl, of the Cambodian men shouting “Hey Lady!” at me from the street when I’m biking by and being stared at like a zoo exhibit. Tired of the heat. Plus I’m still hung up on things that don’t matter at all anymore and that I can’t do anything about anyway, stuck on words that can’t do anything but drive me crazy, and nothing really to do about it but wait it out.

Thankfully, I know that none of this is permanent, and soon enough – probably tomorrow – all will have changed, and the adrenaline of adventure will return, the excitement and the stars. Soon enough the things in my head driving me batty will have vanished to the dusty corners with all such similar things, soon enough the wall will break down, soon enough ---

It’s just the cycle of things. Times when it’s easy, times when it’s hard, times when you just want to go home and stay where you are, all at the same time.

And then it clicks (Part 2)

I’m not sure what happened Monday.

Maybe it was the arrival of a student who had taken contemporary dance before and knew what was going on. Maybe it was the weekend, and the kids having time to digest the ideas. Maybe it was even my stellar teaching skills, though I’m not so sure about that. Maybe it was the fact that two of the main troublemakers – great kids, and very good, but ALWAYS chatting or generally not working – weren’t there.

Either way, we had a bit of a breakthrough. The kids who were there were working, exploring, thinking, and suddenly really good work was happening.

There’s a big gap in the class: two very advanced kids who are either older or studied the form before, then the arts students who have experience with movement, and then the kids for whom all of this is new. The top two take the lead and work with the newbies, but I could sense on Tuesday they were getting a bit frustrated.

They don’t realize just how difficult these concepts are, and how for someone who has never done such a thing could be really lost. I’m just learning now, actually.

Despite the gap – everyone suddenly started improving.

For me one of the most incredible things is that they are still coming, especially the newbies. They look at me with some incredulity, they hesitate, but they still show up, albeit irregularly, and try. They carefully put their arms out, then drop them with a little laugh like ‘man, this looks stupid,’ and I always try to catch them right there, imitate the pose myself, and nod enthusiastically. I can’t tell them in their own language, but I mean don’t give up on yourself.

And they keep trying. It’s absolutely stunning—often much more so than the kids who already know how to move, and complete an assignment only to be done with it, and sit around talking until they get to show it.

There’s one boy who clearly doesn’t have any dance training. I haven’t guessed his age, but I’d say fourteen or fifteen. He never wears dance clothes, and can often be found sitting and watching, hiding behind a thick mop of hair. He smiles easily, but says very little, and hangs back. He’s usually the last or close to the last to show. He didn’t come on Thursday or Friday last week, but showed up on Monday, to my great surprise.

And yet. During an exercise in which we worked in pairs, there was an odd number and since everyone paired up immediately, he was left to work with me. I could tell he was reluctant, but we started working together. I don’t know how much he understood, but at the very end, he, like many new dancers, dropped the last pose. As if to say okay there I did it, sorry it was bad, I’ll go away now.

No no, I said, you have to finish the dance on a strong note. Hold the last position, then slowly come back to neutral. Don’t let it go, finish it. He looked a little strangely at me, but nodded.

During the showing, he did it, exactly like I had showed him, and the effect was startling. I was ridiculously excited about it.

It’s moments like that that make me glad I teach. 

Now change everything you do (part 1)

I thought I would devote a blog post or two to the workshops I'm currently teaching, as they demonstrate remarkably well some of the differences between western contemporary dance and Cambodian classical dance. They may be both called 'dance' but are as different from each other as night and day, but not only in how they look, but how they are taught, the genesis of the movement, the history, etc, etc.

First of all, it must be said that Cambodian culture is based around tradition and honoring the past traditions, especially in the arts. Masters teach, and students learn. It is based on imitation, as the students are judged on how perfectly they represent the steps. There is no room in Cambodian classical dance for innovation; the steps are the way they are since they were created, and personal interpretation is not something that exists. The subjects are equally set; each dance tells a certain story. New stories are not a thing one does. .

So keeping all of that in mind, imagine a group of young teenage Khmer students, being now told to create their own movement.

You'd be out of your element too, wouldn't you?

And yet, that is exactly what I am proposing to my students, in my current three week workshop directed towards making an original solo. I do not tell anyone what movement to do. We started with making shapes -- that do not move, and have been working slowly towards stringing them together with movement.

The very concept of making a 'shape' -- essentially a pose, but carefully chosen -- is foreign to them, and it took at least a couple days until they figured out what I meant. Very tentatively, or with great fervor, depending on the student, they set about putting their bodies in positions, often drawing on Cambodian classical forms.

With that little success in hand, we then embarked on drawing inspiration from pictures. Drawing from my grand collection of postcards and pictures, I asked them to make shapes based on what they saw -- yet another thing that you simply do not do here. They took it somewhat literally, often imitating the pictures or the shapes -- and who could blame them? They don't look at a picture of a building and think to make a square with their arm, they look at it and wonder what to do with it. I asked them to just take inspiration from the energy of the picture, and got a whole lot of blank looks. Oops.

In addition to the problems of understanding the concepts - and what, really, a concept even is -- one of the things I had wanted to stress was discussion, so that everyone helps each other with their work, watches, and makes comments. I found out very, very quickly that this was going nowhere, as they just do not know how to talk about dance. 


And again, who could blame them? You don't talk about Cambodian classical dance. You imitate, and you perform it precisely as it should be. It's not just that they're looking at completely alien movements, but then to try and say something about it, what 'works'-- what works, in fact, is a complete nonsequiteur for them. It is a concept that quite simply does not exist, and would require a whole lot of time and explaining from me if I was going to try and introduce it.

With all of this -- some of which I was anticipating, some I wasn't -- I admit to being heartily glad for the weekend at the end of the first week. In addition to the added energy and effort to make myself understood, through a translator and asking them to do things they have never, ever, done before, there is the more frustrating matter that I never have any idea who is going to show up on any given day. 


The idea that a workshop means every day is important just doesn't register, though I suspect that has more to do with their age than their culture. Being on time is another tricky concept, though that's sort of a nationwide issue as far as I can tell. In any case, every day there is always someone who hasn't been there the day before, or for several days, or just comes at the start of the second week as the case was today, so I'm always scrambling to figure out what to do with them, or what to do with my regulars while I catch the newcomers up. 


Thankfully, I have one student who really gets what is going on and what I'm doing, and works with everyone else, which is fantastic.


Going into the weekend, the kids had blazed through all of the assignments I had laid out for two weeks, meaning I was going to have to redesign the syllabus for the second week. 'Exploring further' is not something they understand; so far as they are concerned, if they do the assignment, they're done. To them it makes perfect sense; in classical dance, you certainly don't go back and play with the movement, see what's better, what works, what other ways you can do something. How do I explain that a dance is never 'done', that it can be workshopped and workshopped ad infinitum? 


Heading to the second week, then, I admit to wondering if anyone would come back, having lost -- I thought -- at least half the class, a good deal of people missing an important session on Friday. Or if the newness was just too much and I was too alien, asking them to do too alien things.

Well, consider me surprised, and pleased. (to be continued)

Have a dance or two

The band was hot, and the ceiling fans churning desperately couldn't cool down the FCC Cambodia, a hotel/restaurant/bar/hang out on the Riverside, with a rooftop terrace -- only that it has a roof -- sprawling across the whole floor. Tiled floors and big tables with iron legs, iron chairs with leather cushions, and -- so I've heard -- a hopping happy hour.

A small stage for the band, this Saturday a Cuban band, blasting out all the hits in salsa form. They started playing at nine (they were supposed to start at eight thirty, but Cambodian + Cuban time equals delays). At the start, it was just a few dancers, the good salsa dancers per se, but soon enough the beats affected everyone -- including yours truly, and the dance floor packed up. The two female singers led the charge in the front, showing the steps. A few couples still bravely danced in the middle of the throng.

The bar sells cocktails in jugs, and where three of us began, soon became six, soon became nine, more and more chairs added to the table. There was a mix of expat and Cambodian people there I'd say, all just loving the band, dancing or watching the dancing, a lot of alive people with shining eyes.

Now that, I think, is a bit more my speed!

A side note about the various people I'm meeting -- there seem to be two types of expats, and I wonder which one I'll ultimately be, if either. Many, many people are passing through -- six weeks, three months, six months maximum. An internship here, volunteer work there. They are in Cambodia on a larger tour of Southeast Asia, or because there was an opportunity, or who knows. Some, I've heard, are just here because they can't make it anywhere else.

Then there are all the people who just stay. Who maybe came for an internship and never left, who are just here until they leave, like me. Who, for whatever reason, have just decided to settle their roots here, and will be for the foreseeable future. Until they happen to leave.

I have been here two weeks now, and have gotten up to all sorts of stuff since arriving. As I have a tendency to do, I have forgotten what it was like to live anywhere but here, and seeing as I'm not going anywhere for awhile, I'm doing what I can to make it as productive and epic as possible.

If the past two weeks are any indication, it shouldn't be too much of a problem...

The East, and the West

Had a conversation with my friend about some key differences between eastern and western philosophy that I thought I would pass on, as they were really interesting.

We got on the subject because I was asking about monks. They are very common here, in robes of varying degrees of orange. On the backs of motorbikes, walking along, giving a blessing after someone gives them food, or quietly, patiently standing in front of a shop, waiting to see if the owner feels like giving them anything. In Buddhism, I learned, monkhood is not just forever. Some people, perhaps following the death of a close family member, will shave their heads and go to the temple for a couple days as a sign of respect.

We then moved onto female monks, nuns, as I haven't seen any Buddhist nuns. They're rare, my friend said, but often becoming a nun means forever, as in Christianity. She didn't have an explaination for that, but I thought it was interesting. In any case, she mentioned that sometimes when a mother has lost her husband, she'll live in the temple for the rest of her life.

I don't think I'd ever get to that place, I said. Even then there'd be things to do.

My friend paused, then remarked that this was a fundamentally western thing to say. She explained that Buddhists believe in reincarnation, and thus the endless cycle of living and dying. In that case, to keep on doing things is kind of pointless, because no matter how much you finish there will be more, and then you'll have to do it all again in the next life.

Well. In my thoughts, this life is all you get, and while some western religions include a paradise (or inferno) in the picture, we all agree that this time on earth is what you get, and just disagree on the following proceedings. Besides, it is a very fundamentally western outlook to just keep doing and living.

So the east looks at the west and thinks, what's the point?

And the west looks at the east and thinks, why are you wasting your time?

Funnily enough, both are equally valid and understandable, given their background.

The last thing I wanted to note was a quick revelation about Buddhism that my friend told me about. I had always thought that Buddhism and meditation was about pushing away feelings, so you don't want anything.  But no, she said, because the point is to not want anything, so if you push things away, it means you don't want to feel.

Therefore, you let yourself feel the emotion or the want fully, but then let it go. I don't think I'll be turning Buddhist anytime soon, but the thought was enough to make me start meditating and practicing that before I go to sleep at night! 

There's a lizard in my sink

Granted, it was pretty small, only about three inches total from nose to tip of tail. One of the little, almost translucent lizards that flit up and down the walls, especially at night. They're everywhere, though I'm not sure how this one found his way into my apartment. I suppose he fell, and then couldn't climb the slippery stainless steel walls of my sink.

I found him when I got home from a meeting, needing to make dinner. However much I think the things are cute, having a living one in your kitchen is a different story. I waffled a bit, and then called my friend Nettra. She didn't pick up -- I figured she was having dinner, so texted her.

Upon hearing about the problem, she immediately called to ask how big it was, then suggested I lure it onto a piece of paper and put it outside. She must have heard me hesitating, because she decided to send over their maid to help me out.

Their maid is a tiny little Cambodian woman who doesn't, as far as I can tell, speak a word of English, but she's very friendly, and came over to investigate, chatting away happily in Khmer. She found one of my discarded cardboard boxes, left over from the water filter, and then proceeded to chase the thing around my sink, trying to convince it to go in the box. He refused, so at last -- much to my discomfort -- she took a paper towel and snatched it by the waist, then threw it into the box.

I was somewhat concerned for the thing's well-being after all that, but she showed me it sitting in the bottom of the box, still alive and no doubt scared to death. With another cheery remark that I didn't understand, she headed out with box and lizard in hand, leaving me to my various stumbling attempts at cooking (let's be frank: I am no cook. I can feed myself, and that is where we draw the line.)

Things have been very, very busy here, but I don't really want to bore you with the details of it. A lot of running around, a lot of selling myself, and a few leads on getting paid for tutoring. Encouraging, and exciting, but quite hectic.

You know. The usual....

Birthday in Cambodia

It was a busy day, including a little jaunt to a school somewhere in the middle of nowhere to the north of Phnom Penh, a good 5km and long bike ride that left me with very oddly sunburnt hands (think, holding a bike handlebar line). My legs are still complaining...well, that and an interview for what I thought was an assistant teacher and instead was a preschool teacher. It went well but ultimately it won't work out as they don't want me to go to Siem Reap in September, as planned with Cambodian Living Arts, and I had to make the choice: am I here to teach preschool, or choreography? I think you know which one I chose, but always hard to give up stability for what you actually want to do...

The afternoon was spent teaching -- yesterday only had 3 students but we got some good work done and of course today I had 11, so trying to get everyone on the same level and avoid the inevitable "been there three days" cliques from forming. I may or may not have succeeded, but that's besides the point...

(This post is all over the place because I am -- it was another busy day and lots of stuff happening.)

But anyway, for the evening I wore my new dress -- ankle length, which I am not at all used to -- and put on makeup and earrings for the first time since coming here. It quite makes a difference, I actually looked like a girl!

For dinner we went to a little place called Atmosphère, a French bistrot very nearby my apartment. It was very quiet -- I guess people don't go out to places like that on Tuesday nights -- but the wait staff was very friendly and the food good. The decor was all very white -- cream, I guess -- and fancily folded napkins. The meat was grilled outside, a big wonderful outdoor grill. Medium rare ongleut de boeuf for me...

The waitstaff learned it was my birthday when I was trying out my new skills in Khmer, as my friend taught me to say 'It's my birthday'. We ordered an apple tart for dessert, and then my friends asked that it be brought with a candle, so back they went and came back with a candle, prompting everyone to break out in a cacophony of various versions of 'happy birthday'. English, French, and Khmer, somewhere in the song and no one really together, but happily clapping along and cheering when I blew out the candle. Really quite a lovely present.

Afterwards we wandered down a street where there are tons of cute little bars, but then one of my friends noticed there seemed to be a concert up on the second floor of one of the buildings, and so we decided to try and figure out how to get up there. We went up a couple flights of very, very steep stairs and came out in the bar.

As with many restaurants/bar, it opened directly to the air, in this case the street. There were mainly expats there, lounging on the congregation of big couches and bean bag chairs. The liquor behind the bar was set on a replica of the Independence Monument, built into the wall and backlit with blue. There was a little stage in the corner, where an Australian hippie was jamming away on the guitar and singing a crazy mix of songs, from Australian hiphop to the Gorillaz to Modest Mouse to Outkast.

It was a really nice atmosphere; everyone was having fun and enjoying the music, singing along or chatting to their friends. The walls and ceiling were covered entirely with little messages and drawings from the past clientele, I guess the bar was called Top Banana, as I only discovered today, but we stayed for a drink and generally had a lovely time.

After we left, Nettra and I spent some time at my apartment, having a beer and chatting about life and love. All in all it was a really lovely birthday -- low key, simple, and great fun.

Currently in mode: find work that I WANT to do. It's so tempting to just apply for everything everywhere but I found myself dragging my feet on some things and then thought, why? Why not get paid to do enjoyable work? What a thought...

Year 21, in review

Since the time I turned twenty one, I have lived at least a thousand lives. And yet, today I have somehow contrived to only be turning twenty two. I am not sure how that happened, or what, in fact, happened. But it did, and therefore only a year must have passed, as incredible as that is.

Last year this time, I was still in Paris, still in the throes of self-discovery that was the entire year abroad, celebrating my twenty first among people that had become so dear, often in a very short time, that it was impossible to think of leaving. But the end of my stay was fast approaching, and it all coalesced into a bright shining moment of understanding on the morning of July 26th, and less than a week later, I was on an airplane. Leaving after eleven months a city that had become more comfortable and more beloved than any other place on earth. Chatting up the kind Italian woman next to me and trying not to go stir crazy.

I spent a month at home: a month of eating salad and working out like a fiend to drop the extra ten pounds I'd picked up in Paris, a month of letting go and moving on, a month when I often sat on the couch with my mom and cried, trying to make sense of the impossibly transformative experience that I had; as with any transformation, the destruction was just as powerful as the creation.

A month of dealing with culture shock -- as I have often said, and will say again because it's so true -- it was a monster I had prepared to fight but did not even recognize its face; I knew the roads would be too big, the tables, the cars, everything too big, not enough motos and not enough sidewalk cafes, but I didn't realize that my family would have lived a full year that I knew nothing of, had changed and I didn't know it, had a full year of experiences just as I had but not shared. I didn't know about the nagging, uncertain sense of unbelonging, of displacement, of recognizing everything but being unable to picture yourself inside.

In fact, the culture shock wouldn't go away for six months, and soon enough I was on another plane, back to the city that never sleeps, where the cars, noise, and lights promptly overwhelmed me. But it wasn't just the city, but after a year of life suddenly I was in school again, turning in homework, doing research, and preparing a senior thesis. I met the King of Pop, the subject of said thesis, and was inspired, again and again. I wrote a hundred pages and played the academic and the dancer. I got to know not one but two androgynous, genius, and decidedly unstable male dancers, not only MJ but Nijinsky, and loved delving into their stunning ability to move.


Besides the academics, I spent months trying to reconcile the girl I used to be with the girl I had become, until one fine morning in December looked at myself in a mirror and recognized the girl within. Not three weeks later, I was on a plane again.

Another month at home, time to give and to celebrate being together, a time to rest and recuperate. I discovered my pixie heritage (remind me to tell you that story one day; if I finish it without you dragging me to the loony bin it will be surprising), said goodbye to my childhood hometown, and was so fully present that when I arrived back in New York, after another plane ride, I didn't recognize the apartment I stepped into.

I knew where everything was, because I had put it there, but had again the sense of displacement, as though someone else belonged where I was intruding, and it took me a good couple days to shake. By then, I was deep in the throes of my latest project of taking a group to Paris, a project begun the previous semester but left to simmer on the back burners. I put it on high heat, but at the beginning it crawled, like sailors on a beach after a shipwreck. Dancers were leaving, funds were nonexistent.

Nevertheless, because not going was not an option, I headbutted any brick wall in my path and after two intense months of preparation, the trip was funded and I was on a jumbo jet heading over the Atlantic, taking ten days off school to kibitz about Paris; a surreal experience in an increasingly more surreal life. For ten perfect, beautiful days, I was home.

By the time I returned, it was time to graduate, take final exams, and say goodbye to people I had been in school with for four years. My family was in New York, there were two stars next to my name in the program, and it was celebration and madness --

And then I had moved, and was throwing myself into the next adventure. I had already agreed to participate in the choreography showcase, but found myself quite unexpectedly co-producing it, working with dancers ten times more experienced than I, and yet somehow or another the thing got produced and performed. It was an experience that made me feel equal parts totally incompetent and totally competent, and more often than not very very young, and very very inexperienced. And yet -- as with all experiences like it, it taught me a hell of a lot.

But there would be no time to rest, either preparing for or after the showcase, because there was a move to the other side of the world to organize, and with my mom in town for a brief, lovely week, I gathered up my energy for the next big leap.

The last week in New York was filled with goodbyes and the incredibly revealing things that happen in the case when you quite simply don't know the next time you'll be back, if at all. They were all little gifts, little embers to hold somewhere in my soul, little wonderful looks into people's eyes, each separately surprising and fascinating. I spent a great deal of the time running around like a chicken with my head cut off, pausing and posing for a few seconds before fluttering off.

My July 4th was filled with fireworks, you could say, and the next night at 1:45AM I was on another jumbo jet, the lone white female in the back of the plane with a company of the Indonesian Navy, and touched down in a place where nothing at all seemed to be anything like what I had previously experienced, quite literally the opposite side of the world.

Which is where I am currently writing this post, completely baffled by how that all fit into one year, especially since I didn't even mention the half of it. However much I may not understand, though, it was in fact one year, and I am in fact just now turning twenty two. It makes me almost afraid to wonder what will happen before July 17th, 2013, but if experience tells anything -- it certainly won't be boring!!

It should tell you something that I think one of the most flattering things anyone has ever said to me was calling me "strange, or at the very least unusual"...

Monday: And so it begins

The first half of this post was written on Monday morning, when my Facebook feed was filled with happy statuses about a great Sunday, or somewhat less happy about the upcoming return to reality when Monday rolled around.

I have been to the future, my friends, and Monday is not so terrible.

It started with a meeting; or rather, with a phone call as I was about to leave for the meeting. My mad e-mailing seems to be going somewhere, as I was asked for an interview for an assitant teaching position at a nearby international school. Then it was off to the University of Fine Arts, and I didn't really know what I was planning to ask about. The pretext for my meeting, I found out later, was something about wanting to do research on the Royal Ballet, but we soon got past that. As a matter of fact, I just wanted to know them, and be known, and both turned out splendidly.

The meeting took place in the administrative and admissions office, which was simply a large room in one of the long buildings that make up the university. Next door was the music department, its doors wide open and some very lovely music spilling out, and on its other side "Choreographic Arts", though apparently they just teach the theory.

In the middle of the room was a wood table with a teapot, and surrounding it about five or six old desks, retro 70s style, clunky and somewhat gray. One had a slab of rock under one foot to keep it stable. Two of the desks had enormous desktop computers, the kind that look like old TVs. The floor, tiled red and white, was very dusty. Here and there a few pieces of scenery or decorations lay on the floor. It was cool, though, shaded and a couple ceiling fans gently keeping the air circulated.

I guess that's what counts for high tech here. Nonetheless, the man I was meeting was very friendly, passed off a few phone numbers and suggested I meet the teachers at their Secondary School. Exams, he said, are tomorrow, and then vacation, so you should go tomorrow.

Guess where I'm going tomorrow then? Somewhere way up in the north of the city, though really it's maybe 5 km, to a campus that they didn't really know the street address of but knew roughly how to find it and pointed it out on my handy Phnom Penh map. Interview, then secondary school. Sounds like a good day to me...

In any case, I also started my workshops -- due to the Secondary Fine Arts school having their exams, as I had just learned this morning, 11 of my students were not present, leaving me to try and ingratiate myself to the 4 who were present. They were all very nice, don't get me wrong, it's just that the long and the short of it is:

They have never done anything at all like this. I don't speak Khmer, though I do have a translator. They don't even know what 'choreography' is, as with a lot of people; I say it means making dances and they want to slap movement together. But there's more to it, and it's my job to get them to trust me enough to try it this new, strange, and decidedly different way. I'm trying to let them stay in their comfort zone by using movement they are comfortable with, but we are approaching it in a vastly different way than they know and -- well, that's why I'm here, to give them a new way of looking at things.

It was a long three hours, but that's okay; if this is going to work, it's going to take a lot of patience and a lot of attention from me. I bet you anything that the more we go along, the better it will be -- mostly because I'll have a better idea of how to approach it, introduce it, etc. I already do, and looking forward to restarting with the full 15 tomorrow.

Tonight my friend is taking me to a popular expat biweekly event called "Nerd Night," in which people present on something they're a nerd about, from tea drinking to barefoot running, by talking about 20 slides for 20 seconds each.

In the mean time I'm having a quiet dinner at home -- some veggies, some rice cooked with olive oil and salt, and bread. For dessert I decided to have half of what I suspected was a mango, and having never cut a mango before was unsure how to proceed, having somehow gotten into my head I should cut it like an avocado.

It was certainly a mango, but you most certainly do not cut it like an avocado, but juice everwhere aside, it is perfectly ripe and very, very yummy.

Not a bad life at all...

Sunday in Phnom Penh

The heat is a bit oppressive today, and as such it is not quite four o'clock and I am dead tired. I just spent some ten minutes lying on my back and staring at the ceiling. I imagine there will be more of that before the end of the day, in fact a nap is looking increasingly likely.

This morning I went for a short tour on the bike -- hello thighs, we haven't spoken in awhile -- around Phnom Penh. I started by heading over to the riverside and biking north along the quai. It's very lovely, with the palm trees, and the sky is clear today, hence the heat. There was a bit of traffic, but nothing you can't deal with if you pay attention.

The city is small; it doesn't take long to bike. I didn't go all the way to the north, just up around street 88, then turned back and zigzagged my way back through the narrow streets to get home. My sense of direction is still as terrible as ever, but maybe it's getting better because I didn't get lost once, there were only a few times when I wasn't sure what street I was on, but that's understandable as there are very few street signs, and only on the main roads.

I really like the city; it's small and I suppose by American standards the streets are pretty narrow. All the signs are in Khmer and English, lest you forget where you are. As I've mentioned, of course, the tuk tuks are everywhere, and in the midday the drivers can often be found in the back taking a nap. Besides the restaurants, there are the nomadic food carts, their owners walking them along and tooting their horns to announce their arrival. Kind of like vendors at a sports game, only without the shouts.

I was only out for a half hour, but it was plenty enough to wear me out. I headed back out again for lunch with some friends around one thirty, to a place nearby called Khmer Surin. It's a guest house as well as a restaurant, and absolutely beautiful. The place seems to explode with plants and greenery. Dark wood and low tables, with red and gold cushions. Though you're inside, and cool in the shade, you feel like you're outside, with the green and the sky opening up above.

I had pad thai, which I know isn't Cambodian, but it was a Khmer and Thai restaurant and it was very good and cheap. I just learned yesterday the word for chili sauce and put it to good use, succeeding in ordering some. I was quite proud of myself...

We stayed a long time. The food was very good and it was so calming. Just next to us was a little pool and a fountain, and what with the green, you could just stay forever.

However, we didn't, and the bike ride home was enough to dispel whatever cool I had managed to gain at the restaurant. I'm now trying to decide what to do with myself for the rest of the evening. Tomorrow is the start of everything and I admit to being somewhat apprehensive, but mostly just exciting to kick things off. As many people can attest, I don't do nothing very well.

I'm supposed to meet the dean of the university of fine arts in the morning as well, and I don't know for the life of me exactly what I plan on asking about, but I figure it's someone very good to know and I'm sure I can extemporize. Talking to people has never been a problem...

It looks to be a busy week, and all the better. Vacation -- if you can call it that -- is over, and now back to life. As I noted after graduation, I have nothing else but that for as far as I can see.

Saturday Afternoon

Let me paint you a picture:

The patio is neat and deserted. Everyone is inside, as they well should be, but I wanted to sit here and watch. The tables are glass topped, and the patio is fenced in by black iron, every few tables a plant to add a touch of green. To my right, the parking lot; not much to see there, besides the army of motos and tuk tuks across the street, waiting in the shade for the customers leaving the shopping center.

In front of me the drive curls around to the parking garage. A staircase proclaiming "214Lounge" heads up to, presumably, a lounge, the 214 coming from the number of the street.

The ice cream in front of me is melting quickly in the hot air. Under the table are a couple bags with loot from the supermarket inside the shopping center; seasonings, a lot of noodle soup, balsamic vinegar and olive oil, a dustpan. The makings of a home, for less than fifteen dollars.

Lest you think it was too much like home, to the side of the parking lot are the little miniature temples, set up for the ancestors. They are like little gold houses on pedestals, intricately formed and beautiful, filled with small gifts and offerings. These offerings are everywhere -- unobtrusive, and you don't necessarily see them unless you're looking, but everywhere.

Behind them, the street is lined with palm trees and another kind of tree with a brilliant red flower. Everything is deeply green and deeply colorful. There's a white apartment building beyond, a few palm trees on a rooftop garden.

Things are completely uncertain, but at that moment, I was at peace. I realized that even if I succeed in giving only one private lesson a week -- people have been urging me to go the route of private tutoring -- it will essentially pay my grocery bills. The thought was quite encouraging, as I have been impatiently wondering just when I am going to start getting income.

Soon, I thought, savoring the now very gooey ice cream. The server, surprised I could speak even a few words of Khmer, asked me in Khmer if I spoke it. I stared at her blankly, but when she translated, I smiled.

Ch'hey tac tac, I said.

Only a little.

An evening out in Phnom Penh

It started with a bike ride.

The streets at night are not particularly well lit except for the main arteries, such as Norodom Boulevard. There, the streets are lined with lights, a red carpet of lights. Every block or two is a little post, containing an umbrella and one or two bored officers in their khaki uniforms and walkie talkies. My bike happens to have a little gadget that, when you flip a switch, something rubs up against the front tire and activates a little light on the front of the bike. Very useful at night.

I took the main street, of course, and when I left around seven thirty, it was packed. You have to pay attention, with motos and tuk tuks cutting you off at every turn and winding your way through oncoming traffic at every intersection. I'm getting good at it, but haven't lost the habit of swearing badly whenever the nearest tuk tuk decides now is a good time to cross.

The ride took me to street  136 and the Europe Guest House, where, while waiting for friends, I chatted with the friendly proprietor, who offered to keep my bike in the back while we kibitzed about. I gladly accepted, and with the other three, headed out in search of food.

We found what's called the Night Market, apparently on the list of "Where You Should Go" in the Cambodian guidebooks, as can be judged by the amount of tourists uneasily slipping off their sandals to settle themselves indian style on the covered ground, carefully balancing plates of food from the surrounding food stands. It looks like carpet, the design at least, but isn't, a sort of woven vinyl that makes strange patterns on your skin if you stay in one position too long.

The market is roughly organized in a rectangle; the lights from the stands more than enough to light the open center, where each stand seems to command a certain area. Baskets of hot sauce and other condiments are strewn throughout, but if you try- as I did - to move them to another area, soon enough some assistant will come by and give you the basket you were really supposed to be using. Whoops.

My stomach had been upset for most of the day, no doubt complaining about all of the very new things it's been asked to handle in the past week, so I just got a simple chicken fried noodle, which, when mixed with the hot sauce, was absolutely delicious. Some greens, some noodles, a bit of sauce, and some chicken. Simple enough. I also got a fizzy drink that I still have no idea what it actually was -- my guess is the Khmer version of cherry soda, though it would surprise me if it was actually cherry. Either way, it was very tasty. A stage was set up on the other side of the rectangle, a strange built up podium with some Khmer band happily jamming away.

The food finished, we headed off in search of a bar the girls had heard about, heading to the riverside. After a false start in the wrong direction, we found the place. It had two floors, sleek and modern like most of the buildings on the riverside. The party, whatever it was, was happening on the second floor, so up we went.

It could have been any other club; the lights down to a low red, a bar and some places to sit, and in the next room a DJ pounding away your basic club hits, like "Call Me Maybe" and a remix of "Rolling in the Deep". The drinks were expensive by Cambodian standards, 5 bucks for a cocktail, and I wasn't particularly in the mood, so I passed.

Any other club, except filled with Khmer people (which I was actually somewhat pleased about -- I would have been somewhat dismayed if it was filled with westerners). Any other club, except the tiny balcony wrapping around the outside overlooked the Mekong River, with palm trees along the wide riverside promenade and tuk tuk drivers grappling for customers leaving the nearby bars. The tourists, which you can spot a mile away, staring around at their strange surroundings and carrying their backpacks on their stomachs.

It was nice, I guess. We went inside after awhile to check out the dance floor, which again could have been any dance floor, any place, the flashing lights and circling colors. The pumping beat. I was tired, and not particularly interested in partying the night away (yes, you can fall over in shock now), but let's be frank:

Dance floors intoxicate me.

They just do. The beat gets into my blood and it's over. And yet: here, with three other ex-pats, the Cambodian guys turning their heads, the flashing beat and throughout all of this the undeniably surreality that I am, in fact, in Phnom Penh, in Cambodia, absolutely nowhere near anything I know...

The sheer incongruity was almost enough to send me reeling. Fortunately or not, I didn't have much time to contemplate it, because the girls decided to try and talk their way into the 14 July - held, naturally, on the 13 July -- party at the French Embassy. Never mind you had to have a French passport to get an invitation.

Nevertheless, we got a tuk tuk, the driver asking his friend directions because he didn't know where the embassy actually was, though didn't want to lose business. It was easy enough to find, after all; an impressive wall with one door, a crowd of tuk tuk drivers standing around and waiting for people to leave, long rows of motos on either side.

The party was winding down, and the girls began their pitch. I stood quietly to the side. One of the officers came over to shake his head at our behavior, and I naturally denied all knowledge of the plan. I said -- honestly -- that a friend had invited us and I understood perfectly well we were late. The girls pleaded and begged and got some lady in charge who was passing to have pity, and then we were in.

A long, paved walkway led to another sleek, modern building, very white and blocky, like a giant piece of minimalist, abstract art, just in architectural form. The main building was in front of us, but we veered to the right instead, following the music. The building was light and airy, and opened up onto a sprawling lawn, where a stage and a dance floor had been set up. But for every person dancing, there were three standing around, talking and schmoozing, a few white-clad officers with impressive arrays of pin on their uniforms and red shoulder sashes, and equal parts Cambodian and French people.

The officer was right; we were late, and not three songs later the band closed up shop, leaving a bunch of drunk twenty somethings - they had been serving free alcohol -- looking for the next best thing. It was, after all, only 11 o'clock.

We had acquired a couple more people by that time, and I was getting very tired. Everyone seemed to be heading to one of the few nightclubs, Nova, but I asked one of our new Khmer friends if he could just take me back to the guesthouse, where I could get my bike and go home. He agreed.

During the time, however, in which we tried to decide where to go and how to fit seven people onto three motos, we were continually accosted by a bunch of drunk twenty something French ex-pats, with obliging tuk tuk drivers in tow, to ask where we were going, or where the next party was happening.

We got ourselves sorted, and headed first to the club to drop everyone off. It was again sleek, looking for all the world like a renovated warehouse, surrounding by security guards and motos, again. We left the girls, and my friend took me to the guest house. My bike was exactly where I had left it, and I headed back home on the now mostly deserted streets, coming back into a quiet house.

The evening was fun. I will grant it that. However, it made me think a lot, and to be very honest --- it bugged me. The many drunk French people just desperate for the next party, the 'find-the-next-party' attitude in them and in my own group. Listen, I have nothing against that, I've been there, I get it. However --


I am not here to go out all the time. Safe or not, I don't necessarily feel comfortable wandering the streets at night, and I'm just as happy to bed early and wake early. Every once in awhile go dancing, sure. But to be here just to find the parties?


No. I realized forcibly that it's just not what I'm here for. The sense of displacement was enough to tell me that. 


In the meantime, the job search continues. I remember from living in Asheville how long everything seems to take, and how really quite awful the waiting is. But I have to be patient; as utterly bizarre as it is, I have only been here a week. 

Sampling the local delicacies

Which proved to be the most challenging adventure yet...

Last night for dinner, we had one of the local delicacies: cooked, fertilized duck eggs.

Yes, eggs with ducklings inside. I have been told that the ones we had were further along than people usually eat them and therefore you don't usually have a mostly formed duckling to deal with inside. This is good to know, as --- well, I think you understand.

With the rounded part of the egg up, you crack the top and break the skin. Then, you put in a little sauce made from lime juice and salt and pepper, and drink the fluid inside. Then you just dig in with a spoon. If you're like me and realize that what you're trying to dig out is in fact the head of a little duckling, you freak out, flip the head back in, and pass it off to your friend to deal with.

I did have a couple bites, but finding it hard to eat because it was a lot of bone, I decided to stop, a decision applauded by my adopted Cambodian family, who said that usually the ducklings are not so fully formed and thus much easier to eat and forget about what it is you're actually eating.

I don't really have anything against the practice -- people eat all sorts of crazy things -- but the duck head was a bit much for me. I think I would give it another go if the thing inside didn't resemble a baby bird quite so much.

The verdict from my adopted Cambodian Dad?

"You passed."

Good to know!

Gillian v. Herself: Dealing with Culture Shock

I noticed something interesting today, in how I’m dealing with the new culture.

I decided, as I usually do, to jump into this new adventure with both feet, full immersion. To the market right away, on my own on the bike, learning Khmer, eating the local food. It’s a sure way to get used to what’s going on and I’m proud of it.

However, today I was craving the West and the familiar, and decided to spend some time in a western style coffee shop, on the internet and on the phone with my parents. I had been planning not to do that until Sunday, letting that day be my day to spend in a familiar environment.

There are two opposing factions in my head. There is the one that is almost ashamed of having given in, the one that is so upset with the stereotypical tourist and ex-pat that remains constantly in the Western areas that she tries desperately to do the exact opposite. She’s the one who thinks the best way to deal with the shock is to just continue on, and soon enough it will become normal.

Then there is the other faction, who thinks that it is perfectly okay to seek refuge in the Western style when faced with an overwhelmingly new life, and not only perfectly okay but perfectly understandable. She thinks that so long as it does not become a crutch, or a habit, or otherwise impede the experience of the country, there is absolutely nothing wrong with retreating to one’s roots.

The two are just about equal, and while one does seem more reasonable – the latter – I just can’t discount the former, the embodiment of my come-hell-or-high-water, obsessive self that throws herself into life with a verve some may call utter insanity.

I’m trying to compromise the two halves by having internet installed in my apartment. That way, I don’t have to always go to those western cafés for internet but remain in touch with the world I left behind. I think it’s a very healthy compromise and may appease that violent adventurer.

I guess I just need to convince my obsessive self that you can have the cake and eat it too, that it is possible to be fully engaged in the life and the culture here and yet still irrevocably rooted in the place we come from. I will always be western, and as much as I try otherwise, I will always be American. I can’t erase that self. I just need to learn how to keep it, nurture it, and yet remain open to the influences of the culture around me.

It’s not an easy job, and goes against my instinct. But I think I have to learn, because I have a suspicion that the only way to fully immerse myself in the newness of this place is to be perfectly grounded in where I came.

Certainly, it’s something to work on…

Dinner with the locals

(This post was written last night, to be published today.)

I just got back from dinner at this tiny little roadside restaurant, where my friend and I were the only guests and the rest of the team – a family, or close friends – sat at the neighboring table and had their own dinner.

It was a bit late when we met up, close to eight, and I wasn’t sure if there was going to be any place open. My neighborhood is pretty safe, but still I’m not sure how good of an idea it is to go wandering about at night on the third (fourth?) day in a foreign country. We were heading for somewhere a few blocks away but decided instead to turn down a closer street.

What we thought was a fairly large restaurant was in fact a gym (take note, Gillian who hasn’t been exercising in god knows how long), but this place was not far away and appeared somewhat open.

We asked them and they happily welcomed us. One of them spoke very good English and came to chat with us and take our order. They didn’t have a menu, but told us what they had. I ordered fried noodles with beef and my friend a chicken soup. Once that was taken care of, our new Cambodian friend stayed to ask us what we were doing in the country, and chatted amiably for quite a while.

We ordered a couple beers, the local brand (Angkor), and he headed off to the table next to ours, coming back a few minutes later to offer a cheers, which his table seemed to be doing an inordinate amount of.

The food came in a bit, and turns out, it was delicious. Simple, but very good, and we had a lovely time eating. At the end there was a bit of a mixup on the bill – the girl gave us 300 riel back when it should have been 13000 – but after finally working out that there was a problem, Gillian having issues with her very latent math skills, we turned back in the rain and explained. They were very nice about it and we got the extra 10000, so it worked out well.

But let me tell you about this place. Like all of the restaurants, it lacked a front wall, inside spilling out into the street. The walls were whitewashed and tiny little lizards skittered across them. The tables and chairs were plastic, the dishes and the chopsticks white. Out front a cart to make the munchies or the meat, I’m not sure, but covered with some kind of umbrella, either with the Angkor logo or something similar.

The floor inside was tiled, and a covering stretched out into the street, protecting from the rain, which has been downpouring since about six o’clock this evening.

I fully intend on returning, because now, I think, I can maybe make friends with the owners. The food was good, and cheap – two fifty for the meal, about 90 cents for the beer.

When I got home, sticky and wet for the monsoon, I took a cold shower and listened to the rain hit the metal roof. Tonight I really enjoy my life; I confess to being a bit lonely earlier on, having gotten very used to having my family a phone call/text away. Now, we’re separated by thirteen hours and a very large ocean. I’m settled enough to start missing everyone, my friends and family, but after a dinner like that, I’m reminded why I did what I did and flew halfway around the world. Crazy, sure.

But so very worthwhile.  

The food, and the drivers

In other words, you need a helmet.

At least for the latter, but perhaps for the former too. I mentioned that nobody cares what side of the road you drive on, and I mean it. The scariest part is at intersections, as most don't have lights and you just have to grit your teeth, slow down, and wiggle your way through the throngs of oncoming traffic. The other is that there aren't really street signs and when you take the time to look at the shop signs to see the street, you aren't paying attention to the road. It's a balancing act for sure...

With that said, I adore the chaos. I found my way to the Orussey market, another mess of stands and smells and things to buy, food and fabric and motorbikes and water filters and if you can dream it, you can find it. It's so much it sprawls out from the main building and onto the surrounding streets, as though the sheer amount of stuff being sold fell from the sky and blurted out the sides.

I bought a helmet. It was the first success of the day, the second being buying a "numpai", a steamed pork bun, for a snack and conducting the transaction entirely in Khmer. Yes, aren't I cool.

In the meantime, I'm learning quickly how to eat Cambodian food. It's just so different that at first I wasn't quite sure what to make of it, but the last few meals have tasted really good, so maybe I'm learning.

The biggest thing is this: I will need to, and am already making progress, swiftly get over my aversion to fish heads. The fish are served whole here. There is no such thing as a filet or a boneless chicken breast. Everything has bones. Chicken claws are not excluded from the chicken when cooked.

Rice is of course served with everything and the food itself is not spicy, like Thai food, but filled with spices. Cambodians love to mix everything together to get the mix that suits them. The most popular dish is, as far as I can tell, Amok, which is some concoction of coconut milk, fish, and a bunch of spices. Everyone makes it differently, so I've heard, but it's very yummy.

Fish is served with fish sauce and some kind of pickled veggies. Fish cakes with eggs are eaten with raw vegetables. There is a lot of soup, and a lot of veggies. I had a very good pineapple and beef concoction the other day.

Then there's the fruit. Green mangoes, which I'm not so sure about yet, but then there are ramboutan, mangosteen, lychees, and some little thing that's like a lychee but not that I can't remember the name of - langsat, says google. Dragonfruit, and green oranges; apparently the most outlandish thing I've said so far is, "How can it be an orange if it's not orange?"

I still don't have an answer, but green or not, it's an orange.

Though I'm still settling in, I already love living here. I met some fellow ex-pats last night, with the same idea as me to explore the local culture fully. Now equipped with a bike, I fully intend on exploring...

PS. The camera will have to wait until I have paying work. Until then, I'll do my best to make my words count.

Markets, Khmer, and Tuk Tuks...

I'm not sure where to begin.

HOW should I begin? With what, doing where, going how? I don't usually have expectations about things so I can't say it's what I expected, but it is...it is as expected nothing like anywhere I have ever been.

I am really terrible at writing descriptions and explanations. You'll find that soon, and hopefully sooner rather than later I'll have a camera and all of us will be spared my stumbling attempts. Either way, for the moment I'll stay away from them, and just tell you what I think is important.

Let's start this way: the roofs are colorful. Flying in, it's a mess of color, green of the trees, brick red, deep blue roofs, white, everything else thrown in for kicks. On the street you don't see the colors of the roofs, but it's still a mess. Umbrellas, carts, restaurants but without front windows. The streets are packed with motos and tuk tuks and a few cars, and nobody seems to care which side of the road you drive on. The motos weave in and out of everything -- often you'll see the moto taxis with one or two people sitting on the back, and if you walk down the street, the drivers -- moto and tuk tuk -- will offer rides incessantly.

The city is small but any time you don't know where you're going it seems bigger. There doesn't appear to be any street signs, only a few on the main roads. People seem to operate on landmarks and a solid knowledge of their neighborhoods.

Everywhere there is something to buy. It's cheap if you go where the locals go and extremely expensive if you go Western. Someone is always selling something, phones, bikes, water. Parking seems to be another adventurous activity -- my friend has a driver, and in being chauffered around, I noticed that almost all shops have an assistant whose job is to park the cars and make sure the tuk tuks go around when the car is backing up. They open the door for you to get out, and I guess receive a few riels in return.

Yesterday happened, and exactly what happened I'm not sure I could tell you -- I arrived in Phnom Penh around noon and the rest of the day existed in a haze, being bombarded with sights and sounds, information, and in the meantime trying to trick my body into believing that it wasn't actually in the middle of the night.

I managed to stay awake until 8:30, barely, enjoying a traditionally Cambodian meal for dinner with my friend's parents; chicken and ginger, a fish soup, and some kind of stew with some kind of eggs, meat, and veggies. With rice, of course, and fresh lychees and mangosteens for dessert.

What else --- I decided that my current wardrobe is drastically inadequate for the culture and the heat and have already set about rectifying that. It's somewhat conservative here, so I already have a pair of 'aladdin' pants, which are light and airy but cover a lot. I also bought a light dress, with small sleeves and calf length, and will soon add a very light shirt to cover my shoulders for the dresses I have. Apparently white skin is deeply coveted here, and despite the heat the locals cover most of their skin, even going so far as to use whitening creams.

I'm already working on learning the language -- it bugs me greatly to not be able to communicate with the locals in their own tongue and English is pretty spotty anyway. I can say basic things like thank you and please, I would like to go, etc, along with "I am a teacher in the arts," "more rice please," and how to count to twenty. It's not a difficult language, but the pronunciation is crazy and I don't think I will ever be able to read it. But most signs are in both English and Khmer, so I don't really have to. It's just the speaking that's the trick.

I also already have a Cambodian nickname -- while in English nicknames usually come from the first syllable -- for mean, "Gill" -- but here it's the last. My friend's mom has trouble saying Gillian because the soft g sound doesn't really exist here. So now she calls me 'yan', from the "ian" at the end. I actually quite like it.

But before I go don't let me forget to talk about the markets. They are cramped and busy and you can buy whatever it is you please. Bargaining is allowed and encouraged, and the shopkeepers either recruit customers or can be found napping in their stalls. Things are cheap, but apparently the prices jack up if you're white.

I suppose the most jarring for me were the piles of fresh fish and dead chickens, being gutted and cleaned as you watch. I guess it's a good way to see where your food is coming from, but it smelled too much of blood for me. I suppose it's something you get used to, and I want to buy fruit for breakfast. Overwhelming, busy, but fascinating.

I think, actually, that could be said for everything here.