The early morning is not so hot. In fact, in the shade it is perfectly pleasant, the wind blowing by my face on the bike ride to work. The Independence Monument, which has been closed for renovation and covered in green scaffolding, is suddenly open now. In the pale morning light, its very beautiful with the brown material -- whatever it is, stone? - and its dozens of naga guardians.
By the time I get to work, of course, after a stop at the post office to discover a package notice in my box for someone named "Laura Linner Aim," whoever that is and not the package I'm still waiting for, I am not nearly so fresh. Nine o'clock must be the time when the day loses the its last hint of dawn and heads into the normal state of too darn hot.
The woman in the kitchen's hands are shaking. She deals with them in a way that says they have been shaking for a long time. I wonder if they frustrate her, or if she only notices them now because I'm noticing them, or if she does notice that I am. She offers me fish sauce for the fish soup, very traditionally Khmer. Some kind of simple base, with greens, something that could be either bamboo or green beans, some fish (with bones, of course), and various other veggies. It has a sharp, distinct taste. Her spoon rattles against the bowl as she pulls out the last of the fish.
There is a small cut of fish as well, and a plate of rice, and as I quietly eat, she begins peeling some vegetables, stops to comb her daughter's hair. All the while, her hands shake. A mosquito bites me, painfully, on the calf.
There are two men in the DHL office while I wait for them to track down the package for me. One of them is the rough, street-worn kind of man, dressed in a baseball cap, an untucked button-down shirt, and corduroy pants, a little baggy. He lets the sandals fall off his feet as he stands by the corner, and pulls out a role of wadded bills from his pocket to pay. The hems of his trousers are a bit dirty, a little too long for him.
The man next to him is impeccably dressed, in a pink button down shirt tucked into khakis and brown dress shoes. He has an iPhone in a case, and the hems are perfectly clean, because the pants are tailored to his height.
From where I am sitting, here in this sterile office with security and professionalism branded everywhere you look, the contrast is startling, and remarkable.
The daily standoff begins during warm ups, when we do some extended shoulder warm ups. He's an older guy, nine years older than me though he could be older. He already missed one class, left early without notice another, and is missing a full three days and the showing next week. I agreed to let him stay and have wished ever since I didn't.
The standoffs are nothing particularly big. He says nothing, but his eyes scream it, at least that's what I hear from them (whether or not they actually are saying it is another question): How is this helping me? Go ahead. Teach me something. He falls asleep when I tell them about the day's exercises, drops his arms loudly during the shoulder warm ups.
I understand what I'm teaching is strange. I don't understand disrespect. Maybe it's just me, and my own hooks, my own insecurity. But every day I fight against the bored defiance I think I catch in his eyes. I don't understand, they say. I don't see how this works. I don't get it.
I don't make a special effort to engage him. I teach what I can, offer what I can, and I'm not going to change the workshops now. I can't teach them what to create, or even how, I can just open doors and show them ideas, give opportunities and offer sparks. But I will not sit down and tell them that this is how you must choreograph. It's definitely why I decided not to sit down and teach a four year old how to speak English.
An hour teaching the Thriller dance to enthusiastic but rhythmically challenged employees of an NGO in town who decided it would be fun to do Phnom Penh's first flash mob, and a private lesson later, I find myself on the Riverside with a friend, at a little narrow restaurant. They make a mean cheeseburger, and as we sit, vendors come up to try and sell us things. All ages, and all wares -- books, trinkets, movies, whatever. They don't harass you too much, and the lights by the river are beautiful at night.
Much later, the two of us are on the back of a moto going home, the deserted streets and the now-cool wind blowing back my hair. I look up to watch the sky going by, a luxury I certainly can't afford on my bike.
There were certainly more moments than that, but I picked out the ones that struck me at the time, like the normal goings on of life suddenly stopped for a second to say, look at that. Notice that. And so I did.
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