1) Goodbyes. I’m not a lover of goodbyes, and I am not too great with them either. Too be fair, I’ve never met anyone who is a fan of saying goodbye, at least to someone they hold dear in their hearts. 

2) Completion.There is something to be said, though, for the fine art of completion; the checking off of tasks from a list, the closing out of a project, the finish line of a challenge to be relished and endured. 

My Completion of Service from Peace Corps encompasses the above two themes. 

This past week I have been in the capitol city of Phnom Penh at the eagerly anticipated (see #2 above) Close/Completion/Celebration Of Service (hereafter referred to as COS) conference. A few days full of reflection, information, and an outpouring of emotions and thoughts we’ve been marinating on for nearly two years. The cloud of “I’m-not-sure-when-or-if-I’ll-ever-see-you-again” hung over the group (see #1 above), and many would-be casual goodbyes have ended with a “wait… ” and a mutual realization that is may be IT. 

For me, goodbyes are the dessert finish of a meal I didn’t want to end. I endeavor to fill them with as much meaning and love as I can, because wait… when will we see each other again? As someone whose life has turned on a dime with a tragic loss and lingering, agonizing thoughts of “I wish I told them…” I will try to pack as much as possible into this goodbye. Goodbyes can be beautiful things, and oftentimes are the finality of something that marks the beginning of another. But they can suck so, so bad. 

I’ve been hovering on the brink of tears these past few weeks upon coming to the realization that this long awaited completion brings with it some dreadful goodbyes. My Program Manager, Sangkim, whom I refer to as my “Watcher” (Buffy fans, anyone?) is one of the most fantastic people I’ve had the pleasure of working with – ever – and I found myself pushing down the lump threatening to rise in my throat when he delivered his touching goodbye speech to us at the COS Conference. In fact, a majority of the staff at the PC Cambodia post have the distinction of being some of the best people I’ve worked with.

Reflecting on my service and my work with Cambodians, I must say my trainees at the RTTC have been the best part of my work. They’re beyond students at this point, they’re friends, and seeing their growth and progress in the last two years makes me feel like a proud mama. They’re all so special and unique and driven – it’s hard to release them into a world where teachers are not valued nearly enough. This goodbye is especially sad, as I know I will not ever see most of them again.

Lastly, the closing out with my fellow Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) friends leaves me feeling especially vulnerable. No matter how close or distant I am emotionally from them, there is a bond in spending the last 2 years living and working in Cambodia together. My dearest friend here, Christine, reminds me that it is the beginning of a new journey together . With that sentiment in mind, maybe a more appropriate and less final option to “goodbye” is “see you tomorrow.” With that, I’ll close with this story.

Due to a combination of circumstances involving grad school and other future plans, a couple PCV friends of mine had to Early Terminate their service before the COS conference. One of them I was particularly close to throughout service, someone whom I could relate to on many levels when it came to our experience here. We had a goodbye get-together at a bar here in Phnom Penh, and as I was leaving, I approached that particular friend. We started our goodbye, with those unexpressed emotions in the air. However, after we hugged, she said “Wait, I’ll see you at the office tomorrow, right?” “Yes!” I exclaimed, “Yes, I’ll be there. See you tomorrow.” 

I never saw her at the office, but maybe we didn’t need that heavy goodbye.

We will cross paths soon enough. 

<3 V

While I planned to write a post focused on my life here, a recent experience has prompted me to focus more on the home front. The other day my Dad was having some dental issues that resulted in an infection. I don’t know about you, but the word infection scares the crap out of me, and it doesn’t help that I am a frequent Grey’s Anatomy viewer. He was experiencing a great deal of pain, and while I knew all would be fine (it is) it felt powerless to be so far away and only give comfort in words.

I think this must be a small dose of what it’s like to be the parent of a Peace Corps Volunteer.

A recent discussion with my friend Christine started with sharing stories of our parents’ various reactions to our experiences here. It led to us acknowledging that, while life can be difficult for a Peace Corps volunteer, we often don’t think about what our families and loved ones, particularly our parents, are experiencing.

There isn’t a lot of literature out there (the internets) for parents on what they will experience while their child is in Peace Corps. There seem to be a few facebook groups for the parents of PCVs in certain countries, but few spaces to acknowledge what goes in America while we’re Corpsing it up.

For those of us whose parent(s) are still around and a major part of our lives, or whose parent(s) never did Peace Corps, this might be more relevant. I can only speak on the support I have received from my parents

Staying strong and supportive has been incredibly helpful, as well as staying positive. Not that they’re the type, but I never once heard “I told you so”. I’ve had some issues here, and even through the roughest patch, I was encouraged but also reminded that if I wanted to come home, there wouldn’t be any judgement.

I don’t know what goes through a parent’s mind when they hear “I have dengue fever” or “I was hit by a moto…” but I am sure it’s panic. I can only imagine how difficult it is to be on the other side of the world from your child when they are seriously ill and just trust that everything will be OK. It’s not just difficult to hear about physical maladies. The mental difficulties we deal with can be just as debilitating with farther reaching affects. Loneliness, depression, anxiety; these are all frequent experiences of volunteers that are much less concrete than a bruise or a cut and hard to help heal from far away.

Dipping into an American bank account is a Thing here, although not widely discussed. Some people have savings, and some are getting help from home, likely from parents, to meet the difference when a PCV lives beyond their means (which seems to be very common, particularly in the city). I can come out and say my parents have been generous in helping me out financially through this experience, and I am very grateful to them. They even worked with my grandparents to fly me back to America for three weeks, a trip which I greatly needed and might not have made the two(ish) years without it. This also goes for any and all care packages being sent. Peanut butter, chocolate, Cookie Butter (it’s a thing. Trader Joe’s, look into it) and various other very specific needs from the States.

Maybe I am a little more vulnerable than some of my travel-savvy counterparts here in Peace Corps. I credit part of my ability to make it to COS to my parents. I am very much looking forward to all of us celebrating how far we’ve made it in 84 days.

<3 V

I woke up late and faced the morning with a heart so full of love and joy I almost didn’t know what to do with it.

Yesterday I was left feeling inexplicably off-balanced by the early evening.  I wandered the streets of Battambang, on the phone with my Dearest Friend in Peace Corps. I could not find a space to simply stand and talk with the illusion of at least partial privacy. My feelings of frustration and imbalance were about to peak with no outlet to explore them. Eventually I had to part with my DF and attend a baby shower for a young woman named Sophat.

I first met Sophat a month into my residency in Battambang. She had just started working at one of my favorite cafes (Cafe Eden, run by my friend Anna), and she struck me as very timid and on edge. As the months progressed, she grew more confident in her position and we would often check in with each other about how our hearts were feeling. I knew her friendship and working relationship with Anna had helped her grow. I had no idea Sophat was preggers until her beautiful baby bump started to peek out from under her dresses. I had a feeling that Sophat was in a place where she was supported and loved throughout this journey into motherhood, and was left in no doubt after the baby shower.

Going into the party, I wasn’t sure how good of a guest I would be due to my mood. But the atmosphere was just what I needed. A group of beautiful, positive women were there to support and celebrate Sophat. The only other mother in the group, a female artist and resident of Battambang named Thouit, shared her experience of birth and motherhood that was very touching (although I think it freaked Sophat out a bit). It was one of those nights where things take an abrupt turn and leave you with such joy and gratitude you want to write a cheesy blog post the next morning.

On top of that, I reconnected with my Dearest Friend later in the evening. We talked through a bunch of stuff – from sexism to racism to the ins and outs of our everyday lives. Towards the end of the call, she addressed how much she has seen me grow and come into myself over the past 19 months. My DF said such kind and validating words to me. This was coming from someone who is not only an amazing friend for life past PC – but someone I hold in high esteem and respect. To feel outwardly validated for the journey I have been on to be in touch with and truly love myself was one of the greatest surprise gifts Peace Corps could give me.

There are times where I am frustrated and hopeless beyond all hell and spend hours creating nine different countdowns to America. However, to experience nights like that where I go to bed forgetting to cross off a day because I am still wrapped up in the present is a reason why I did this, and what I want to hold on to when I leave here.

While men and women deal with image issues, the concept of “beauty” is something women struggle with on many levels. It is the bell at the top of the climbing rope, the partner we’re always afraid of losing, and at times the construct that defines our gender.

This last manifestation is strong in Cambodia.

In my most recent English club, I used an activity I had borrowed from a friend. I asked my trainees to pretend they were the other gender. I then had them do a speaking activity I call “speed dating”- in which the trainees form 2 circles and rotate speaking partners every 3 minutes.

Their answers were fascinating and entertaining (as anyone’s would be) but I will skip to the relevant part. While the answers from the men imagining themselves as women were varied, they overwhelmingly explained that if they were women, they would be beautiful, with light skin and nice clothes.

It was a struggle for me to just listen and not jump in. My trainees are all intelligent, bright individuals. I knew that I might be the first person to ask them this question. It was not the first beauty conversation I have had. Last year I was in a conversation with two female trainees (who have since graduated) about why they think white skin is more beautiful. It was a circular conversation at best, and no matter how much I explained why many skin tones are equally beautiful, I could not fight 20 years of unchallenged conditioning. I felt sad that they were not taught to embrace their natural beauty and that there was no real positive, outside force which allowed them to do so. I have the fortune of being able to seek out positive images of real, beautiful women I can identify with. Where can Cambodian women see this? I have yet to see an image of a Cambodian woman (or Asian, or American, or ANY, for that matter) here who is darker complected or any larger than “slim.” If one based their idea of what Cambodians looked like on the media, their minds would be blown.

Cambodia has taught me, or I taught myself in Cambodia, that my shape is a far cry from the ideal here – small small small. When I am told I look beautiful I ask why. The answers I always get are always related to skin color, clothing, or my nose. According to standards here (which are far more widespread than Cambodia, but Cambodia is my reality at present) the only thing I have going for me is my whiteness – which having gives one the privileged experience of never thinking about or necessarily identifying with your skin color until it’s pointed out to you. Even within the PCV community one sees the same beauty preferences and standards held up amongst each other in both subtle and overt ways.

When people here tell me I am too big, or that I am beautiful merely because of my skin color or the shape of my nose, I am able to tell myself that these are beauty constructs. I am fortunate to have ways to combat these voices, internal and external. I am assuming the majority of Cambodian women are not able to separate themselves from advertisements. Whitening cream is easier to find than vitamins. Wavy, bushy, curly hair (natural in Cambodian lineage) is constantly being chemically straightened. Women here – hold up – everywhere – are constantly fighting or dismissing their natural beauty.

I have come to value my uniqueness. Approaching 30, I see my body more closely resemble my mother’s shape – which I have always admired – and my father’s stature. Two people I love and find beautiful.  My sister used to talk a lot about getting a nose job – something I am so grateful she never did. She has my mom’s nose. That’s the thing about physicality I always found amazing. When I worked at Boys & Girls Club, I loved meeting the parents of the children I served, and seeing which feature came from which parent.

We curse our “flaws” and try to erase them, but they are eternal.  They lie dormant or pop up every other generation, living reminders of our family and our ancestors. We own them, they are copyrighted to us.

I may be waxing philosophical and standing on a soapbox, as this is a struggle I still have not fully overcome. Many industries profit from this; and it is hard to project if and when that cycle will ever be broken. We are composite sculptures of soul and flesh – how is that ever not beautiful? When I look deeply at myself and other women, and then consider the impossible expectations of these beauty standards, I want to scream out: when will we be enough?

I act all ticked off and try to get them to move away, park somewhere else. Once I step inside my house however, I allow myself a peek out the window to see what’s been done so far. 

I’ve watched this building go from frame, to brick, to concrete. Doors and windows, roof and paint. Pulley systems rigged from yards upon yards of twine tied together. 

This isn’t the first instance of me watching paint dry or grass grow. I check on my fermenting coconut milk hourly, waiting for it to form into oil I can use for cooking and my hair. Hair that I have been trying to grow since May. (A phrase that seems ridiculous, since hair will grow no matter what, just not nearly as fast as I would like.) I like to look at my calendar weekly to countdown, from days, weeks, months, and back again. 

There is a lot of waiting going on over here.

Progress happens when you aren’t looking. In your sleep, in the blur of days, behind your back. Progress is when you leave for a week and return to a house-shaped metal frame and a crew of men working in front of your house. Progress is realizing there are only 2 weeks left until you can use your 2013 planner. Progress is watching your trainee teach a whole class in English when last year, she could barely tell you she was “Fine, thanks, And you?” 

We huff and puff and curse as we climb the mountain or run the race, seeing nothing but more ground to cover in front of us, and not as much as we thought behind us. Progress is a slow bitch as it goes along, and the hardest part is knowing deep down inside that the feeling of worthiness won’t come until we reach the summit or cross the finish line. 

And then we celebrate. 

<3 v

Inevitably, those who are louder and extroverted are more often tagged as strong here. Strength is blasted at you, in your face and ears. Little attention is given to those who deal their strength in swift sharpness. Their consideration and careful manner are mistaken for docility and fragility. Silence is consent. We all know the danger in this argument.

In the world of international development, it’s alarming to come across people who still deal in binary. Where vulnerability is still seen as undesirable, feminine, and weak. I see this in the PCV community, as well as the Cambodian community.

“Where the hell did this come from?” you may wonder. I was watching a movie tonight. I started to cry at one moment towards the very end. I instantly felt a pang of shame for releasing emotion like that during an animated movie. Then anger at my shame, and then a realization.

When I was young, my mother would get angry if I cried over something she felt didn’t need tears. During fights with my sister, I would get so angry I teared up. My mother would yell at me if that happened, which would make me feel even worse and then there was no stopping the tears then. My mother comes from a culture where vulnerability was hidden, private. My grandmother still refuses to see sad movies because she doesn’t want to experience negative or difficult emotions, she just wants to escape. Which is the preference of many people.

12 years ago Saturday I lost my mother. I didn’t cry at the funeral, I rarely cried in front of my family. Instead I drove to my best friend’s house and cried on her mother’s lap. I closed myself in the cooler at work and cried while I stocked the lettuce and the milk. I would go on drives and let myself go. Private.

For a very long time, I refused to watch movies that would make me cry. If I ever was wrangled into watching one or was caught off guard, I employed any tactic I could to avoid it. I don’t know how or why, but one day I decided to let go. I remember my heart beating faster as the lump in my throat grew bigger and bigger. I looked over at my friend and saw her giving in to the emotion and before I knew it, I gave in as well. I felt light, I felt relief.

There is strength in confronting all that is sad and terrible about humanity. To look it in the eye, observe it, get to know it, and remember it after you move on. To know light, one must know dark. Denying the dark and suppressing it is doing a disservice that will inevitably catch up. Negative emotions are toxic and releasing them is a very healing process.

Along those lines, those that show their vulnerability are not weak. Those that are quiet and contemplative are just as strong, if not maybe stronger, than those that are loud and aggressive. 

It also takes strength to make and follow through with a decision, no matter how unpopular it is or what the stigma is around that decision. 

Showing true vulnerability, kindness, doubt, pause, or perhaps not speaking as loudly as others should not be labeled as weakness. 

I’ll end with an anecdote. I was at the gym today and one of the regular male customers came to play ping pong. I’ve seen him play before – he shouts a lot, A LOT, and teases his opponents. I can’t understand 100% of what he says, but from his body language and the reaction from others I see what is going on. It gets on my nerves. Tonight he was playing a guy who barely said a WORD the entire game. The quiet guy was quick, and judging by the score being shouted by a spectator, he was kicking ass. He celebrated his defeat with a cold water and quickly left on his moto. 

I admire those I have met here  - both American and Khmer – who have challenged the normalized concepts of strength that I admit to internalizing over the years. Keep on keepin’ on. 

Tig (we’re on a first name basis now) has been popping up a lot in my life lately. She was recommended to me by a friend because she had done a show about her mother’s passing, and since then I keep coming across her work.

In the most recent four months of her life, Tig: got pneumonia, had C-Dif in her intestines (a condition in which ALL the bacteria from one’s intestines is cleared out and you get very, very ill) lost her mother suddenly, went through a breakup, and discovered she had stage 2 cancer in both breasts.

…. I know.

I once heard that “good stories happen to people who can tell them.” Getting ill, losing your mother, and discovering you have cancer are not good stories, but Tig relates them in such a way that you have no choice but to look dead on at tragic events, and how much they trivialize everything else in comparison.

For example, she shares a story about a time she was getting an MRI (or similar screening) at the hospital, and the technician commented on how flat her stomach was and asked her what her “secret” was. This was immediately following her bout with C-Dif, after which she lost 20 lbs. 

Despite all this, Tig Notaro chooses to live her life. She has enjoyed the most success in her career lately as well. After she discovered she had cancer, she chose to do a scheduled stand up show, because, to paraphrase, if she didn’t go through with it, she didn’t think she would be able to do it again. Instead of telling her usual jokes, she chose to share what was going on in her life, and the perspective it gave her.

I have been struggling, struggling, struggling when it comes to writing about Cambodia, particularly after my visit to America. Every day I feel myself, physically and mentally, making a conscious choice to be somewhere that is feeling increasingly less comfortable. Frustration and sadness threaten to simultaneously erupt from my chest. Things or events that would make me happy ion the past or carry me through the day are but brief flashes of lightening in a heat storm. I lie in my bed at the end of the day feeling very much alone and very much stuck. 

In no way does my life or my frustrations even compare to what this woman is experiencing. I am absolutely inspired by the way she has chosen to live. It’s never good to compare feelings or situations, and I know what I am feeling is valid. However… I am picking a lane. I know I can make it through the next 9 months, and I know that if I were to go home, I would regret it, for much more than a day or a week.

I am choosing to suck it the f*ck up. I am choosing to be here and not focus energy on things I can’t change. I am choosing to adjust my inner monologue and breathe.

That’s all I got right now.

(But seriously, check out this episode of TAL. And check Tig out. She is so effing amazing. I’m so grateful to her sharing her story.) http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/476/what-doesnt-kill-you

<3

Currently I am enjoying an extensive layover at Incheon Airport in Seoul. I am in a state of suspended animation, neither in Cambodia nor America. It is the ultimate test of mindfulness, as I keep wanting to orient myself to either Cambodian or America time, rather than Korean time. 

It feels kind of exhilarating to reach a mild state of invisibility. No longer am I stared at or looked at as an outsider (despite the fact that I am at home). We are all outsiders here at Incheon. All of us transitioning, dealing with the inflated prices ($2 for a bottle of water? F*ck that. A $3 cup of coffee? ^%$%^@!@^&&%#) and astounding number of duty-free boutiques and designer stores. (Louis Vuitton? At an airport? Okay…) 

It’s amazing how Peace Corps seems to give you tools to deal with the unexpected in life. I was hoping this vacation would help me appreciate my PC experience more, and it already has. I strongly urge anyone thinking of ETing (for reasons other than family, school, career, etc) to take a tuk tuk ride to the Phnom Penh airport in the middle of the night. I thought about the friends and PC family I was leaving behind in Cambodia, and felt very glad I would be returning soon. Don’t get me wrong, I need this break very, very badly. But for those of you who tag “Please come back” to the end of your “Have a nice trip”, worry not, I will. 

My 5 hour flight here was nothing compared to the numerous 6 hour+ bus rides back and forth across Cambodia. I will be more than happy sitting in a middle seat after being squeezed into a hot, smelly touri (van) for 3 hours. An 8 hour layover at an airport is not much different than a slow day at site: eat –> explore –> get lost –> frustrrrration –> epiphany/discovery –> rest –> repeat. It’s amazing how pleasant a temperate climate makes things.

I now have 6 hours left of my layover. I think I’m going to read some of a book/people watch/listen to Radiolab then shower. 

Also, I think this goes without saying… but I look like absolutely glorious travelling crap. Disheveled and smelly and frizzy hair and dark circles and mysterious lint on my yoga pants. But I have a reason, damnit. 

We’ve had our share of differences lately, but the past week has been comically hostile. One gets to a point where one throws their hands in the air and thinks “bring it on.”

By Cambodia, I mean the country and “nature” within itself. Not so much the people of Cambodia. Unless you’re a truck driver.

A few days ago I noticed my rear tire was having some trouble staying full and functioning. There was a slow leak going on somewhere up in that inner tube, and after returning home one day I vowed to take some extra time the following morning to get it fixed. Having a hybrid bike means you have to find the right person to deal with all the chainage and gearage in the back.

Waking up I discovered that my front tire had decided it too would take a break and let off some steam. I walked my bike to the nearest bike repair shack, which was full of men just “angkoi langing” (sitting around) drinking coffee and watching the repair guy do his thing. They tried to fill both tires but the front immediately gave out. The attendant swiveled his hand in the air, which means many things… in this case, “Shit Outta Luck.”

So I rode my bike to a trusted mechanic, featured in a previous blog, Reaksa. My front inner tube was pretty torn up, so he sold me a new one. I rode to my noodle shop to grab a quick breakfast. While I was eating, I felt a crawling sensation up my calf. Thinking it to be a fly, I shook it off. It kept going. I looked down to see an MF SCORPION CRAWLING UP MY LEG. This was my first encounter with a scorpion, and while there is never a “good” way to meet a scorpion for the first time, during breakfast is not the ideal situation. I quickly grabbed a tissue and swiped it off onto the ground, where it scampered away. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was crawling on me all day. In fact, I still feel like something is crawling on me.

After breakfast I started heading toward work via bicycle and wouldn’t you know it, my rear tire popped. I biked back to Reaksa, who was heartily amused. At this point it was closing in on 10AM, and my coteacher generously told me to stay home, and come in the afternoon.

After work in the PM, I decided to take my new tires for a test drive and took an impromptu bike ride. Halfway through, I was on a kind of deserted stretch when a dog started tearing after me and chasing me. Usually I can out-bike these guys, but my chain failed to catch, which slowed me down, allowing the dog to gain on me. I alternatively pedaled and lifted my legs in a wide V to keep my ankles out of harms way. He was inches from my ankle when I yelled out and kicked back, my chain finally caught and I pedaled away.

At this point I knew the safest place for me was inside my home. I headed back, and was on a particularly narrow stretch when two trucks headed toward me. The truck behind pulled out to try to pass the other just as I was passing, and I swerved quickly to the right to avoid it. I slammed an open palm against the side of the truck angrily (I don’t recommend doing this AT ALL.)

Despite the nature of Cambodia attacking me at all sides, the people within have been warmer and more open than ever… or maybe it seems this way because of the random misfortunes be-falling me. My kids saw me struggling to bike to the wat in the rain and called me over to the side of the road to wait it out with them under an overhang. I left my cell phone in the classroom at the wat and one of the crafts woman made me wait at a restaurant and sped back in her moto to fetch it for me. The director at the RTTC has welcomed me back with open arms. The Country Director and my Program Manager once again showed unparalleled support in my quest for happiness and purpose in Cambodia.  A generous K4 volunteer gave me $20 worth of unused phone cards. The K6s placed in Battambang are a strong group that I am excited to get to know better.

I am extremely excited to visit the States and am counting down the hours, but am so very grateful to finally be looking forward to my second year here, scorpions/flat tires/rabid dogs/ridiculous traffic notwithstanding.

<3

Reality check. This would, does, and DID happen in America. It is so easy in  moments of frustration for my brain to go into comparison mode. While the US is my home and the land of beloved things like family, friends, temperate weather and Trader Joes, it is also home to plenty of other problems.

I’d like to focus on the things about my current home that I love and will miss in America. No matter how frustrated I get, I am not ready to say goodbye to Battambang or Cambodia yet. So, come on this journey with me while I try to adjust my mood! Yay! Let’s go!

1. My new host fam. My second home in Battambang is my little safe space and I am forever grateful for the people, events, and efforts that made it happen. My host parents (the landlords) are so kind and friendly it is nearly impossible not to smile when they do. The yey (grandmother) that watches TV during the day sompea’s me (a Cambodian gesture of respect) every time she sees me and “awwws” in wonderment. She met one of my friends last week and was over the moon with it.

2. My Bed is actually quite comfy, with a bitchin’ pink and purple Khmer flashy sheet set. I installed the ceiling fan my landlords gave me (<3) to the inside so I have a nice airflow.

3. My bathroom is consistently clean (I scrub it every weekend)  and has a nifty shower head that exhibits totalitarian strength. The water pressure is such that, at its peak, the water ricochets off my skin with such force I have to grip the handle a little harder. Obviously, if many other people in my complex are using the water too, the pressure is close to nonexistent. But… back to the positive!

4. The Vietnamese noodle place around the corner from my apartment is cheap and delicious. Around 4 PM they start putting out fresh spring rolls and Buhn Sa, the noodle dish with the cold noodles, basil, bean sprouts, and peanut sauce. Yummy.

5. The Bon Chaio place along the river is delicious and fresh and the owners know me. If I go in after a long break they say “it has been awhile!” Er- yea. Two chicken bon chaios to go, please. Hold the judgement.

6. My English Teacher Trainees and I will be reunited again in the fall (more on that later) and they are so smart and nice and good looking. I could spend hours and hours talking to them. The future of Cambodian English students is in good hands.

7. The crazy storms can be extremely destructive and inconvenient but those clouds are beautiful, and I enjoy the near daily dose of rain during wet season.

8. Fresh fruits and vegetables on the cheap. ‘Nuff said.

9. Asian desserts are delightful, and while chocolate is still The Best Thing Ever, I have grown to love all the sweetened bean cakes, steamed Chinese cakes, bon ‘aim, and little Milika candies (like tootsie rolls but softer and smaller) that are for sale everywhere. Shaved ice, sweetened coconut milk, sugar syrup and black beans may sound strange but it is sooooo delicious.

10. Tuk tuks are fun to ride in, in my opinion. The drivers are usually nice guys, if you don’t try to stiff them. We’re all just making a living here. I’ve met one female tuk tuk driver in Phnom Penh and am desperate to find her again.

11. Market mings, once they learn I can speak Khmer and don’t just want to buy carrots, are super adorable and friendly and love to give me free stuff… like spring onions and basil. These items are actually commonly free if you buy a few items, but shit, that doesn’t happen at Safeway. Maybe at a farmer’s market. Maybe.

12. My kids at the wat are spunky and have life in their eyes and are so unique. I want them all to grow up brilliant and healthy and strong.

13. Chopsticks are fun to eat with and I have become quite adept. I want to be one of those obnoxious people in the states who eat everything with chopsticks. Like salads. Tortellini. French fries.

14. Tela-Marts or similar gas station/convenience stores with aircon, wifi, and an assortment of cheap snacks. There is a gas station around the corner from my home with $1 plates of fries and $2 pitchers of beer with tables and aircon. What?!

15. Peanuts are served here like bread is served at restaurants in the states. Only here they are roasted with salt and sugar. What?!

That’s all for now. Time to get to work. Nitty Gritty. After I’m done, I will reward myself with some #9 and maybe some #5 for dinner? Who knows.

<3