Vipassana: Why I bailed on day 3

I had wanted to do one of those Vipassana meditation retreats for some time.

I had heard good things about them, perhaps people kept the bad things to themselves. I remember applying and getting denied to three different courses while traveling through South and Southeast Asia in 2012. One course in Thailand was deemed full and another changed into Thai-speaking only. A course in Nepal never got back to me. Thanks for that. Never mind I thought, I suppose I wasn't ready. I applied to another meditation course—not Vipassana—in Kathmandu, and was accepted. Heading to the capital on my first full day in Nepal, my bus crashed and overturned. I hurt my back and received a few stitches on the back of the head. I missed the course. Perhaps the universe was trying to tell me something. I did manage to make the next month's course, an intro to Tibetan Buddhism and meditation. It wasn't as strict as Vipassana with fewer hours of meditation and only a half day of silence, which was probably better suited to me at that time.

Fast forward to 2015. I got accepted to Cambodia's only Vipassana center located just outside of Battambang, the country's second largest city with approximately a quarter million people. A colleague had recently taken the course and I was excited to finally get to partake myself. A little "soul-searching" if you will. Ten days of finding myself...yeah, I knew that wasn't going to happen, but still 10 days of silence and s l o w i n g it down sounded appealing. It was coming after leaving my job at the newspaper and prior to going back to the US for a visit. Time for some reflection before the next chapter unfolds.

Before I departed for the retreat, I got this message from a friend.



This was honestly the first time I'd even considered opting out because I just didn't count on it being that hard. Besides, the last six months had flown by and this was a mere 10 days. On my last day of work the week before, the aforementioned colleague tried to tell me how difficult it was. It's like you people wanted me to fail. C'mon, you are mentally weak!

I arrived in Battambang a day early, primarily so I didn't risk missing the bus leaving at 7am the day the retreat began. I hadn't risen that early in months and knew it would be a challenge to sleep early and not be grumpy as fuck from the outset. We would be rising at 4am during the course, but I'd deal with that when the time came. Six hours and nearly 300 km later, my minibus arrived. I got a moto-taxi to the Seng Huot hotel, flirted with the female staff—as one does—and checked into my room. I then proceeded to look for some shirts I could wear at the retreat that a) wouldn't cling to my body and b) weren't screenprinted with some bizarre message that might potentially distract someone from being one with the experience. I found two shirts at the market for less than five bucks that were perfect for the occasion—two shirts I'd never wear anywhere someone was actually looking at me.

I arrived at Dhamma Latthika, the meditation center, at about 2:30pm on day zero for registration and to lock away our phones and valuables. Say goodbye to distractions! Located 18 km from the city center, it was located down a dirt road behind a small hill of trees called Phnom Trung Moan, which supposedly translates to Chicken Cage Hill because there are or were many chicken farmers in that area. I was later told by the local guy wearing sunglasses inside the hotel that the center was actually at Duck Cage Hill, which was close to Chicken Cage Hill. Good to really know what's what.

The center felt like a prison to some degree despite being set among rows of fragrant flowering frangipanis. Even the late S.N. Goenka, one of Vipassana's teachers, said on video during our first teachers' discourse that it was "like prison." Presumably to make you have greater appreciation for everything once you got back to the outside. We had our own basic rooms: small single bed with a thin hard mattress, sheet, small stiff neck-inducing pillow, hot woolly blanket, mosquito net, small table with meditation mat and cushion, wash bucket, some shelves and a clothes line. There was no fan and it was hot as fuck. The average daily high had recently been 36C/97F with a "real feel" of 42/108. Swell. More like sweltering. Fortunately there was a grated window set in the middle of the door, which allowed in the evening breeze and would also allow people to catch sight of you masturbating if you were not abiding to the five precepts we had all agreed to in the beginning:

They were pretty easy to abide to, well except for the first one. I accidentally caught and crushed a mosquito in my fist purely through natural conditioning. Who am I kidding, that fucker wouldn't stop buzzing in my ear. But I did abstain from stealing, sexual activity, telling lies and intoxicants. The meditation mats were desireable, but it would have been difficult to walk out of there with one under the arm without being noticed. Sexual thoughts were a nonissue. I'm visually stimulated and there was nothing to see there. This was no hostess bar. We were also segregated from the women with the center being cordoned off down the middle. There were no lies to tell as we weren't speaking and the only intoxicants were possibly overindulging in the frangipani or taking an extra large spoonful of Nescafe at breakfast.

I was told there were 107 or 108 participants. Only eight foreign men and probably about the same number of foreign women although I didn't attempt to count the shadows through the curtain that separated us during discourse. The rest were locals with about 10 monks thrown in for good measure. There was an American guy who had competed the course twice previously and whose girlfriend was interning in Phnom Penh. There was the 49-year-old British train driver with gold-capped teeth who had kids ranging in age from 19-29. There was a German dude and a French guy training in Muay Thai, an older chocolatier from France whose been living in Saigon for the past 18 years and the thin tatted Russian guy who has been traveling around Asia by motorbike with his girlfriend for the past two years. And let's not forget the fluffy white haired guy who seemed like he wasn't talking from the beginning. Respect. It was an interesting mix.

After our dinner of rice porridge, soupy vegetables, smelly soybeans and some crunchy vinegary vegetable we headed to the meditation hall for our first group meditation. Or maybe we ate after meditation, I can't remember. We were assigned mats presumably so they would know exactly who was hiding in their room when they were supposed to be sitting cross-legged suffering in the heat. I mean reducing suffering. Either way, we were now engaged in "noble silence." No more talking, not even eye contact, for 10 days. The overhead fans barely seemed to work as sweat beaded down my back and my face began to feel greasy. "Short Dick Man" could be heard blasting away at a nearby wedding party. Focus on your respiration. Focus on the area around your nostrils. The triangle from the top of your nose to the area above your upper lip. Feel the sensation from the inspiration. Feel the sensation from the expiration. Eenie weenie teenie weenie shriveled little short dick man.

The rules regarding dress stated no shorts or tank tops for modesty and to avoid distracting others. But it was HOT. I normally meditate in my boxers with the air conditioner on. This was asking a lot of me. At least I was finally able to make use of the longyi I was given in Burma years ago and the Thai fisherman pants that I never wore. Too much hassle when you need to take a leak. Others wore similar mostly loose fitting garments from those baggy crotched (aka MC Hammer) pants to standard linen trousers. Some just wore their pajamas and monks naturally wore their undoubtedly stinky saffron robes. White was the most common color and tops varied from standard tees to what seemed more like martial artist attire.

It was only a matter of time before people seemed to start communicating via other usually closed orifices. One guy broke the ice after dinner. Braaaap. I'm guessing he wasn't used to eating so many vegetables. Or maybe it was those soybeans. The frequency of others passing gas in a similar unashamed fashion increased as time went on, especially near the shared toilets where I got a laugh out of it. A relief physically and mentally so you could just go about your business without worrying if anyone was listening. They're not going to look me in the eye anyway so it's all good.

The morning was the best time of day. The bell gonged and people scurried to be the first one to the "showers." There were six stalls, some with buckets, some with just a faucet sticking out of the wall and a few with PVC piped overhead. Those were the ones you wanted. It was actually nice that early in the morning. I was only able to do some light stretching, brush my teeth and splash water in my face before the 4:30 bell. Then we shuffled silently to the meditation hall. From 4:30-6:30am we meditated—or tried to—sometimes silently and sometimes to the moaning, er chanting, of Goenka. It was distracting. He would repeat himself endlessly, which was all then translated into Khmer making it even more agonizing to endure. It was all part of the plan. "Patiently and persistently. Patiently and persistently, you will succeed," he said.

Well, I wasn't exactly failing, but my legs were in pain. I felt like I was tearing something. After that first prolonged session I limped my legs awake and noticed a monk ahead of me limping too. Eh, I thought, maybe this is just standard practice. The next day I realized this monk was walking on the ball of his left foot as if a rusty nail was embedded in his heel. And he was like 60. It was hard to really ascertain my ability to sit as I only had locals to compare to. That wasn't fair. I wanted to see how the other foreigners were fairing. Occasionally when I opened my eyes I could see my neighbor's knees bouncing and that gave me some reassurance. But nobody seemed to be holding their knees together during my "timeouts." Perhaps they did when I closed my eyes. Yeah.

It was easy to see that this was going to lead to greater appreciation for nearly everything else in life. But how long would that last? I missed my shitty bed and my hot room. At least I had a fan and an air conditioner. I missed not wearing flip-flops to the toilet. I missed brushing my teeth into the sink. I missed steamed rice. I'll never voluntarily eat rice porridge. Only after a spoonful of sugar and a handful of peanuts did it finally hit the spot. I missed good fruit. Another fucking banana? I didn't really complain like this, but retrospectively it's easy to have a laugh. I was grateful for the food and the experience. It felt somewhat similar to camping except there were no marshmallows and it wasn't cold. Camping—the only time instant noodles taste amazing. That Nescafe and drizzle of sweetened condensed milk was just heavenly. No joke.

On the second full day, I realized it was good to have something to preoccupy the mind. That's why the monks were always sweeping their rooms or raking the most recently fallen leaves. With nothing to do, it was easy to fall back and think about how there wasn't anything to do. To idly sit waiting for the next meditation session. Why am I sitting? I've been sitting all day! I didn't want to lay down on my hot bed either. Wondering who was passing by and where they were off to. The toilet? The shower? Options galore. Some people washed the smell out of their boxers, the sweat from their shirts or showered at any opportunity. As if keeping the hair moist would prevent the sweat from trickling down their back during meditation. I went for walking meditations or just walks round and round. I saw a snake, I observed more, I stopped to smell the "roses" and I wondered if that woman I saw in the distance was thinking about sex. Not because I was, but my mind just wondered. I visualized her clenching her teeth fighting to fend off images of engorged members. I laughed and continued walking.

When I was lying down I started to see things. Not hallucinations or to see things as they really are, which is what Vipassana actually means. But rather, I noticed faces in the concrete walls or in the plastic, which covered the rafters of our cell block's shared ceiling. When the breeze blew, the plastic changed shape sucking in or out depending on the draft. I saw Darth Vader, Yoda and a stormtrooper. I saw Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, Bob Dylan and faces I've already forgotten. Famous facial profiles were everywhere if you just looked for them. If you had nothing else to do. I really only noticed the fragrance from the fragipani and well, when I was in the toilets, the "fragrance" from in there, which is what you'd expect the morning after a naan and channa masala. Might have been even more pleasant.

It was day 2 that I started to think I might not see the course to completion. The voices in my head were like "You fucking pussy! You said yourself it was just 10 days!" In actuality, there was little back and forth. I was content with being done, OK with throwing in the towel because I rationalized that it would be better to leave early than to endure 10 days of rising anger. That was obviously not the point of meditation. I could not meditate through the pain. Was it all in my head? I didn't think so. I think I could have done half the scheduled sittings. And maybe have done a lying meditation or plopped myself in a chair for the other half. But I failed to communicate with the teacher early on and I convinced myself leaving was what I needed to do. I spoke with the teacher's assistant/translator and let him know how I was feeling and he convinced me to at least stay until the following morning. That was fine, I thought, leaving on day 3 sounded better. Stupid, but true.

So now, the light at the end of the tunnel was less than half a day away. Easier to take anything hour by hour or day by day. My meditations were improving overall as I could sit, when forced, for longer periods of time. And I could endure more pain than I would have normally allowed myself to. 100 inhalations and exhalations, Tyler. Somehow I'd make it and then do another 20. But not always. It was easier now that I had "given notice." My last supper was enjoyable knowing it was probably the last time I'd eat that gruel. I wouldn't miss it. The two hour post-dinner meditation was grueling but managable. Goenka's discourse was still painful to listen to even though we didn't have to assume the position. Patience, patience.

That night, my neighbor could not stop snoring. Even with waxed earplugs jammed deeply into my ears, the sound was intolerable. Hitting the concrete wall did nothing. There was no breeze either. I thought about flicking water at him through the grated hole in his door, but didn't. It all just seemed to affirm my not-yet-100% decision to leave. Morning meditation passed and breakfast came and went. I had to wait until the 8am group meditation in the hall so I could be discreet about my departure. No sense in walking out publicly feeling like a failure and no reason to disturb and weaken anyone else's confidence. They would know later when my mat would be empty and my door would be closed. I was a little sorry I would not be able to bullshit with the guys after it was all said and done. Now, I needed to find that guy. I felt terrible saying it as I had committed to the duration, but I wanted out.

Toward the end of our breakfast break, I found him washing his clothes. I told him that I did in fact want to go. He told me to talk to the teacher first. We walked to the teachers' quarters and I felt like everyone knew—anyone who was paying attention—that something was up, that my shell was cracking. He did everything he could to keep me onboard. He said I could skip some of the group sessions and meditate in my room. I could lie down and meditate when my legs were in pain. He asked me if I noticed the guy in the wheelchair who was still there. I felt even more guilty. How do I know he's not paralyzed from the waist down and can't feel his legs, I thought. The teacher had a point, in that I ought to stay for another two days. Try not to quit yet. But I must have said "I'm leaving, I'm leaving" a few thousand times since it first entered my head and it was hard to even consider another night. Staying until the evening sounded agonizing. I was already gone.

He finally gave up, I apologized again and walked back to my room as everyone strode toward the hall for meditation. I'm free, I'm free I thought as I took in a final whiff of frangipani and hastily packed my bags. I retrieved my phone and wallet from my locker and walked to the front of the center in shorts—oh, how nice they felt—where I met the guy for a final goodbye. I felt good but incredibly guilty. I asked him if I was the first to leave and to my surprise and reassurance, he told me that five people had jumped the fence yesterday. I was the first one today. Four locals and one foreigner who claimed a "family emergency" as his excuse. Maybe I thought.

A moto-taxi arrived and I said goodbye as I gleefully hopped aboard. We drove off down the gravel road around Phnom Trung Moan and under the center's gates. The breeze in my face and the wind in my hair felt amazing. Children were playing, buffalo were grazing, the day was awakening. I do wish I had completed the full 10 days, but only if there had been less physical discomfort. I don't agree with those who say the pain is in your head; no pain no gain; mind over matter and all that nonsense. Certainly partially true—there was some weak-mindedness for sure but with some common sense thrown in for good measure. Nobody knows your body but you. And that makes me OK with it. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to stretch my legs.

Aerosmith, overeating and an uncontrollably twitching tricep

Aerosmith's Don't Want To Miss A Thing is playing overhead. Quick flashback to somewhere in the 90s. I can't place it. Ah, late 90s. Thanks Google. I'm trying to calm down and cool off in this cafe on Monivong Blvd. Come join me in silence preferably and watch the world go round. Maybe next time. My left tricep is twitching uncontrollably. Has been for the past couple of days. Has a heartbeat of its own. Word of the day is fasciculation — a brief, spontaneous contraction affecting a small number of muscle fibers, often causing a flicker of movement under the skin. It's not really brief though, unfortunately.

Finishing off the rest of my bubble tea embarrassingly trying to suck up the last of the tapioca pearls who are playing hard to get among the enormous chunks of ice. I definitely don't want anyone taking my picture with my lips wrapped around a fat straw puckering desperately for one last "ball" to shoot up and hit me in the back of the throat. It must be done nonchalantly. Act as though you don't really care if you get to chew on one more belly-bloating ball of tapioca as you violently stab the straw into hard-to-reach corners of your glass hoping not to look ridiculous while noisly slurping up milk that is no longer there. I shouldn't be drinking cow pus anyway — as I clear my throat. Weak moment.

A white guy just walked by outside sans shirt flaunting stuff he didn't even have. Relatively young guy. It's pretty hot, but the city isn't really the proper place to get a suntan. There are some weird mofos in Cambodia. I'm not talking about the locals. Most of them can be found in or around Golden Sorya Mall on any given night imbibing jug upon jug of Angkor draft, but can also be found perusing the aisle of the local Pencil supermarket or stumbling down street 136 near the riverside. The last stop for some of these folks. The train doesn't go any further. To the detriment of Cambodia, however they do offer some entertainment value. That being said, there are also some very cool folks here.

Don't Want To Miss A Thing is playing again. I'd put in the earbuds, but I've overplayed my own music lately. Trying to hear my own heartbeat, my exhalations and the flicker in my tricep. Fortunately the music is not overbearing and there is a cacophony of other noises from the chatter of employees and other patrons, the opening and closing of refrigerated display cases, the clattering of utensils and the barely audible rumble of motorists outside. I used to like Aerosmith back in the day. Janie's Got A Gun got me into music back in junior high school. Damn, that was a long time ago.

Back to the present. Don't want to relive the past. Just got distracted by a Vietnam Cupid email. The dating site that will not go away. I suppose it's a welcome distraction as I only have to  deactivate or delete my account. Or just simply unsubscribe. Or mark the sender's email address as "junk." But no, I can't do that. I like the email and seeing if any of the eight photos will entice me enough to click through to their profile. Usually there's at least one. I still haven't forgotten, from various dates long ago, that pictures can be very deceiving. Especially just headshots and those using some kind of filter. I forgot my rule of "always using the webcam" before meeting in person on several occasions. 

It's time to make a break for it. Head home with a walnut baguette so I can do precisely what I don't need to do — eat more food! What else is there to do when you're as unproductive as a 100MB Zip Disk hidden away in someone's shoebox in 2014? You have to pass the time somehow. The only problem is sometimes, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, eating becomes a bit obsessive. For me anyway. I haven't eaten much today, but I probably don't need the aforementioned baguette laden with carmelized onions, bell peppers and garlic, a couple fried eggs, stuffed with sprouts and wetted with an ample dousing of both soy and a sweet spring roll sauce.

I went out last night with the intention of hearing some live music. But first, I needed to eat. That much had been decided. Before I left, I had a couple Jager bombs to kickstart the party. It wasn't Red Bull, but something similar and only a little to tame down the herbal flavor. I went down to Street 51 at about 9:30pm, but Katy Peri's Pizza had yet to open. What to do now? I strolled into Sorya Golden Mall and had a couple drafts at the beer garden. After some brief chit chat with a waitress and another customer I went back to visit Katy Peri. Som Naang was at the oven and as a good businessman seemed pleased to see me. I ordered a small "magherita" and a rum & coke. 

The rum & coke was strong and cheap, as usual. The pizza came out insanely fast, which led me to believe it was intended for someone else, but I was the beneficiary and could not complain. It was insanely good. I alternated the Tabasco with every other slice to not overburden my tongue while eating at a brisk pace so I could finish before the deaf kid came back to mooch for a slice. Just in time. I lingered a little to let the rum kick in and ponder my next move. I soon found myself at a riverside bar ordering another rum & coke before I returned home (alone) and devoured a heaping bowl of granola. Barely resisting the urge to pour a second bowl, I brushed my teeth, hopped into bed and tooted, as my nephews say, all the way until morning.

I've been eating a lot more than normal lately. And going to the gym more. And feeling like the meathead I didn't think I was back in the day I was one. That was a long time ago. It's because I have time — too much of it. I want to be doing something, but what? That is the eternal question that pesters me wherever I go and gnaws at my soul. Just spell it out for me already. I know now that it is not going to fall out of the sky and land in my lap like I've always wanted. It's hard to be proactive when you're not sure what stones to start turning over. And when you're not a particularly take-charge kind of guy. I haven't given up and I won't, but for now I'll settle for just being a productive member of society. Even if that means feeling like a robot and selling my soul, just a little. Tired of feeling unproductive. I feel guilty, but also a little jealous as I watch others toil in the hot sun. At least they're doing something. At least doing something will stave off the insanity — for now. 

Killing time at Suvarnabhumi

I planned a three-night stay in Bangkok after my surprise holiday in San Francisco. I didn’t know about the massive protest to shutdown the city at that time. As it turns out, Thailand’s opposition party supporters planned a big one on the day I was due to arrive. Being on the airplane for 20 hours before the start of the protest I was unable to see how it was mounting and if tensions were flaring.

Following this guy covering the state of affairs online helped give me insight into the situation. It was unclear what was going to happen. The sky train and the airports would be left open, which was nice, but how about the rest of the city? Could it really last 5-20 days? I was due to arrive around midnight. After immigration and baggage claim it would be closer to 12:30am. Would the trains be open? Would be the protests still be going on? Could I get a taxi?

Reading tweets like this one changed my mind:

Richard Barrow ‏‪@RichardBarrow                                                                  13 Jan

Tourists are advised NOT to go anywhere near the new rally sites in ‪#Bangkok. Especially late at night. Use common sense & you’ll be fine.

The guesthouse I was going to stay at was directly opposite a rally site. They never confirmed my request for a reservation. Fuck it, I didn’t need a vacation after a vacation. I checked Cambodia Angkor Air’s website. A flight out the next day before taxes was only 1100 baht! That’s about $30. Of course, with taxes, it was 3000 baht, but still a great fare booked two days before departure. Avoid the hassle entirely I thought, l was ready to get back to Phnom Penh and resume life where I left it. No need to risk getting shot just for the possibility of some cool pics and mango with sticky rice.

I booked the ticket thirty minutes prior to departing for San Francisco International. Now as I wait at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi at 3:15am I wish I had booked a cheap room a train stop from the airport. A bed, wifi, shower, being able to sleep in until noon, street food and showing up and flying away is far superior to enduring a night at the airport. The thing is, there was still some uncertainty as to where the protests would be and how long they’d last thus making everywhere potentially unsafe.

I’m not the only one calling the airport home tonight. Two local dudes sleep on mats to my right under camouflage tarps imprinted with US ARMY. And my fellow tourists are inconsiderately sprawled out on the airport’s chairs, generally three chairs per body or sit slumped in one if they were unfortunate to arrive late to stake their claim. I won’t sleep because I don’t want to lose anything in my possession.

The airport has free wifi, but apparently it’s only in the departure lounge. I guess that prevents people from lounging in the arrivals area. I’d go to the departure lounge, but I can’t check in my bag and therefore can’t go through security, as my flight isn’t for another 12 hours. The woman at the information desk told me they had free wifi at the coffee shops on the next level so I went back upstairs and sat down to ponder my options. I didn’t want to go to Starbucks, but that girl gave me eyes that would be hard to refuse walking by a second time. I didn’t really care, but welcomed a distraction and hated the fact that I couldn’t “man up” and just start talking to her.

I went in and ordered a coffee and found out after paying they didn’t even have wifi. $4 for a coffee I didn’t even want at 1 in the morning. Oh well, I’ll go say hi. Conveniently sitting next to the napkins and all the extras you can shake into your overpriced coffee, I sat down and made a little small talk. Good from afar, but far from good. Apparently everyone was just on their phone or tablet pretending to be online, but really just playing Angry Birds. I asked her where she was headed as there was lack of anything else to do. Turns out she was waiting for her boyfriend from Korea who happened to show up at the moment of my query. That ended the conversation and I was sitting alone with a coffee I didn’t really want and no wifi.

I laughed at my situation and got up to leave after sufficient time had passed after she left with her boyfriend. Wandering around with my oversized duffel bag repeatedly falling off my shoulder I discovered that wifi upstairs at the business center was $4 for 20 minutes. Not a good deal. I went back downstairs and found it was free at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf as long as you spent 300 baht ($10). Not a good deal. Eventually I settled on a nearby café and ordered some pad thai I didn’t want.

They eventually got the wifi working after resetting the router? Modem? Whatever was behind the staff door. Again, it seemed, everyone was just pretending to be online. My vegetarian pad thai came and vaguely reeked of fish sauce. The waitress assured me otherwise. After just thirty minutes of perusing Facebook and ascertaining the protest situation, I was presented with the bill. What? Oh, we close at 2am. Thanks. I was allowed to stay so I could finish my fish sauce and peruse a little longer, which was only until I had cleaned my plate and paid my bill and then someone flipped the switch.

Oh well. Now what? People did not look happy at 2:30am. The cleaning lady barked at me as I attempted to enter the restroom. Oh, does that trash can in the middle of the walkway mean it’s closed? No shit, really? Just trying to sneak into a stall to drain my main vein before she noticed to no avail. I also needed to brush my teeth, dab on some deodorant and make it look like I was clean after 20 hours of flights, overeating and being in and out of consciousness.

I eventually took care of business after lugging my bag to the next available restroom. I proceeded upstairs looking for a place to sit, down the entire length of the corridor, passing row upon row of chairs that appeared to have vacancies until upon closer inspection were occupied by slumbering tourists. The guy next to me just farted. Either that or someone has a really loud zipper. I think I’d worry about that if I were to fall asleep. That and waking up with an erection. I’ll face my fears one day.

The girl down the way is clipping her fingernails. Nails probably flying everywhere. Not attractive. My mind is wandering. Nothing to do, but ramble on and think about sex. I want to make eye contact with someone and understand everything without actually saying anything. Oh you're thinking about sex too? Let’s fuck. And we’d proceed to the nearest restroom. Instead of both veering in opposite directions, one would follow the other after receiving the green light. Just like the movies. And then some fun in the stall. Exciting. I’m that guy right now, looking around to see if there are any takers. Nope.

4’oclock now. Fuuuuuuuuuuck. Would be so nice right now to be under the covers farting myself to sleep. Or you know, being asleep enough where it actually feels like you’re spooning that special someone without the snoring, hair in your face, pins and needles in that arm you don’t know what to do with or someone stealing the sheets. 34% battery remaining. Thank goodness for that, I’m running out of things to say.

Thursday night with the girl of my dreams

Of course I picked the café with the downed wifi. It’s my negative state of mind, I tell you. Trying to roll with the punches—I shall not be deterred. Focus on this instead of that. My coffee was a little off, a little less delicious than normal. So was the muffin. They didn’t heat it up enough. Everything can be wrong if you look things in the wrong light, which I have the tendency to do. I need a new looking glass.

I also need a new motorbike. I’ve been saying that for a while. I love my bike, but it’s time to start seeing other people. I want to part on good terms, before I start to feel stuck and blame it all on her. Lately, she had been driving poorly. There was a loose wire somewhere and the electric was hit and miss. Also turns out she had some water in her carburetor. Poor thing.

My mechanic attended to her yesterday. Cleaned the carburetor and gave her a new battery. She’s running better, but there is still something amiss. That clicking sound is driving me crazy. I also just pulled into a pharmacy, pulled out the key and the engine was still running. Hmmm. put the key back in, turn on, turn off, wait and finally she shut off. Came back out, put the key in and the right signal light was on. Tilted the bike to the right and it turned off. Tilted left and it went back on. Sigh.

I figure when I get a “real” bike, I’ll appreciate it that much more. It’s like having a normal weekend after having a 1-day weekend the week before. It’s still not enough, but you appreciate that extra day sooooooo much more. I figure having a bike with fewer faults will be like a dream compared to one that always seems to have an issue—even if she has taken me reliably from point A to point B for nearly a year. You need a cold shower every now and again to really savor the hot ones. You need to experience some low points to revel in the high ones.

……………………

And here I am, nearly a month later, trying to pick up where I left off. Back at the same café—across the park from my street—eating yet another coffee and muffin. This time there were no complaints. Only maybe that there weren’t enough of either. But sufficiently filling they were. The only complaint I have is that I’m not getting to the café early enough. I prefer morning sessions, say 10am, not 1 in the afternoon. I took a wrong turn last night. That’s my excuse.

I was going to call it a night at 2am, relatively early for a Thursday (my Friday) considering I had just finished work at midnight. Still winding down I was, but I considered saving the fun for the next evening. I was a little indecisive and took a detour past a bar, which I have become well acquainted, to see if “she” was there. Surprised to find it open and her still working, I sat down for a pint of some pretty appalling local lager. She seemed remotely happy to see me, which reignited the flame that I thought might have been extinguished.

We chatted and I jokingly (but seriously) asked her to come back to my place. As you do. She had actually brought it up first a few months ago, but with the added disclaimer—no boom boom. I hesitated and when I came to my senses hours later she reneged on her offer. You snooze, you lose. This wasn’t a paying situation. This was more of a persistence pays off type situation. And well, maybe she was trying to figure me out. See where I live, see if I’m a “good guy”—see if I’m capable of supporting her and her family. I’m not capable in case you wondering. I don’t make promises and I don’t tell lies, but I do legitimately like this girl. Have for a while.

I sat there in disbelief after she nonchalantly replied “Ok.” She’s having some fun, I thought. This girl has never been so “easy.” I waited for the chuckle, but it never came. I wanted her to be comfortable so I threw in the same disclaimer she had months before. No boom boom, I whispered. I couldn’t believe my own ears. But really, I was ok with that since just being with her was enough. Sort of. I wanted to inhale the lingering perfume and the scent of whatever shampoo residue was in her hair. She finished at 3am. I could wait.

I (mistakenly) ordered another draft beer just to pass the time. 3am arrived and she had disappeared. I half expected not to see her again. This wouldn’t have been the first time my hopes were dashed, but she did come back. Yay! She had been brushing her teeth or something. I paid my bill and wandered outside wondering how we were going to do this. She motioned for me to go. Go where? I drove down the street and parked halfway down, out of sight for the most part. I rested my head on the handlebars and looked up occasionally to make sure she wasn’t sneaking by.

Eventually she came back on her motorbike, hair blowing in the breeze. All slow motion like the movies. She had slipped into something more comfortable. Damn, I was hoping she was going to do that at my place. She was ready to rock n’ roll. We drove silently in the direction of my house, with her occasionally taking the lead. What are you doing, ya fucking idiot…you have no idea where I live. She seemed a bit cocky behind the wheel.

I made sure to zoom ahead and motion prior to making turns so I didn’t lose her. That would have been a waste of two draft beers and a couple hours of sleep. The horror! We got to my house, parked the bikes, locked the gate and climbed the stairs. Finally, a girl who didn’t complain about climbing three flights of stairs. Not that any girl has ever done that. She came in and immediately started eyeballing the furniture. You live here? Alone? How much you pay? Too much. As I’ve had to say to myself silently before, shut the fuck up.

Poking around some more, you have air conditioning? Not seeing it at first, she was momentarily dismayed until she saw it hiding up in the corner. She motioned with her lips to turn it on, which translated to crank that shit on high. Fuck, it’s not even hot, but whatever you say. I was whipped. She looked around even more. No tv? Fuck. I showed her where it was hiding —behind the clothes drying rack and under the yoga mat. I haven’t turned it on in months and I really hoped not to see it flicker into action tonight.

Turns out it was just a question. It was time for bed. She was already in her pajamas—the same clothes she was wearing— and motioned toward the bed. Sleep. I took a final piss and came to join her. It was like an elementary school sleepover. We held hands and I got high for a minute. I inhaled the toxins in her hair and I snuck a kiss. She didn’t like that. Sleep! Alright, alright, but that’s no fun. I tried, but I’m no good at sleep. Especially not when there’s an attractive lady next to me.

I tossed and turned and tossed some more. I got up to use the toilet. That second beer! I tried to sleep again to no avail. I could only see her lying there like sleeping beauty while the bags grew bigger under my eyes. I could only focus on the air conditioner making funny noises. I usually wore earplugs. I also usually slept with my head between both pillows. Tonight I didn’t have that luxury. Dammit, this pillow is too big! It’s too cold! The mattress is too slanted!

It was getting late, maybe six or seven. I had to pee again. I was started to get angry. Not at her, but at my inability to fall asleep. My fault for inviting a pretty girl to have a “sleepover.” Who does that? I took my earplugs, my pillow and a spare comforter into the living room. And I set up on the floor. Put the couch pillows on the floor and closed off the space with my laundry rack so I wouldn’t feel “naked” lying there exposed in the middle of the floor. I checked Facebook and did the online crossword before hiding my laptop in the kitchen cupboard. I contemplated jerking off into the kitchen sink, but thought that was little dirty and then tried to sleep, alone, again.

She woke me up at 11. She kind of scoffed at me as I lifted my head, drool stuck to my cheek. What? There was still some misplaced residual anger. Go away, I thought. That’s precisely what she was doing. She rattled off some Khmer, which I was not in the mood for. She asked, I think, if there was a lock on the gate downstairs. Huh? She said it again even faster, as if I might get it this time. I don’t know, I mumbled. She put on her dirty fuzzyheaded slippers and shuffled out the door. Better than heels I thought. At least she doesn’t look like a prostitute.

I laid my head down again, with relief, and then quickly thought I ought to accompany her downstairs. I wiped off the drool, slipped on some shorts, a baseball cap and my flip flops to catch her with just enough time to open the gate and say goodbye before she skedaddled on out of there. I barely had enough energy to mumble bye. I wearily walked back past my landlord and his family having breakfast—ok, lunch—who undoubtedly thought a transaction had just taken place. I don’t give a fuck anymore. 

Went back to sleep for a minute—barely able to contemplate what had transpired over the past eight hours even though I had been awake for most of it. I rubbed some collagen into the bags under my eyes, tweezered out the gray hours and put on my Sunday best—a pair of shorts and a t-shirt—on a Friday to take it all in. There wasn’t much to analyze. I went home with ‘the girl of my dreams’ but failed to fall asleep to have more of them. A memorable experience for all the wrong reasons. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemies.

The evolution of a shitty mustache

Every once in a while, I get this foolish notion that I should grow a mustache. I should not. It's not about trying to look better because let's face it, not many people look better with a mustache. It's more about being tired of looking at the same face day after day after day. Need a soul patch to spruce things up a bit. Or sideburns or a beard or a mustache. Problem is I can't grow sideburns or a beard. So there aren't many options aside from getting a tattoo on my face, lip augmentation, a nose or eyebrow piercing or dying my hair. Honestly, I prefer less permanent alternatives.

I grew my first 'stache late last year at 36 years of age. Not long after my brother had participated in a monthlong grow-your-stache-for-charity. It wasn't Movember. I said hey, I want to try that! I had never tried before because I was fairly certain it would look like someone's genitals on my face. Let's face it, nobody wants that. Well, I suppose people do, but not when you're out in public. Anyway, I was in a place where it didn't hurt to try and so I grew it. It looked pretty awful at first, was hard to even notice and caused significant personal anguish. I tried my best to thrust that aside. Eventually the hairs grew longer and it filled in the gaps. It was almost passable.

The early days were laughable.

Oops, missed a spot.

If only...

Eventually I tired of seeing it in the mirror every day and I grew overly self-conscious of my 'stache. It pervaded my thoughts. Should I shave it? Should I trim it? Should I let it hang over my lip? Give it one more day. The next day I'd stare at it some more pondering its fate. It had been about 50 days. It was itchy and it was drawing the wrong kind of attention. I had to be careful talking and joking with kids.. Look at that guy with the mustache talking to children! Definitely didn't need any accusations. In the end, the over-analysis drove me crazy and I shaved it off in a fit of rage. I felt bald for a minute, but refreshed. The skin above my lip looked like it had missed being kissed by the sun.

I actually like these shots, but to be fair, I didn't really look like a porn star..

Freshly shaven. Renewed, but it felt like I had lost a limb.

Some time went by—perhaps a month—and I thought maybe I'd grow the 'stache again. I don't know what I was thinking. I was just bored. It didn't last as long the second go round, but I went through the same emotions as before. Probably would have been better off shaving my head, but the 'stache experiment was both a test of my patience and to see how self-conscious I really was. Turns out I'm not very patient and I'm quite self-conscious. But I already knew that.

Fast forward another few months and there I was trying it again, trying to be alternative or something. I don't think I made it a month. I just started getting angry and eventually threw in the towel. You need reassurance when growing a 'stache and it isn't every day when people are dropping compliments about a mustache. I was complimentary to other mustachioed gentlemen, but that's only because I became more aware of a quality mustache just by trying to grow my own. I realized what it took. Strength. Courage. Patience. Determination. I know I wasn't blessed in the facial hair department, but that has its perks for the most part. I go through far fewer razor blades and my morning routine is more simplified.

I was facial hair free, the way I should be, for the greater part of six months when all of a sudden the urge to grow a 'stache arose again. It was almost that time again when my brother would again be growing his 'stache for charity. I thought I'd get a head start. I started by just not shaving and proceeded for a couple weeks with what would have been deemed as a shitty goatee. When my chin started bearing resemblance to a scrotum I decided to shave leaving just the 'stache and soul patch. The sole patch was a crutch that allowed me to keep going for a few more weeks. Then I shaved it and rocked only a shitty 'stache, which I regularly trimmed to get the whiskers more or less the same length.

The "goatee" stage.

Yes, my shirt says "Babes." Probably didn't see that cause you were admiring the 'stache.

It was good timing with the 'stache. I had recently started feeling asexual and now with the 'stache I didn't seem to mind even less attention. I still found some women attractive, but without the corresponding arousal. It was like I was hibernating. I'd shrug my shoulders and think something wasn't right, but surprisingly it was nice to go out and essentially have zero interest sexually in anyone. I figured there was just a kink in the hose. That one day, after an abundance of oatmeal, an enormous shit would release the pressure on that particular pipe allowing the testosterone to flow freely again. Actually, it wasn't that. I just grew tired with women, particularly here, and everything being about money. Major turn off. Made me sad and I just wanted to disengage.

Meanwhile, the 'stache was starting to look better, but only on webcam.

Back to the story at hand. I went out and took the 'stache with me. Everywhere I went. The ladies were not particularly enthralled with it. The girl of my dreams pointed at it, made a face and said clean! You can wait, I said. I started feeling older with the 'stache and my confidence was waning. I only really liked how it looked on my grainy webcam with a hat pulled down low. Then it looked like I was just having fun. Like I wasn't taking myself too seriously. But as I do, I started getting way too self-conscious. Again. A girl gives her friend a funny look and I know immediately they're definitely talking about me. A guy at the gym looks at me and snickers. It's definitely the fucking 'stache.

Started blaming everything on the hairy upper lip.

Only liked it with a hat and this expression, which could not be held extended periods.

Meanwhile, my brother, who had started his 'stache-for-charity, was already sporting a superior 'stache despite me having a one month advantage. My ego found this slightly depressing. But as he later said, you got the hair on your head, I got the hair everywhere else. Lucky me! Or something to that effect. I was going to try and get through the end of November or Movember as it has been called for 10 years according to the official website. Wow. 10 years? Who knew? Apparently "Mo Bros" (those taking part in Movember) start the month clean-shaven. Having just read that, I don't feel bad about shaving prematurely. I would have been cheating! Big sigh of relief there.

My brother's mustache for charity. At least it looked like he had fun doing it!

Anyway, the 'stache is gone and I don't regret it for a minute. I've always been one to simplify my life. The less things you have, including facial hair, the easier it is to manage. Unless of course you take away the roof over my head, my motorbike and my wallet, which would obviously be cause for struggle. I'll leave you with one final pic—the straw that broke the camel's back. Wasn't quite the look I was going for and it was enough of a catalyst for me to bust out the razor a month early and end this charade. The other catalyst was, well, I'm not feeling asexual anymore. The kink in the hose seems to be gone. You don't play the game with a mustache unless you are Burt Reynolds or Tom Selleck—and neither of them am I.

Mustache be gone!

Corruption in the kingdom

I reached into my pocket and it wasn't there. Fuck. That little piece of paper I needed to reclaim my motorbike. That along with 1500 riel ($0.37) and I'd be on my merry way. Why did I put the fucking thing in my left pocket? I never did that. I usually stuffed it into my left rear pocket, my wallet or into a shirt pocket. It wasn't there. I checked all my pockets, twice, three times—just in case that thin piece of paper had already morphed itself into pocket lint. Nope. I hadn't even reached in that pocket, I couldn't figure out how it had gone missing.

It was 3:30am and I was tired. The fucker told me I could take my bike if I paid him five dollars. So much for parking security. Find or steal someone's keys, bribe the parking attendant and off you go. Come on, man. I'd seen my friend pay three dollars just the night before so I knew it was negotiable. And besides, surely that little fucker over there, that scrawny prepubescent piece of shit, surely he recognizes me and my bike. I rumble in here a few times a week. My bike sounds vaguely like a sick lawnmower. Easy to identify. I said, That guy knows me, come on. He came over and said I dunno, I dunno. Oh, you little prick.

I mouthed a fuck you here and a fuck you there, here a fuck, there a fuck, everywhere a fuck fuck. You have to be careful with that word in this country. You might end up with a knife in your back. But in that very moment, I just didn't give a fuck. Obviously. I asked how I could get my motorbike back and he said to come back tomorrow with my passport and my motorbike identification card. Are you serious? Fine. I grabbed my helmet and walked away angrily—vowing never to park my bike there again while looking back and waving my arms around like a madman.

Retrospectively, I know they were just doing their job, but in the moment I find it hard to control my rage. Fight or flight kicked in. I contemplated sticking the key into the ignition and trying to blast through them, but I didn't want to accidentally run someone over or have a mob following me because they thought I was on a stolen bike. I feel like it would have worked, but since the consequences could have been deadly and I would have likely seen those dudes again, I decided to just rant & rave and "lose face" instead. At least that way I could air my frustrations without dying in the process.

I walked down 172 to Norodom ignoring all the motodop and tuk tuk drivers who were hoping for one more fare that evening. Fuck all of you, too, I thought, bringing back to mind an altercation I had a couple months ago when a tuk tuk driver took a swing at me and tried to kickbox me while I backed away blocking and dodging and only responding with verbal jabs since we had been quickly surrounded by locals and I knew this could easily escalate to ten against one. This was not the way I wanted to go out despite the urge to land one square on his nose. Nobody wins in a fight, I could hear my Dad saying over and over in my head. Do it, don't do it, do it, don't do it. Fuck it.

I turned right at Norodom and walked to 256 where I turned left, past the military police who have been sitting at practically every street corner day in and day out for the last two months since the disputed national election. I made a right on 19 and another left on 264 and finally arrived at my front gate. Home at last. When I woke up this morning I noticed my helmet on my couch. Shit. I momentarily forgot that I was without my motorbike. I put the essentials together—my passport and motorbike identification card—and proceeded to walk back to Golden Sorya Mall, where my bike was parked.

Yes, it would have been easier to pay one dollar and hop on the back of a moto, but I waved the guy off who was yelling from a distance as I exited the front gate. I didn't want to end up spending more money than it would have otherwise cost me to bribe the guy last night. I'd already lost my face and considerable time. I'm fucking walking, I told myself. I retraced my steps from the previous evening and turned left onto 172 nearing my destination. It smelled like the entire neighborhood—bellies full of durian and barbecued pork—had just defecated on the corner. The stench of dereliction was in the air and I held my breath as I stepped through it.

I got to the the parking area and anticipated having flat tires or siphoned gas. I then proceed to tell the fat fucker my story. I took out my passport and identification card and showed him my bike. Ok, can I go now? I could see this wasn't going to be as easy as I thought. You motherfuckers. He said they'd keep my passport and ID and to come back to pick up my bike tomorrow. Tomorrow? You dirty lying swine. Nobody keeps my passport. I'll photocopy this shit and you can do what you need to do, but you will not hold onto my passport. Meanwhile, I contemplate hopping onto my motorbike and running over these people again.

The little commotion in the parking area has now attracted more attention and a few other conniving sons of bitches come into the fray. I flag down this aging hooker who should have hung up her heels years ago. I seem to run into her everywhere. She does her best to translate, but it seems the only bullshit option is to give them my passport. No way. No fucking way. Just give them your passport, man, she says. I refuse to give my passport to these motherfuckers. I make sure to enunciate every last profanity. I don't know these dudes and definitely don't trust them. I spit on the ground for emphasis and realize I am literally foaming at the mouth.

A policeman drives by and I foolishly think he might be of some benefit. Police! Police! They laugh knowing all too well this fat fucker isn't going to help. There was definitely the Khmer equivalent of a donut shop in near vicinity. He at least stops so I have the chance to tell him what's going on. Give them your passport, fill out the paperwork, blah blah blah. Fucking rules. I'm pissed off because these people, in my mind, are being unreasonable. They told me to bring my passport and ID and I did. Now they're telling me to wait another day. I come to the conclusion it is best to avoid playing by the rules whenever possible in this country. If there is an opportunity to bribe it is probably best to bite your tongue and take it.

Eventually, I realize this is going nowhere. They bring out a chain to lock up my bike. I assume by now they can see my intentions. I want to punch all of these fuckers in their fat faces. There are at least five of them now. Even the old lady deserved some knuckles in her wrinkly jaw. And the hooker too, she wasn't helping me. I didn't like any of them. They're all out to get me These people! I am brought back to those times in Vietnam when I got incredibly frustrated with the locals. An exchange that went wrong because of some cultural misunderstanding. It was all their fault! That was usually when I realized I needed a vacation.

I tell the hooker I don't give a shit anymore. I'll just come back tonight when different staff are on duty, pay them the bribe and get my motorbike then. What I should have done the previous evening. Fuck these people. She proceeds to start telling them what I'm going to do. No, no, no, no! Shut up. Don't tell them. Apparently she said just enough. She proceeds to tell me I can pay them five dollars and take my motorbike now. Why didn't you just say so?! I guess they thought it'd be better for them to get the money instead of those poor bastards working the night shift. All of that nonsense, all of that riling up for nothing.

Holding my breath, I handed over the money. While waiting for my change I jabbered away how these guys were dicks and motioned like I was secretly stuffing money into my pocket. Made me feel good even though I was losing more face. You thieving bastards. It's so hard to just let things go. Let it go. I got onto my motorbike—finally—and refrained from revving the engine and speeding off into the sunset. I pulled out slowly avoiding all eye contact and refused to say thanks—for nothing—and drove off to the coffee shop where I am now so I could make everything right with a hot cup of joe and some baked deliciousness. I do feel better now.

A new job, apricot scones and used t-shirts

I haven't posted in a while. There wasn't a whole lot to say. I felt like I'd written more than enough about the coffee I was drinking or the ladyboys down at the beer garden. I desperately needed some new material as my routine was getting old. The embers of this blog were on the verge of extinguishing themselves, but all of a sudden a gust of wind picked up and sparked a flame. There's too much in my head at the moment to not set some of it free. Throw it into the wind whether it's interesting or not.

First news to report, I am working again! I just wrapped up my first full week and I have one more week in a two-week trial. After that, I'm on a three-month trial and then if we both like each other we'll officially be in a relationship. It's essentially a Monday-Friday 8-5 desk job only it's Sunday-Thursday and 2-midnight, which is preferable since I hate working mornings. I can both go out and sleep in every day if I so please.  I won't give any details other than to say I'm sitting at a desk staring at a computer in a pretty relaxed work environment surrounded by pretty cool people. It's nice to be learning something new although my hemorrhoid isn't particularly happy.

Enough about that. It's my Saturday and I'm still lounging around the house at nearly 5pm. I did go out and got jacked up on coffee and relished in the delight of consuming a moist pumpkin muffin. Highly recommended. It's overcast now and nearly time to go for a run. It'll be the first time in nearly a week I've been able to get out and jog around the park and along the riverside. Running around the park past men shuttlecocking, women fast-walking, military police lounging, ducking under trees, across the street into the next park, past the Royal Palace and onto the riverside past women aerobicizing, teenagers footballing, babies waddling, hookers eyeballing and street kids sniffing glue. Strangely, I'm excited about that.

Today is now Monday. Two days have slipped by and I hardly noticed. It is day two of a planned three-day protest by the CNRP, the opposition party that lost July's disputed election. Reminiscent of how Al Gore "lost" the election way back in 2000, but with perhaps even more voting irregularities. We'll probably never know the extent of it. I was thinking of checking the progress of the demonstration, but opted instead for a coffee and an apricot scone at Java Cafe across the park from my house. A wise choice. I can go get caught up in traffic later if the idea sounds appealing. Considering I spent 45 minutes yesterday detouring around roadblocks covered in razor wire when I was only five minutes from my house, I'll probably pass. I got enough vitamin D to last a few days.

I started studying French a couple weeks ago. I don't know why, perhaps for lack of anything else to do. I noticed a lot of expats are French or speak French so I decided to try to finish at least level 1 on Rosetta Stone. At least be able to count to ten and understand how to pronounce it when I read it. I'd prefer to continue my Vietnamese or Indonesian studies, but both were unable for "free" download. And to my dismay they haven't started offering Khmer. So, it'll be French for now until I tire of trying to speak like an asshole and then I may try Mandarin or Japanese or German. Yeah, yeah, I'll probably never open the application again.

I also started collecting t-shirts. It didn't reach collection status until recently when I realized it was getting out of hand. But how can you resist when you see a cool t-shirt for only 50 cents? I can't. If I change my mind I can use it as a dust rag, a floor mat or give it to my neighbor. When I moved to Phnom Penh from Siem Reap six months ago I only had a dozen shirts. The secondhand clothes market in Siem Reap was fairly limited. Phnom Penh, on the other hand, has numerous locations for acquiring secondhand shirts sporting designs you can be fairly certain nobody else is going to be wearing. I think they import by the kilo from their northern Asian neighbors including China, Japan, Korea and Taiwan.

First, I went to Central Market, which has a secondhand clothing area and the few vendors that sold t-shirts offered them for around $2.50, which was reasonable, but on par or slightly more expensive than thrift shops back home. They recently got a little greedy and started asking $3. Outrageous. The BKK Market was more off the beaten track and was almost all secondhand clothing. A great find, but only a couple t-shirt vendors. Here, they were only a dollar. Any of the numerous tailors onsite could alter them to fit in mere minutes. That would cost another 50 cents. A month ago, I found a new spot. A street near the riverside where multiple vendors offer secondhand wares. Only 50 cents, the true price of secondhand t-shirts! I find it pretty exciting and can't stop shopping. I have about 60 shirts now.

A couple assholes in business attire just walked in. Might be nice guys, but I can't help but judge people. Nice tie, guy. Besides, I didn't like the way he looked at me. Don't be jealous I'm wearing a comfy pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I'm just agitated. Not sleeping well. Never sleeping well. I also don't like what they've done to this cafe. They changed from perhaps the coziest environment to what looks like dining room furniture. Like I should be sipping tea at high noon. Fuck that. I just realized there are twelve men in this room. That's part of the problem. Way too much testosterone. Not a single woman working here - I can't handle this vibe.

I just extended my visa for another six months. Never know when this marriage will end. I do enjoy living in Phnom Penh, but the honeymoon has certainly come and gone. I no longer feel like spontaneously pumping my fists as I run around the park. I love my food choices, I like my apartment, it feels like I could be living anywhere sometimes. In Vietnam, I always felt like I was living in Vietnam. There was no escaping it. That's why I came to Cambodia so many times on holiday. To get away. Vietnam certainly has its appeal, but so does this place. The country not the cafe.

I know I was more or less recently on a twenty-month holiday, but after a week and a half of work I sort of feel trapped again. It is so hard to commit to anything! You mean I have to work six months before I can take two weeks off? I have to work a year before I'm considered for a raise? Don't get me wrong, it's great to be doing something and learning something new, but it's hard to lose some of your freedom. Time ticks down quickly before I have to be back at work straining my eyes under the fluorescents shooing away mosquitoes. I have a sudden yearning to be back in Nepal trekking the Annapurna Circuit or driving a Royal Enfield through the mountain passes to Ladakh in northwestern India.

It'll happen. It's just a matter of when. That or I'll impregnate some bargirl and live happily ever after. There are no other options. I'll support her and our crack baby until the instinct to flee is too overwhelming. No, I swear I'll treat her right. I'll buy her as many 50 cent t-shirts as her heart desires. I'll buy her dollar bubble teas and download all the movies she wants to see. I'll even let her have the good pillow. Of course, I'll go buy a better one. I'll get her enrolled in English classes and spy through the small window in the door to make sure her foreign teacher isn't trying to play peek-a-boob. You can never trust an English teacher.

Well, it's the middle of September already. We've got a month and a half to Movember, but I've decided to get a head start. I need it. I've only got a week and half's worth of goatee and it's still pretty awkward looking, but I'll try to grin and bear it. I don't want to look like a pedophile too soon otherwise I'd shave the chin. I'll wait until the mustache looks a bit more "manly" before I do that. Last week, a girl at the bar pointed at my face and said "clean!" Three more months, I said. She "voiced" her displeasure with a disapproving facial gesture. I know, I know, I thought. Oh well, there are too many options here anyway. Might as well make things slightly more challenging.