When you’re crabby in another country.

Today, I hate everything.

It’s hot. Have I mentioned this to you already? It’s been insanely hot here for two months, and I can’t think straight anymore. I hate that I’m a flood of sweat. It drips into my eyes and down my spine. It comes out from behind my knees, drops onto my dusty bare feet, and turns into muddy streaks. It beads up on the backs of my hands. I hate the white stains on my t-shirt from the salt in my sweat, which I haven’t seen since I was a glassblower and spent a scorching day in front of the furnace. It makes me nuts that I forget my water bottle about every other day, and have to buy another one to keep up with my 4.5L daily habit.

I hate stir fried rice with red chilies and pork or chicken or beef or fish. I hate sautéed morning glory stems and sour tamarind soup. I’m sick of dumplings, curry, fried noodles, and fish sauce. I’m annoyed by “happy” marijuana pizza joints, the “bug” restaurant, and the cheap burgers that all the tourists eat. I dread having to choose from literally 1,000 carts, restaurants, and bars when I try to feed myself every night.

I hate the little courtesy “beep” and the dust that kicks up in my face when a car or moto passes my bike to get in front of me, and then immediately slows down to turn. I hate that I fuck it up every single time I go around the traffic circle on my way home from work. Every. Single. Time. I usually nearly kill myself or someone else because I still haven’t figured out who has the right-of-way. It makes me crazy to realize there probably isn’t a right-of-way, and that’s why I haven’t figured it out yet.

I’m mad that the chilly, air-conditioned, international market has a 3–4x markup over any reasonable price in this country (US$6.50 for a jar of peanut butter, US$3 for ½ cup of loose tea, US$1 for a Coke or a pack of ramen). But even more annoying is that my fiercest haggling in the old market stalls still yields a 2x markup. And then I feel guilty that I’m a rich Westerner who just spent 10 minutes arguing about US$2. Then I’m mad at my guilt about the whole thing. I get pissed every time I see foreigners walking down the street ignoring the conservative local culture with their skimpy cut-offs and bikini tops. I hate all the expats because clearly they are so much cooler than I am as a short-timer. I am so tired of having only eight shirts and three pairs of pants to choose from every morning for six months.

I hate that the guys on the construction site next door to my office have taken notice of me and say “Hi, Barang!” (Hi, Foreigner!) over and over and over again every time I step outside. It drives me batshit that I can’t walk two steps from my bike or hotel or office without four tuk tuk drivers from all sides of the street yelling to me, “Tuk Tuk Madam? Where you from? Where you go? You want tuk tuk tomorrow?” It’s annoying that it takes 25 sweaty minutes and five people to help me add air to my bicycle tire.

I’m mad that everyone is always smiling at me, and also staring, and also asking me questions. Or else they laugh while they blatantly look me over. It drives me nuts that they are probably laughing at something about me and whatever ridiculous situation I’m currently in. I’m frustrated that today I couldn’t find a way to successfully explain to my English students what “getting used to (it)” means. No, I’m NOT getting used to living without my husband, where today it was “103ºF but feels like 114ºF, and my phone shut down from the heat, and where I haven’t learned the language so I never ever really know what’s happening around me.

But, of course, these are all things I loved yesterday.

These are the same things that make living in Cambodia delicious and dear and charming and weird. I had crabby days in NYC too, even on the weekends. When my father was alive, and he caught me with the deeply furrowed brow that always gives away my mood, he would say, “What do you like, Dumpling? I dare you to name three things.” I would try so hard to hang onto the furrowed brow, and finally would have to give up and laugh because it was so ridiculous that I couldn’t name a single thing.

I’m a little sad and lonely. I’m a lot overheated. I’d love to have a beer and a geeky chat with John or a best friend. I’ll settle for a nice sleep in my air-conditioned hotel room. It's a bummer that I would drop this post when there are so many I’ve written (and not published) in praise of this all. But this is where I’m at today, and it’s not Cambodia’s fault. Tomorrow will probably be better.

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