Over brunch, the three of us were discussing work holiday parties. She asked, “Where is yours this year?” I heard him say, “The Great American Musical.”

Awesome! Someone had finally taken my idea of living life like a musical and turned it into a party idea. I was intrigued. How would this work?

So I asked him, “How will they do that?”
Him: “What are you talking about?”
Me: “The musical. How will the holiday party imitate a musical?”
Him: “What?!? What are you talking about?”
Me: “Didn’t you say your holiday party was going to be The Great American Musical?”
Him: “No. It’s at the Great American Music Hall. What are you talking about?”
Me (disappointed): “Oh. I thought it was a theme party. You know, the Great American Musical. Everyone would have to sing the main parts. For example, today could be, ‘Oh, what a beautiful morn—-ing! Brunch at Rex’s is ours. Sharing good food and great friend—ship…”
Her (laughing): “Can you sing that again?”
Him: “Please don’t.”

Act I

I deposit my quarters, pour in my soap, and select the button, “colors.” And wait. The water should be streaming out, mixing with the soap, so that I can deposit my dirty clothes into the washer. And, nothing. Okay, maybe “colors” is out of commission. I try “bright colors.” Nothing. “Whites.” Nothing. “Delicates.” Nothing. Damn.

I walk across the street, because I know that the man who owns this laundry also owns the corner store across the street. There are a couple of other men in the corner store, hanging out, watching the ball game on tv.

“Hi! I put my money in the washer, and the water isn’t working.”

“Number 21?”

“No, number 20. I tried all the selections: colors, bright colors, whites, none of them worked.”

“Did you say-ah the prayer?”

I think I’ve heard him ask me if I’ve said a prayer to the washing machine. No. I couldn’t have heard that. That would be silly.

“Did… A… Did you just ask me if I said a prayer?” I stammer.

“Yes. The prayer. To the washing machine.”

Am I really hearing this? I look at the other men. They nod in agreement. The prayer. To the washing machine. Of course.

“Um. No, I didn’t. I mean, I’ve said prayers. Even today. Well, maybe. I opened and shut it several times, hoping it would work. Is that maybe the prayer?”

“No-ah. Go and say-a the prayer. The washing machine work then.”

I stand there, perplexed. Am I really having this conversation? Obviously I am. I go back across the street and say a couple of prayers for machine 20. It still doesn’t work.

Back in the corner store, I tell the proprietor, “I said the prayers. It still doesn’t work.” At this point, I just want a refund of my two, yes TWO, dollars that I deposited into the machine for the privilege of washing my clothes.

“You said-ah the prayers?”

“Yes. The prayers were said.” I motioned with my hands together, mimicking a bowing, praying stance.

“You slam the lid?”

Is he questioning whether I broke his machine?

“No. I didn’t slam the lid.”

“You need-ah slam the lid.”

“Well. I opened and closed the lid. I tried to make it work.”

Another man in the store, obviously familiar with machine 20, said to me, “No, you need to slam the lid. That’s how the water comes on. Press really hard in the center. That helps, too.”

“I already moved my clothes. Washer 20 isn’t working. I just want a refund. That’s all.”

The proprietor looks peeved. “Two dollars?”

“Yes, two dollars.”

“But the machine has to-ah run.” He motions to one of the guys watching the game. “Go across the street. Machine 20. Slam-ah the lid. Up and down. Hard. Go.”

I wait. Will I get my refund? He thinks for a moment, then nods. “Okay. I give you refund.”

Note to self. Don’t use machine 20 again.

**************************
Act II

I return to the Laundromat, ready to put my clothes in the dryer. Wait a minute. What is this? For some unknown reason, I had a rosebud in the pocket of the jean jacket that I’ve just washed. Rose petals are everywhere, stuck to my somewhat clean clothes, stuck to the metallic walls of the washing machine. Uck.

**************************
Act III

I open the washer with my whites/colors. I’ve washed a magenta t-shirt that obviously was not colorfast. I need to just go back to bed.

As I waited in the lobby, I realized this was a Restaurant. Not any restaurant, but a Restaurant. The low ceilings, dark paneling, and dim lights whispered, “sw–aaaaaank…” I observed the others. Men in gray pinstriped suits at the bar drinking martinis with olives, not twists. Lanky women with hair done just so and meticulously applied bright lipstick. Bartenders in perfectly pressed shirts, black vests, and snappy bow ties. I felt like a little girl watching her mom host a party, wanting to be invited, but sensing I didn’t quite belong. My companion arrived and led me through the posh. In a matter of moments, we were the ones in the corner booth by the fire, laughing heartily over chilled drinks and catching up on news of recent months. We were Patrons at the Restaurant.

…and I don’t want to listen. It’s too early to be hearing Christmas songs on the radio. Instead of making me merry, it makes me sad. Seriously.

Today I was flipping through my Korean cookbooks with a hankering for some good, down home kimchi. Remembering the delicious oi chi from Dong-A, I set out to the farmer’s market to purchase cucumbers to transform into the spicy, pickled side dish I grew so fond of during my time in Korea. Back home, I chopped garlic, onions, and ginger. I pondered what I would substitute for the red pepper powder (more or less the main ingredient). I know what it looks like in Korea, I could have gone across town to the Korean markets to purchase some, but it seemed too much of a hassle. I found a hot red powder (curiously not labeled) in my pantry. I tossed a large portion in and now I wait. In warm weather it takes about 30 hours for oi chi to ferment. In San Francisco? I’m betting at least a few days…

More pictures here…

And I truly don’t know when I’ll be back again. The past three weeks have been an amazing professional experience, in addition to an incredible opportunity to explore a part of the world hence unknown to me. As I finished up meetings in the office and said goodbyes, sadness overcame me. I’ve grown fond of our Cambodian staff and will miss the crazy misinterpretations and long discussions over simple topics. Lia suhn hao-y, Kampuchea. Until next time.

I entered the spa, welcomed by dim lights, bamboo walls, and a gently trickling fountain. I asked for a Thai massage and was whisked into a back room, attended by a woman (?)/girl (?) half my size. She pounded me, she stretched me, she pushed and pulled me for over an hour. At the end she merely stood up and announced, “Finish,” and left the room. I got dressed and returned to the peaceful lobby, my body a walking blob. As a I was paying, I noticed the masseuses were watching a flat screen tv that I had not seen upon my entrance. They were enrapt. I followed their eyes to the screen. World Wrestling Federation. Nice.

We drove past the National Museum, past the Royal Palace. The wide, paved road turned into a narrower asphalt road. That road then turned into a well kept dirt road which turned into a rutty, utterly impassible path that violently jostled us as we neared Choeung Ek, The Killing Fields. A few tuk tuk drivers waited for their passengers in the hot afternoon sun. We approached the ticket booth, a simple wooden structure in which sat a solitary employee. Not quite sure what to expect, we entered the makeshift gate, walking towards the Choeung Ek Memorial. We placed our shoes on the rack provided and I took off my hat, as was requested by the signage. We lit incense sticks to pray for those who suffered under the regime of Pol Pot. As I knelt, I realized the tower before me housed shelves and shelves of skulls disinterred from the mass graves which once surrounded us. I thought of all the Cambodians I currently work with and all those I don’t, I won’t. I realized tears were streaming down my face and I closed my eyes. How was Pol Pot able to convince children to kill their parents, neighbors to turn against one another? As it was happening, did the world view it as barbaric as we judge it in hindsight? Did we know a genocide was occurring? I think about the atrocities that are presently taking place. Will future generations wonder the same about us?