Always one to wait until the last minute to pack, this trip was no exception. Super Shuttle was due to pick me up between 10:20 – 10:35 pm. At 10:00 the phone rang.
“Super Shuttle. I’m here.”
“But, I thought you were coming at 10:30. I’m not ready.”
“Oh. Dispatch told me to pick you up at 10:15.”
“But it’s only 10:00. Okay. I need a few more minutes. Is that okay? I’ll hurry.”

I looked around my apartment. My bed was strewn with piles: things to pack in my suitcase and things to carry on. I threw items where they belonged, watered the plants, hoped they would survive for 3 weeks, grabbed a wrap, and left. One the ride to the airport I remembered those things I forgot: the manual for my new, yet unused camera (hopefully it’s intuitive), Immodium (hopefully I won’t get sick), a raincoat (hopefully the term “rainy season” is relative).

At the gate, I had the feeling I’ve had so many other times in my life – being the one that doesn’t look like the others. EVA Air, which for some odd reason I had assumed was a Hungarian airline, was actually a Taiwanese airline and I was one of the very few on the plane not Taiwanese. I settled into my aisle seat, ready for the 12+ hour flight to Taipei. I slept, grateful that loud children and tight spaces don’t prevent me from slumbering. I woke up only briefly to eat rice or ramen, drink tea, and observe my rowmates pilfer the cutlery (it was stainless steel) and serving pieces (sturdy plastic, trimmed in a lovely green).

In Taipei I realized I didn’t have a boarding pass for either of my next two flights which perplexed both me (supposedly my bag had been checked through to Siem Reap, why hadn’t I?) and the security guard. I cursed myself for not knowing basic Chinese. The security guard pointed me to one counter, whose agent pointed me to another, who then directed me to another terminal. The feelings of openness and trust I cultivated while living in Korea, borne of not knowing your surroundings, returned. I walked slowly, taking in the many Taiwanese advertisements and numerous luxury items in the sterile duty-free stores, already open at 5 am. I arrived at my gate with over an hour to spare before boarding. I booted my computer, using the time to study my “Talk Now! Khmer!” CDs – playing language games where, when you get an answer incorrect, a Danish looking woman shrieks (in an obviously dubbed voice) “Tee!” (no!). That may be the only word I remember.

Once on-board (now on Vietnamese Air, en route to Ho Chi Minh) I read the in-flight magazine, perplexed by the article on Hip Hop in Vietnam that mentioned “sketching with multi-colored spray paint first appeared in the 1960’s.” Huh? Oh, graffiti.

In Ho Chi Minh I boarded China Air, finally on my way to Siem Reap. I played with my camera, trying to figure out what the different dials and buttons mean. The manual definitely would have been useful. The pilot announced our descent into Siem Reap. I looked out the window at the enlarging rice paddies and greenness, spotted with rare structures with red tile roofs. I felt the excitement of not knowing what to expect.

At the airport I completed the visa application paperwork, stood in line, and presented my papers and passport to the very official looking, in military uniform, agent. He grunted and pointed me out of the line (I was in the red cordoned off area) to another agent at the end of the counter. I walked to him, handed him my papers and he pointed me back to the area from which I had just come. I watched as my passport and application got handed to one agent after the next, ten in total, each one looking at it, then passing it to the next. The last to look at it placed a sticker in it, held it up high and yelled, “Lee-Sa!” Close enough. I paid my twenty dollars, he gave me my passport, and I went to find my bag. Which, true to the agent’s claims, had been checked all the way to Siem Reap.

This always happens. Always. And each time, I try to prepare for it, but somehow I outsmart myself.

I’m packing for an international trip (last minute) and I make a mental note to put my passport in my purse. I go to look for my passport. I can’t find my passport. I panic.

Last time (pre-Argentina) it was filed under “I” in my filing cabinet. For “ID.” Remembering that, I looked under “I.” It wasn’t there. How about “P” for passport? Nope. I looked in the top drawer of my desk, where I once thought, “That would be a good spot for my passport.” Not there. Or in any other drawers in my house. Or under my bed. Or in the medicine cabinet.

After 45 minutes of panic, I found it. It was with my Argentina souvenirs. I guess I thought if I remembered the last place I went, I would never forget where my passport was. I need a new strategy.

My flight leaves in exactly 24 hours. I will be in Cambodia for work for the next month.

Things I have done:
Gotten immunization shots
Bought skirts and tops that are modest and wrinkle free
Attempted to stop mail delivery at the post office (though the clerk informed me that it would be more convenient for them if I just gave my mail key to a neighbor and asked them to collect it)
Eaten Godiva chocolates

Things I have not done:
Packed
Bought ridiculously strong DEET bug repellent (needed because I refuse to take malaria medicine)
Prepared the material for the conference sessions I’m presenting (the flight is 17 hours, I’ve got to have something to do)
Arranged for a shuttle to take me to the airport

I realize it’s an irrational fear. But needles scare the beejeezus out of me.

This afternoon found me in the Department of Public Health adult immunization department. I completed the requisite paperwork and began to read a lone New Yorker. The nurse called my name and began telling me the shots highly recommended, but not required, for Cambodia. She must have noticed the skeptical look on my face, because she immediately launched into all the horrible, very bad, ridiculously terrible things that could happen if I contracted one of the many diseases that await tourists in Cambodia.

I agreed to 3 shots. Typhoid, tetanus, and hepatitis A. She put the first shot (“This won’t hurt a bit”) into my right arm. I started breathing shallowly and tears began squeezing from my eyes. (“Are you okay?”) I nodded and continued to try to breathe. She moved to the left arm. The pain seared through my arm, I screamed, then began crying hysterically. (“Breathe slowly now, dear. That’s it.”) And as I took a deep breath, she plunged the third needle into my left arm. I tried to tell myself that it was over, I was fine, but somehow only uncontrollable sobs escaped me.

The setup at the Department of Public Health is open, not so private cubicles. Another nurse came round the cube (“What’s going on here?”) (“She’s fine. She’s just scared of shots.”) I tried to slow the tears, tried to breathe deep, but it wouldn’t happen. They presented me with a carton of non-juice orange drink substitute, a box with a bendy straw in it. I slurped. And slurped, and slurped, until I realized I needed to swallow. Still sobbing, I choked down the sweet syrup. Many minutes later, I began to stand. (“Oh, no. Stay right there. I don’t think you’re ready to go yet.”)

Sometimes you realize there are things you just have to do. I realized at that moment that I had to completely stop crying and act as though I enjoyed the torture I had just been subjected to, even though I really wanted to crumple into a ball on the floor and whimper. I smiled and began small talk. “How long have you been doing this?” “Have you ever traveled to Cambodia?” “What’s the worst disease you’ve seen come through here?” After several such questions I thanked her and stood up. (“See, she’s fine…”) And I walked my fine self out of the clinic, three shots closer to Cambodia.

The driver hustled us onto the bus. “Step up! Step up!,” he bellowed. The three of us sat our stilettos down all in a row, fishing in our purses for the required $1.50 each. Emily, sitting in the middle, got up to pay for all of us. As she did, what could only be described as a crazy man boarded. He sat down smack in the middle of me and Tricia, even though there were a bizillion empty seats on the bus. Tricia, not a frequent rider of MUNI and having not encountered many crazy people in her life, spoke to him. “Excuse me, excuse me, sir.” He looked at her. “That seat is taken. Our friend is sitting there.” He immediately jumped up. “Whoa! I sat on your friend?!?!”

He moved across from us. Emily returned to her seat and began texting a message, head down, concentrating intently.

He pointed at me, then at Emily. “Hey! You must be roommates. She got her boots, then you got all jealous and had to go out and buy you a pair. Yeah! She must be a teacher, ’cause she’s a teachin’ you how to wear some boots!”

Emily continued texting; I tried not to snicker. It was funny. I turned my head towards the back of the bus to avoid eye contact.

Tricia, not familiar with the rules of avoiding crazies, caught his eye. “Hey! Does she have a sister named Barb?” I was sending my strongest mental telepathy to Tricia — Don’t talk to the crazies… Don’t talk to the crazies…. The message must have bounced off Emily, who was still texting. “No, she only has brothers.” The crazy man thought for a moment, “Well, does she have a brother that looks like Barb?”

“We really don’t need to leave until 5:45 if we have to be there by 6:30. Seriously.”
pause
“Okay, but I don’t think it will take us that long to get there. Especially that early in the morning.”
pause
“All right. I’ll see you at 5:00.”

He picked me up at 5:00. He had a coffee. I looked around the car. Where was my cup? We arrived at the docks at 5:38. I knew it wouldn’t take us that long to get there. The boat didn’t set sail until 7:00 am. I knew at that point we could never travel together.

**********************
It was a rough ride out to the Farralon Islands. One woman in particular had a rough time with it. For almost the entire day she was leaning over the edge of the boat, throwing up into the turbulent waters below. One of the deckhands, a young, sturdy woman named Andrea, chided her, “Honey. Don’t throw up into the wind. You’ll get it all over you. Go to the other side of the boat.” As she lead the sick one away, she rolled her eyes. “How long have you been doing this?” I asked her. “Too long. Too long…”

***********************
Andrea came around, collecting money for the “jackpot.” Biggest fish, winner take all. I was cranky. I had had no coffee, I had had to stand on the dock for over an hour waiting to board the boat, and I was questioning my judgment for agreeing to go deep sea fishing on a first date. “Nope – not interested,” I responded. Which surprised me. I’ve never refused a bet before. Whatever. I’d never been fishing before, there was no way I’d win a silly pool.

***********************
“Could you give me some help over here? I think my line is caught on someone else’s…” The captain came over, and helped me navigate along the side of the boat. Under some people’s lines, over others. He finally turned to me. “I think you’ve got a live one. Start reeling it in.” I did. And did. And did. I braced myself against the edge of the boat and cranked as hard as I could, the line getting tauter and tauter. I watched as a huge fish splashed this way and that, not willing to be pulled out of the water. The captain helped me reel it in; it was by far the biggest catch of the day.

***********************
The rest of the afternoon I kept hoping someone else would catch a bigger fish, so that I wouldn’t have won, but not won, the pool. No one did. Everyone was amazed that I, the only woman not sea sick, caught the biggest fish. I was bummed I hadn’t paid the $5 to enter the pool. Hindsight….

Narrow aisles prevail at Mollie Stone’s. I nudged past an older woman perusing the pinots. I selected my pretzels, then excused myself again as I blocked her view, walking towards the dairy. I remembered I also wanted cookies, turned around, and slid past her once again. “God!” she exclaimed. “Who thought it was a good idea to put the two most shopped items on the same aisle – wine and cookies?”

He approached me earnestly as I stood in line at Pearl’s, waiting to see Giacomo Gates, billed as the vocalese of beebop.

“Rosalinda?”

I smiled. Now there’s a name you don’t hear very often. Rosalinda. I could be what I picture a Rosalinda to be. I have long dark hair and deep brown eyes.

Considering I was with my parents on their last night in town, I decided not to assume another identity. “No,” I said.

“Oh,” he stumbled. “You look like her.”

“No worries,” I offered. And with that he returned to his spot in line a few places in front of us.

Minutes later Rosalinda arrived. This obviously was either a first or blind date. Rosalinda was about 8 inches shorter than me, blue eyes, and long blond hair. But to his credit, we both were female.

While planning our staff offsite and searching the internet for fun, inexpensive team building activities and games, I found this gem:

“The game ends when no one will play anymore.”

Stating the obvious?

So Bryan and Maggie have lent me their car while they are places not here. And it has been exciting. It has been liberating. It has been the epitome of freedom – go whenever, wherever. And this morning, it was sad. As soon as I began to unlock the door, I sensed something was wrong. What was it? All appeared to be the same. Except. Except. One minor detail. There on the driver’s seat was a sticker that read “rear.” Rear? Rear of what? I was soon to learn it was the rear of the car stereo that had been liberated from the lovely red Jeep it had called home.

Truthfully, the only way I knew the car had been broken into was that there was no stereo where there once had been. The inside was very clean. Papers had been rifled through, then put back in place. No windows had been broken to enter the car. The stereo was taken out in a very considerate manner. No wires were ripped, no dashboard defaced. And they even locked the doors after they stole the stereo.

Hardened criminal meets Miss Manners. A match made in heaven.