The stairs didn’t appear to be steep until I was halfway up them, carefully maneuvering my size 9 sandals on the narrow slanted stone. I stopped. Bad move. I looked down and realized how far up I had come. I looked up and realized how far I still had to go. Was it really important to see Angkor Wat from the highest point of the temple? I stood there and contemplated. I watched my colleagues continue up. Having never experienced a fear of heights before, this was a new sensation. I imagined slipping on the narrow steps, tumbling down, my skirt billowing as my legs tangled. One of my colleagues sure-footedly stepped past me. “Come on, Lor. You’re almost at the top. There are steps with a rail on the other side that you can go down.”

I persevered another 20 frighteningly narrow steps. I made it to the top. My head reeled as I looked down at what I had just come up. I then looked out over the splendor of Angkor Wat. Courtyards and hallways and green expanses, dotted by lone palms. Serenity washed over me. I was at the top of the temple that is still resplendent after hundreds of years of neglect, wars, and decay.

Oh yes. I remember these days well from hi-tech. The long hours, the exhaustion, the feeling that we can squeeze just one more meeting into an already packed day. The majority of my time in Siem Reap has been walking from my room to the conference room and back. I’m looking forward to a half day at the temples tomorrow.

The first two channels are Khmer Karaoke. This provides never ending bursts of entertainment the few moments I am in my room.

My room has rules posted on the back of the door. A few of my favorites:

Firearms, explosive and poison are bidden in the Hotel rooms. The must be registered and put under care of Hotel. (Because if I’m the type of person to carry firearms, explosives, and poison, I’m probably the type of person that follows regulations.)

Cooking and objects of fruits emitting foul odour are not allowed in the rooms. (Maybe that’s the reason for the continuous bubble gum smell? No foul odours?)

For Security reasons, guest are not allowed to employ outsiders or Hotel staff for personal needs. (Hmmm….)

If you have outside person in your room overnight or for short time, Hotel charge US$20 extra. (Okay, if you do bring hotel staff to your room, they at least want to profit off of it…)

They pump bubble gum scented air freshener into the hallways here. I think it’s supposed to make things smell nice. I will never be able to chew bubble gum again without thinking of Cambodia.

At our hotel, every time I turn around there is someone bowing, saying “Good morn-ing” in a sing song manner. Glasses of water are poured, beautifully presented snacks are laid before me, doors are opened, floors are swept. They are working HARD to make sure we are comfortable. It makes me uncomfortable.

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.