It's so strange to come home to such awarm winter. The weather today was mild and beautiful. I feel likeGod is on my side in saying 'eff the Super Bowl!' just because theair makes you itch to be outside. But somehow at the same time it'sthe tiniest bit tragic. It's hard to ignore that every ray of sunwarming the face is also melting just one more inch of an iceberg. Iknow it's beautiful weather but somehow it's a little painful becauseit feels so wrong, so unnatural. We are gloriously warmed by the firethat is burning the earth. It reminds me of a great song that's nowone of my fave throwbacks: Sleeping In by Postal Service. It's agreat tune if you don't know it and a verse goes:

And then last night I had that strangedream

Where everything was exactly how it seemed

Where concernsabout the world getting warmer

The people thought they were justbeing rewarded

For treating others as they like to be treated

Forobeying stop signs and curing diseases

For mailing letters withthe address of the sender

Now we can swim any day in November

Anyway, don't mean to be grim. It is quite beautiful out so I'll take what I can get which right now is the door flung open, budding trees and very happy birds. Enjoy theevening and happy Super Bowl, ya'll!

I'm back! Atlanta has opened her arms and welcomed me into herCrisco-scented bosom once again. Hallelujah! It's been quite a journey. Insteadof a 12 hour lay-over I managed to weasel my little butt onto the flight thatwas leaving 3 hours after I turned up in Seoul from Phnom Penh. Not sure what I did rightkarmically for that to work out, but it must have been something big. There, seated between an obese,whiskey guzzling Vietnam War Vet back from a trip to his Baptist orphanages anda narcoleptic Korean girl, I lost all sense of space and time playing way toomany games of Tetris and waiting impatiently for the plane to land. For 14hours. (By the way, if you haven’t seen the movie 50/50, do it! It made melaugh and openly weep on the plane, much to the confusion of the flightattendants.) But when the plane finally ground to a halt at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport,I was once again sucked into a roller-coaster of emotions, a ride I have yet todismount.

The sky was grey when we landed. The buildings were grey. And like visitingyour kindergarten long after you’ve left, the world outside of the portalwindow seemed smaller and less shiny than I had remembered or hoped. I wondered if I’dmade a mistake. I considered asking the pilot to turn right back around. But Ihad no idea what wonders waited for me in the airport. As soon as I deplaned Iwas overcome with sheer joy. Photos of lean-to houses and ripe, fuzzy peachessmiled at me glossily from the walls of the terminal. The portly attendants with gravity defying hairsculptures called me 'bay-bah' and chattered about drinking ‘Co-co-lah.’ The border patrolwas a regiment made solely of sweet Southern boys, with chiseled jaws and gentlequestions, who wished me all the best. And oh the bathrooms! Toilet paper asthick and supple as the world’s biggest cotton ball. Sparkling clean seats toreally and truly sit on. What a brave new world I had landed in! I even drankfrom the faucet just because I could, thankyouverymuch. And how sweet thatlukewarm water tasted.

But then again I plunged. Waiting for my baggage to be pooped out onto the conveyorbelt was perhaps the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I could feel thegrey hairs squeezing their way onto my head and my chances of having a massivestroke skyrocket. The women in my family have many a blessed virtue, patientsis not one of them. I had planned on surprising my parents 12 hours early buthow in the world could I when faceless gremlins were keeping my backpackprisoner for crimes unknown? But finally, like a ray of hope, it sprang fromthe bowels of the airport and trundled its way onto the conveyor belt. Isnatched it up, raced the rest of the way through the labyrinth of customs andsecurity cleanings then popped out into the world and onto the MARTA, Atlanta’smetro system.

It’s comforting to know that some things will never change. For instance,MARTA will always smell like chicken wings and cocoa butter and I wouldn’thave it any other way. I plopped down onto a plastic orange seat, breathed deep the smells of my youth and chattedwith a good ole American businessman about his work in costume jewelry and myadventures around the world. The voice coming out of my mouth sounded detachedand foreign as I talked lightly about living in Mongolia and Cambodia for twoand a half years. The businessman, kind and interested albeit a little confused, had never been abroad before. Of all my fears in coming home, I dread being someone people can’trelate to or sounding too big for my britches. I don’t want to be that guy inthe hostel bar, chain smoking and telling everyone about how rad homestays inAfghanistan were before the Russians invaded or that if you haven’t seen thesunrise from K2 you haven’t actually lived at all. Everyone’s impressed but noone actually likes that guy.

At any rate, after defending myself in the face of a very persistent homelessman, I plodded off the train and into Midtown Atlanta, from jungle to jungle. I was quite the spectacle,brightly colored boots, greasy hair and toting a massive olive backpack, likeAtlas back from his gap year. I even got some amused grins and cheerfulthumbs-up from businessmen on their lunch breaks. And finally, after a totalof 27 hours, I spilled into the door of my Dad’s office, much to his surprise. Iwas home.

It’s been good being back, although it’s been less than a day. I had a heftynap, split two bottles of wine with my elated parents over whole wheat (!!)pasta and smoked salmon then slept like a baby. It had been three days since I’dslept horizontally and for more than four hours in a row. But hometown gloryaside, I know it will be hard. My grandmother just got released from the hospital;the first of what will be a continuous dance as we, her concerned and loving family, followher between nursing homes and hospital beds. My parents are hosting a memorialservice for a dear friend’s father at our house today. My hunt for a good job,which will predictably be exasperating, has officially begun. And somehow, in themidst of all this, I feel like I’m still not here for good. Impulsively, I wasreluctant to unpack my make-up bag, thinking ‘why bother? I’m just going toleave soon anyway.’ Perhaps it’s an old habit. Maybe it’s true. We’ll see.

But I remain optimistic; so far so good. Right now happiness is an avocadoturkey bagel for breakfast while fitting into my old skinny jeans. Andbeing home again.

Hey from Vietnam! It's actually my lastfew hours here in Saigon but I just wanted to check in. Tonight I amtaking the night bus to Phnom Penh and then tomorrow I'm (literally)leaving on the midnight plane to Georgia. How fast it's all gone!Time in Vietnam has been amazing with so many adventures and I'm excited to recount and reflect on everything very soon. I know processing this whole transition is something that will surely take a while; it will be perhaps both rewarding and stressful but I really do look forward to it. So much to say but until then sweaty lovefrom the Cu Chi Tunnels!

So much has happened since I left Harpswell less than ten days ago. So much to report on. I saw the sunrise over Angkor Wat, sailed on the Southeast Asian seas, lost my heart to a Norwegian boy and discovered the beauty of phosphorescent waters- just to name a few things. One thing that I just have to tell you about, however, was my adventure on the motorbike.

I had never ridden a motorbike before. Over the summer I was quite surprised to have survived biking through Beijing. The hostel didn't provide helmets and all I could think of for half the ride was how pissed my parents would be flying across the world to scrape my cranium off the Chinese sidewalk despite being helmet Nazis my entire life. But I figured I could either A. go or B. not go. I've always been a 'why not?' person and took my chances. Miraculously, I made it.

Historically I haven't been the best driver. At 18 I failed my driver's test with flying colors. I got a ticket for a nearly running over a police officer once. I have a hard time driving my mother after that time she politely notified me I was about to commit mass homicide by plowing down a titanic heard of businessmen in a downtown crosswalk. The divers seat pecking order in my family goes like this: Sister, Dad, Mom, Deceased Family Dog, Me. And after being lucky enough to have such a wonderful man in my life as Somnanag, my tuk tuk driver, being out of practice behind the wheel is something of an understatement.

But on a moto the driving stakes were higher. I had to learn and perfect an honest-to-God, no-protection, wind-in-your-hair motorbike. It was the only way to really explore Kampot, the sweet little riverside town that my friend and I were in, so I sent a little prayer to my battered helmet and trepidly saddled up onto my red and white puttering steed. After a few starts and stops away we went, over back country roads and between sunburned rice paddies. And Lord, did all God's creatures decide to pour out onto the road just at that moment. Motos ladened with grown men screamed by us while massive SUV's kicked up dirt and sand as they sped down the lanes. Even a horse cart carrying an entire family halted past, the wizened matriarch smiled at us with her jack-o-lantern grin. It was a struggle at first, I just couldn't find that illusive spot between glacier-melting and bat-out-of-hell. If my speedometer had worked I'm sure it would have looked liked a conductor waving his baton after downing a hefty speedball. But soon my dire urge to strap on an adult diaper faded and I found myself in the zen of motorbiking. The wind rushed by me and I even mastered a one-handed wave as we zipped by small children hollering at us from their play in the rice fields. My thoughts freed themselves to churn around peacefully in my mind and the muscles in my throttle hand memorized the motions. I even started to love the freedom of it. Everything was hunky dory- until we reached the village. We pulled into a small pagoda village guessing it was the one that touted a centuries-old temple tucked away in some caves. But we weren't the only ones there. A massive welcoming committee of village youngsters were poised to greet incoming foreigners. One tiny girl with a massive bicycle decided that it would be a great idea to bike next to me and drill me with questions. She peddled closer and closer to my moto and kept trying to ply me with inquiries. Not knowing where I was going, unsteady on the bike and horrified that I'd somehow end up with child pate on my wheels, I panicked. Somehow the ground came up at me so fast and the gravel inserts itself into my skin so quickly that I'm convinced that there was nothing between vertical and horizontal. The next thing I knew was the spinning of the moto's back wheel and the stinging dust in my eyes. The little girl was nowhere to been seen (I'm assuming she hightailed it) but I attracted the attention of a fair number of her cohort munchkins and curious monks. A kind traveler reached out of her tuk tuk to give me a wet wipe so I could tend to my scraped palms and knees. Something about the body shock or the breaths that I missed made the caves a less than spectacular sight. I dreaded getting back onto the bike, espeically with pained and bloody hands. But with grit I clinched my teeth and remounted for the trip back to our hostel. I tensed my entire body as I entreated my dirty fingers to close themselves around the throttle; I revved the engine again. And somehow, balancing between the tropical flowers and rice paddies, I managed to survive another bike ride.

I officially have a new life plan. All previous goals and dreams have vanished at the feet of being...A BABY SLOTH BATHER! How does one get that job exactly? For real I'm going to figure this out. Watch this video and tell me you won't be my competition for this job. Seriously.

In other news, big love from Siem Reap! I'm done with work in Phnom Penh and am now traveling a bit before jetting off to the USofA on February 1st. Sunrise at Angor was amazing! More updates later.

Having seen a good chunk of the world (though by no means all of it) I've noticed a few things. And over time I have developed a set of rules to live by, things to remember. Not really pep talk-y stuff but just things I believe, deep down, to be true. Only recently did I realize this and I wanted to share some of them. They are:Laughter sounds the same in every language.All God's children got problems.Others treat you based on how you demand to be treated.People are infinitely more complicated than we realize.There will always be someone bigger, badder or better.Really, everyone just wants to be loved.Give back.Being unabashedly friendly is the best way to go about life.Pictures of baby pandas is the real great equalizer.Do you have life rules? Anything you believe to be true and always true? I'd love to hear other peoples thoughts and ideas so please share!

I spend a lot of time in Phnom Penh en route. The dorm isn't particularly close to much of interest so I end up spending some quality time in the tuk tuk every day. I don't mind; it's actually fun. I hang my hair off the back of the seat to fly in the sun, relax and listen to Coffee Beak French when I'm feeling productive. But mostly I just look around. Traveling in the open air enables you to really get into the street scenes and be a part of the world around you. I've been in a car twice since getting here and it felt so stifling. It was like a dulling of the senses, being insulated from the smells and sounds of the streets. One of the most interesting things about the street life in Phnom Penh is that little market stalls are everywhere. Not just situated plumply on the sidewalk, but actually in the traffic itself. Vendors have come up with some remarkable ways to ply their wears while still in motion. The perpetual motion of vendors gets a little frustrating because you never know when anything is available and a craving for noodles could become quite a mission. But it really appeals to my love of markets and motion, espeically now at such a dynamic point. There's something in transit that appeals to me, the moving of people, things and money and the mobile market stalls of Phnom Penh take this to a new level. So I tried to take a few photos of the merchants and their contraptions of commerce. It was quite a challenge, as all the photographing had to be done from a moving vehicle. For every picture here there are 100 more amazing and absurd wheeled stalls and stores but these are the ones I managed to snag. I hope these are interesting!

This is my first post in a long time. Sorry about that. I suppose sometimes these pauses linger for some reason or another- speechlessness, uncertainty, schedule. Then I become saddened by my lack of enthusiasm and embarrassed at having let you down, not being the faithful writer that I want to be and I feel you might want me to be, too. But I'm breaking the silence.

So much has happened since I last wrote. I've reached a turning point and have decided to move back to America. I hope I'm not too easily put off of development work; I only submitted one application to further a potential NGO career in impoverished countries. But I'm tired. I'm 24; I shouldn't be tired. But I am. There's a long list of reasons why I feel the deep and urgent need to return home, home to the sticky summers that birthed me. It wouldn't be best to laundry list them here; needing to go is enough. However, I do hope that by running back into the arms of loyal and constant friends and family, I am not running away from unknown others who need help. Somehow, despite misgivings, this feels right. I don't think I could do another term of service in a foreign land right now. Perhaps later.

I know it will be difficult to become stationary, though now I lust after it. A work that has always resonated with me in my travels is Alfred Lord Tennyson's 'Ulysses,' a poetic riff on hoary Homer's tale. It has buoyed me through journeys far and wide and speaks eloquently to the experience of the wanderer. I've taken the liberty of extracting a few bits that really strike me now. I would recommend reading the whole thing; it is beautiful. But here let Tennyson speak to what I loathe to leave: I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed

Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when

Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vexed the dim sea...Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honoured of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers.In the Odyssey, Odyssus returns again to his home in Ithaca, joining his abandoned wife and son. Though he has seen much and been tempest-tossed to the ends of the earth, the protagonist returns home. I'm not so grand as to assume myself a hero of yore; I harbor no such delusions of greatness. But something about the story Odysseus, and the universal commonality of journeys, beckons me to yield to my instincts. Like the pulling of the tides, the sojourner must end up where he started.

Though I grow anxious dwelling on what I will find (or might not find) in America, my friends tell me it will be a new adventure. And I want so badly to believe them. So with that I will leave you with Tennyson's closing lines:

Though much is taken, much abides; and though

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

I hope it will be so.

PS I will certainly continue posting; there is still so much to say and I'm not leaving yet. I just wanted to give you an update. Stay tuned for pictures from Christmas/New Years in Paris and more Cambodia stuff!

I stumbled upon a phenomena today. I think this experience is one that is relatively universal but today it was nonetheless pungent when it occurred. Waiting for the cashier to return from lunch, I decided to take a stroll around the grounds of the private school where I substitute teach. It was a lovely day, a soft breeze tossed the tops of the palms and the sunshine was warm and buttery. Walking along the path I decided to take a detour into the school's kitchen garden; I have been admiring it from afar for a while now. A couple of Cambodian workers in wide brimmed hats were bowed over the plants, tending to the greens as carefully as if they were teaching the children playing a few yards away. I walked along the rows of bok choy, lettuce and eggplant, savoring the respite of the greenery after dweling in Phnom Penh's concrete for so long. Then a breeze slid gently my way and the scent of the whole garden braided itself around me. It came upon me in the middle of the garden and was an exact echo of my grandparent's garden back home. During frequent visits to my grandparents house, I grew up examining gnarled heirloom tomatoes and eating blackberries off the prickly vine on the narrow dirt alleys between towering corn stalks. The garden was as defining as our family tree, it held the family together over the dinner table and we watched it grow together. But alas that garden is gone. Pa died two years ago, Memaw moved to a nursing home and we sold the house. Until now I hadn't thought about that path of earth. How vacant it must be now. For so many years it birthed abundance, showered its bounty upon our whole family under Pa's watchful eye. Without Pa standing sentential, clad in a plaid shirt with his sling shot in one hand and trowel in the other, willing the vines to curl around each other and lower down glorious green beans, surely nothing will ever grow there again.

It's funny how smells do that- take you to a different world. Only the elated squeals of the children and the hum of the nearby highway anchored me to Asia. Every other fiber of my body had left and gone to Marietta, Georgia. The exact smell defies description; it is such a layering of things. First there is richness of wet soil, then the scent of fresh green things, growing things. And the honey of flowers woven though it is accompanied by the promising waft of fruits already ripe and round. It smells like a garden, for sure. But it has the sweetness of promise and the grit of growth in it. These things have smells, too, and they are unforgettable.

But after a moment, the breeze was gone. It's stillness left nothing in my nose but much in my memory.

Watch this and don't cry. I dare you. It is time. Long past time.

I hope everyone had a lovely Thanksgiving! It is without doubt one of my hands down favorite holidays- and not just because my Sister and I get away with drinking White Russians and making pies together before noon. That is certainly a perk though. I just get so on board with the whole gratitude thing. It's just so refreshing, espeically after seeing such extreme dichotomies in socioeconomic statuses and how rarely that correlates with thankfulness. Also, the food is awesome. There is so much fuss made over Christmas that it's nice to have a more low-key option to see friends and family on a festive occasion. At any rate, below are a few T-Give items I thought I'd share.

First a really quick but totally worthwhile article called Gratitude as a Business Strategy. The content is pretty self explanatory based on the title but the author hits on some really excellent and well taken points about gratitude's place in life in general, not to mention the world of 9-5. Read it!

Below is our super sweet Thanksgiving set up. I was convinced it would be a bunch of dirty 20-something expats sitting around in cigarette ash and talking politics, which is how things went in college. Instead it was at a very classy venue with wine pouring servers, 2 catered turkeys and all the trimmings, even though no one is quite sure which black market the cranberry sauce emerged off of. That stuff was in no store to be found across the whole city. It was a lovely evening of making new friends as we chatted about The Great Gatsby and the Kardashians, enjoyed a rainbow of pot luck sides and savored the balm of the night air for many hours. I truly felt thankful that wherever I may end up, there is always room for me at someones warm and welcoming Thanksgiving table. That thought plucks me with courage and humbles me with thanks. Sorry the pics are a little fuzzy! Wish you were here!

The whole group! There were 22 of us from about 8 countries.My little table up close

A little pie...A little vino...Me! Post-feast chubby cheeks and emerging from good eats.

It's Thanksgiving! Yayyy! Or at least I think it will be soon in some corners of the world. I hope you all have lovely plans. I plan to chill out by the pool during the day then make dulce de leche served with spiced apples and accompanied by (store bought!) chiffon cake. I know it's not the most Thanksgiving-y of offerings to my lovely friends hosting a 20+ person bonanza tomorrow night. But there's no available oven, all the veggies are spoken for and we're catering the turkey. So it will be my homage to America's ethnic cultures otherwise unrepresented on Turkey Day. That sounds like a good excuse, right?

Apropos of the holiday I've been thinking about the idea of giving thanks. It's been a stretch, as the weather is beautifully warm and I wager there's not a crisp leaf within miles of this city. However, doing a little meditation on the topic isn't as difficult as it would seem, even without the seasonal reminders. Cambodians are so wonderful about saying thank you that it's hard to ignore.

When I taught twice a week at A New Day Cambodia students went nowhere when class was over if they didn't give thanks first. At the first sound of my bare feet padding into the classroom they'd all stand att attention and clasp their hands in front of them. I'd walk to the front of the class and they'd harmonize a good morning greeting. I'd smile and tell them to sit down. And at the end of the lesson they'd once again pull themselves to their little feet then give a chorus of thanks for the class. It felt kind of like having Happy Birthday sung at you. I just stood there, flattered and pleased, with a goofy grin. Even though their words were a drone and it was more mechanized than human, it was a sweet gesture and a good lesson for children. One that American schools might do well to replicate.

Living at Harpswell I receive thanks in a different form. The girls delight in presenting me with little gifts from time to time. Most typically it's a piece of fruit timidly cupped in outstretched hands and paired with a shy smile. Once I woke up from a nap to find a warm baguette steaming on my desk. Though their gestures are sweet I don't know if I'll ever get use to it. These girls come from extraordinarily impoverished families, often with many members subsisting on one miniscule income. They get very little allowance and the fact that they wish to use their disposable pittance on me is a little overwhelming though very flattering. Although it does get a little sticky when a student proudly offers to split her fried frogs with me. But now I know that fried frogs are not that bad! Although I've had to say no to further frog sharing. I do wonder though if my efforts here equal the volume of their collective and consistent gratitude. I hope so.

Life here been been a humbling reminder to say 'thank you' more often. Not just in the context of a family gathering or a decadent feast, but in small ways every day. I always prided myself, a good Southern girl, on my prolific thank yous and great gratitude. But after my Cambodian encounters I am thankful to have such sweet reminders to give thanks more often.

There has been a very interesting campaign from an organization called ChildSafe here in Cambodia. They launched a series of posters in an effort to educate people about the detriments of orphanage volunteering and the above photo is their campaign 's main image. I find it rather disturbing and thought-provoking. In the print version it reads 'Children Are Not Tourist Attractions.' And while dabbling in some orphanage volunteering with a friend was a tentative plan of mine earlier, I am singing quite a different song now.

It really does seem like a good idea, doesn't it? Expose children who have very few options to new ideas, fun activities and diverse people. Do your part to help out in a developing country when you've otherwise come to chill, party and enjoy the quasi-criminal exchange rate. Peer into how the other half lives and take some darling photos. Sounds good to me!

However, this parachuting into the developing world does have a rather dark underbelly. I already feel horrible about leaving my girls at Harpswell. We talked recently about the fact that I am leaving in January and some of them got very visibly distraught. In working with them I feel like I'm only beginning to be helpful. And as for understanding Cambodian culture and really figuring out how to be the most effective mentor I can be, that has barely even started. Even though two years was quite a lengthy tenure to live in Mongolia, I have come to believe that anything less is just silly. You need to really build relationships and earn trust. You can't do that in 5 months, much less 1 week.

Children are also extremely impressionable. One of the first questions the kids at A New Day and the young women at Harpswell asked me is 'when are you leaving?' They needed to know how long this contractual little friendship would last and after years of being loved and left by others they've wised up. I think the youngsters I work with are relatively well-adjusted which is great. But the manager constantly has to turn down offers from well-meaning Westerners who want to pop round for a few days to play with the kids. It's just not emotionally healthy for them. I'm worried that even my short tenure here might make them confused.

My views on all this is that if you want to help out in the developing world then do something like work at a food pantry or lend a hand on a Habitat build. Find something that does not toy with the dependency issues that children in orphanages already have. Also, choose something that does not encourage parents to give their kids away for money or orphanage owners to grow fat on foreign aid. These places often have no accountability and sadly the kids rarely see the gifts showered upon their housing project by backpackers as they are often absorbed into the pockets of the director. And you wouldn't walk into an orphanage or foster home in America. Why assume that it is any more ok here? Just because our money goes farther? Because we can behave with anonymity and act outside of the norm in a foreign place? Whatever the reason it seems awfully exploitative even though it's not meant to be. Tragically kind hearts can turn cruel even though they are filled with so much love.

I hope I'm not soap-boxing. These are just all very new thoughts for me and I thought I'd share them. Moreover, in light of this, I feel so lucky to have found reputable, safe places to work. My time here has certainly showed me how complex helping can be and how messy it can get when so many good intentions tangle themselves up in each other. Very good lessons to learn.

Against my better judgement I went to Bangkok last weekend. I was in dire need of a break and the weekend away was a tonic for my stress-addled soul. The floods made my decision to go a little complicated. I was torn. Not going meant that would there would be more resources for the people there who truly need them (not to mention flood-borne illness and crocodiles allegedly on the loose). But then again if I went it would support the local economy the tiniest bit and my friends had an awesome and free crash pad. So I womaned up, made a choice and 5 hours before the flight I found myself booking a ticket while frantically packing my bag. And it turned out that despite the presence of sandbags in every threshold, central Bangkok was totally fine. I was a little disappointed there weren't any crocodiles to wrestle but there was a healthy amount of pad thai eating, silk browsing and poolside chilling (that did feel a little soulless). Below are a few pics I snagged of our little holiday.

And- what would you have done? Would you have gone to a flooded city or stayed home? I still don't know if going was the right thing.

Flying high!En route.My first Thai street food adventure.A street bar.The city by night on our first day.Getting my banana crepe on.Meat on a stick! It's everywhere.Cityscape twilight.Drinks over the Mekong.Bright lights, big city.Lots of drinking water at the alter.At an art museum!Very telling...We saw a mime show!

A cool street we found.Good eats.Good moooorning, Bangkok.In the truly plush apartment we stayed at.Floods from the sky.Chalk panda says come back soon. Yes please!

I haven't forgotten about you! Things have been rather hectic around these parts which I know is no excuse 'cause all God's children are busy but that's all I got. I've also been rather pensive of late. This transition between the inexplicable solitude of Mongolia and the living situation that I now find myself in (one in which the only time I am alone waking or sleeping is in the coffee shop bathroom) has begun to jar as the months grow longer. I suppose the grass is always greener but in recognition of that here is a lovely little quote I lifted from my brilliant cousin's blog about the lonely side of life:

Creativity is one way people free themselves from the limitations of conditioned responses. It is a means by which people free themselves also, of ordinary choices. It enlarges the universe by discovering new dimensions. It also enriches people by enabling them to experience these dimensions inwardly…There are some conditions or attitudes under which creative endeavor thrives. One of them is, surprisingly, aloneness, or being able to be alone without being lonely. Other circumstances that seem to promote the creative process are inactivity and daydreaming… In order to be creative, we must put what we have discovered into action.

Having just read Kathryn Sockett's hit novel The Help, I've been thinking a lot about the relationship that exists between the helpers and the helped. The world in the novel is one all but gone with the wind. Ideas of racism and classism are no doubt still alive but in very different ways and much diminished in their present state compared to the openness with which they were celebrated in the past. Admittedly, I was raised with the aid of a single black nanny with children of her own. When I told my Australian friend this her eyes sprang wide with surprise. She had only heard of this actually happening in books or movies. But Dean was a big part of our family, my sister and I loved her like a second mother, we see her on visits home and my parents are still very vested in her well being. However, living abroad is almost like taking a trip into the past. Here there are many distinct echos of the master-servant relationship borne of years of Colonialism that recall much of The Help.

Here in Cambodia you never see a foreigner in a service position and almost always 'foreigner' is synonymous with 'white person'. Rather it is the local staff who bend over backwards to ensure our comfort, even when we don't want it. There is a hyper sensitive sense of service and hierarchy here in Cambodia and I'd venture to say in Asia in general. Conversely, many Westerners, including myself, aren't that comfortable having strangers anticipate our needs and pander to us so obsequiously. For example, the girls at the dorm will jump to serve me rice when I want to eat with them though I'd much much rather use my own legs. When I went shopping this weekend the attendants would snap to attention the minute I walked in the door like marionettes jerked on a string. Without exception they subsequently trailed me around the store, watching my every move; one was so close that I accidentally hit her with my purse as I turned around. To a lesser degree this happened in Mongolia also. Before this made me feel like a teenager in Tiffany's, thinking that the attendants were narrowing their eyes at me assuming that I would steal something. But I think rather it is their version of customer service. At either possibility I am rendered uncomfortable.

On a more personal level I have a man, Somnang, who drives me around in his tuk tuk. I am happy to support the local businessmen and know that he has a young baby. I buy him coffee every day when we stop for my morning fix and we have a genial relationship. When I tried on a dress and was unsure about it, I looked to him waiting outside the store; he gave me a huge, goofy grin and two big thumbs up. But recently he has been very late. It's frustrating because I don't want to play the bossy pants card. I don't want to be a disciplinarian for an unruly employee, pointing out the fact that I pay him handsomely every week and touting our socio-economic differences. But what choice do I have? Be late to everything? I wish it didn't have to be like this. And I wonder what he thinks of me, this young blonde girl slumped luxuriously across the back of his tuk tuk while he, an older family man, carts me hither and yond.

There are, of course, those who take advantage of the foreigner-local relationship. 'Sexpats,' old Western men sharking for young Cambodian women, line the Riverside on Friday nights. Every newspaper includes a story about Westerners who have been caught in compromising sexual situations with local children. In Hong Kong I listened horrified as a friend of my host told me about 'guino power.' His eyes lit up as he described what it was, the power of 'guinos',, or foreigners, to dismiss and override anything that the local people tell them. He even thought it appropriate to wave away a bar tab on the basis that he is white, ignoring the distressed protests of the local staff.

Though I know it is in my grasp, I don't want to abuse my power as a Westerner. It's wrong, pure and simple. But still it is something that must be dealt with, this dance that is the dynamic between the helper and the helped, and I can't chose but pick a side. Perhaps pick isn't the right word, I was born into my half of this relationship. Maybe in a few years time someone will write a novel about Cambodian tuk tuk drivers and maids working for Westerners in their own country. I hope so. It would certainly be another interesting read.

Happy Halloween! A bit belated but I hope everyone had a very safe and festive holiday. Here in Cambodia I threw a little party for my students which was great fun. They carved jack-o-lanterns, bobbed for apples, made masks and took endless amounts of photos. For young women who hadn't ever heard of Halloween before I think it was a darn good time. But now that the glitter has been swept up and the apple barrels washed out, it's time to focus on November. I have high hopes that this new month will bring better, more prolific blogging. To start out, I'm posting some photos of the two months I've spent in Cambodia thus far. Hope you enjoy this little tour in pictures and that it helps you nurse your Halloween hangover blues away!

Sunrise from my dorm.

Some of my kids at A New Day.A torture chamber at the S-21 prison.

The Phnom Penh riverside from a Spanish cafe.The Royal Palace at twilight.

Some of my amazing new friends!At a pagoda with a few of my university girls.The Cambodian countryside.

Lunchtime at the Russian Market.The kiddies outside my dorm.

Nighttime bustle in Phnom Penh.

Real phở near my dorm.

My Sunday morning corner of the world.

A child chilling on my street.

My little buddy who lives across the street.

OKTOBERFEST!Sunset from a downtown rooftop.

Last night the girls had a party. They spent days preparing, hours cooking and forever anticipating the event. There was a huge spread of fragrant curry, sticky noodles and crispy baguette slices to be topped off by mounds of garnishes like Thai basil and beansprouts. They somehow procured speakers and hooked them up to a laptop from whence they blasted the songs of youtube videos far into the night. Many dormitory alumni came back for the affair and all the girls made little speeches about who they are and what they dream to become. The sweetest thing about the evening is that everyone was in such a tizzy applying make-up and outfitting themselves in their smartest dresses. Eye shadow was passed around and necklaces were shared in every room. No one really went anywhere and the only people there were the girls but they all wanted to look their very best for the occasion. Armed with a plate of curry I plopped down next to one of them and told her how cute she looked. She grinned, very pleased with her efforts. Then she said “but we can't wear this outside, it is dangerous. I look too sexy, don't I?” Not quite sure what to say I chirped something noncommittal about her outfit of longish yellow shorts and a big oxford shirt. Our conversation was then cut short by the thumping of the bass and calls to dance. As the music alternated between Khmer favorites and Western pop hits, the moon rose a high and white sliver overhead. The hot jungle air was filled with exhilaration as the girls flailed themselves, occasionally in rhythm, to the beat. Everyone was grinning and no one was sitting down. Their love of dance was palpable and they laughed as they held hands and grooved. I asked one of the girls “do you like to dance?” And obvious assent was followed by a saddening clause. “Yes, but we cannot dance outside.” This is something I already knew but the night's joy made me even sadder than when I considered this fact previously.

In Cambodia there are Good Girls and Bad Girls. There is no in between. The Good Girls study hard, go to sleep early and remain chaste. The Bad Girls wear short skirts, go to night clubs and flirt with hoary, pot-bellied Western men. All the girls in the dorm are keenly aware of this and have chosen the life path of Good Girl. While I think that is awesome, I find it tragic that this means that they'll never know what it is to dance like no one is watching outside their circle of sisters. I'm not saying that going to clubs is important. It's not. I could do with fewer nightclubs frankly. But it's the option that matters. The fact that the public sphere belongs to men with their tendencies to grope, hassle and worse is truly tragic. It is wonderful that these girls have a safe space in which to express themselves but utterly sad that it must exist because outside of it is a dangerous domain where dancing in a short skirt is a clear invitation to rape. In further evidence of this culturalized sexism, the accepted view here is that women wait until marriage to have sex. Men cannot possibly be expected to do this so they openly and freely sleep with hookers in flea-addled guest houses. I wish my girls had the options to decide if they want to be sexually active or not. I wish they did not have to be considered whores if they make the decision to experiment with someone they love. Being able to make mistakes and come back from them is hugely character building but unfortunately mistakes are not something these girls are permitted.

But again we get to the fact that this is their culture and I still struggle as to whether I want to “fix” it or not. Undoubtedly being a Western woman comes with it's own complications; if living this way means that these girls don't have to deal with pregnancy scares or alcohol poisoning then how could I say who is the more liberated? But coming from a culture where we adore pregnant Beyonce singing about being the female version of a hustler, it's hard to not compare when the two worlds are so very different. Last night was wonderful but it was hard to see the beauty of their nighttime joy without considering the harsh light of the choices they will never be allowed to make.

Living this weird and unique life split between being a young expat and a den mother is not always easy. Sometimes it does get frustrating to share a room with more people than I did in college or be so far away from the expat action. On the weekends I propel myself into the city on a quest to make friends and blow off steam that builds up over a week of living at my job. This weekend was no exception. I shared a lovely, three-course French dinner with friends on Friday, hit the gym on Saturday, went out Saturday night and took in a little rugby after doing some shopping today. It often happens that I'm more exhausted ending my weekend than beginning it but it makes me very happy.

Coming back to the dorm after seeing my friends today I felt a familiar jolt that could no other be but culture shock. The problems that exist for the girls who live within these walls are completely different from those of my Western peers. The pace of life is different in the dorm, as are the social expectations and communication styles. As my tuk tuk nears my residence and the smiling security guard swings open the iron gate, I have to change the way I relate to everyone around me. I don't mind. It's fun to be two different people. But the amount that life here varies from life that young Westerners live along the riverside in their air-conditioned apartments is vast.

As this weekends schedule was no exception, neither was my reentry today back into dorm life. I sighed as I hauled myself out of the tuk tuk but as soon as I saw my girls chatting and snacking I was filled with delight. They are such wonderful people. Any time I feel a tinge of envy that all my friends can go to trivia on Wednesday nights and enjoy the all-you-can-consume wine and cheese on Thursdays at the Intercontinental Hotel, all it takes is a sweet smile or silly joke from one of my students for me to be singing a different song, one in which the lyrics are about how lucky I am to have this job.

To get home today I squeezed myself out of a local sports bar bursting at the seams with disgustingly beautiful French men and enthusiastic Kiwis with painted faces. It was a drastic change in scenery when I turned away from the teaming masses of Europeans to face teddy bears and Korean pop music. I was not the happiest of campers to be barreling towards another workweek but the girls all welcomed me back warmly and were buzzing about their weekends. After chatting for a bit, one of the girls pulled me aside into her room, telling me that she needed help. She explained that she had heard about a scholarship to study abroad and wanted to apply. Unfortunately, she needs to take the TOEFL which costs $40, a whopping fee for someone from such a poor family. The US Embassy will give her the money but only if she earns it by writing an essay. We talked about the best way to appeal for the funds then at the end she looked at me with a heavy heart. She said “well, if the American Embassy doesn't give me the money then I'll just ask my parents.” We had talked before about her extraordinarily stretched financial situation. Her parents are rice farmers and her father is gravely ill. All of the meager funds her family manages to glean goes to revive him, a wonderful and loving role-model for his children. I knew they'd never have the money. So carefully I told her that if the Embassy doesn't give her the money then I will. She looked confused. “But, that is your money” she protested. I told her that it was indeed my money and I wanted to use it to help her. I explained that I'm happy to have some money and that I want to share my happiness. All of a sudden her eyes welled up with tears. Her voice wavered thinly as she tried bravely to thank me. I gave her a hug and told her firmly that we are in this together. Then I left to let her get cracking on the appeal letter.

I honestly did not expect her outpouring of emotion upon hearing my offer to fund her test. I suppose I am still naive in that $40 seems like a small chunk of change for me and I assumed that it would be for other people, as well. Who knew that $40 could bring a confident, motivated young woman to her knees in such a way? It is such a negligible amount for me; my friends and I spent close to that on Fridays fabulous French feast. But to her that money means the world and is quite literally her gateway to it. It was a good exercise in perspective. If she gets this scholarship or not is immaterial. The important things are the fact that she knows she can at least try and the way I fell in love with my job all over again.

Confession time. I love Glee. Yep, that's the badger. I am owning my Glee nerd-dom. But I figure I crawl out of the lame hole just a little on the basis of the fact that Western escapism is a bit more allowable when in such a rough place and I was a theater major, after all. So when face-rockingly uncomfortable food poisoning hit on Sunday naturally the only thing to do was to assume the fetal position and plug my nose into the last two episodes of Glee that Sam so kindly taught me how to download. The final song of this season's third episode was one that I've had a love affair with before, "Fix You" by Coldplay. Yes, yes, it's a little emo I know. But still. It's beautiful. And this whole idea of 'fixing' people is one that I feel expands far beyond Mathew Morrison's falsetto and spills into the realm of important development topics.

Working in different countries and with different organizations in this business I wonder, is that what development work is all about? Fixing other people. And before you get all self righteous about respecting the beliefs of others consider something like gender equality. It is an accepted pillar in international development now that women's disenfranchisement costs the worlds billions of dollars every year. The intellectual property loss alone is a fortune many times over. If the problem of female empowerment were 'fixed' so too would many socio-economic issues that much of the world faces today. But in fixing these things we would have to address social and cultural issues that people would rather not decry. This means that someone would have to thrust themselves deep into a foreign culture and tell the people who prescribe to it that they are horribly wrong.

The most striking instance in which I came head-to-head with someone on this matter was a student in Mongolia. I think I have written about this incident before. It happened during an infamous class period in which I discovered my students were shamelessly racist against the Chinese. I got pretty upset about it. What slowed the hot blooded conversation that followed between my precious little racists and I was one girl, arguably the smartest but also the most prejudice, raising her little chin, looking me square in the face and said "Teacher, you can't change us!". Well, that gave me pause. I guess I was trying to change them, to fix them in a way. I wanted to mend up holes in their character I deemed unsightly. Was this wrong of me? Perhaps. I suppose if someone set about to change me in ways I didn't appreciate that would feel pretty wack, too. Then again how can you leave racism unchecked and unchallenged? Conversely, if you were to take the fierce nationalistic pride out of Mongolians then they would be left as such a shell; devoid of proud motherland chest thumping much of what makes Mongolia and her people so special would deflate. Their pride is such a wellspring for so much that they do. Dare I even want to 'fix' them?

This whole idea of fixing comes with it's own ugly implication that someone else knows better. This is an uncomfortable topic to broach at best, especially in the context of other people. Really though my thoughts stop here. The real rub is the idea of fixing, not supremacy or the Western Man's Burden. Though it makes for a truly beautiful song and a sweet, sweet desire, I am still rather confused about the idea of fixing you.

Sorry for the silence; I've been feeling a little funky lately. I had food poisoning and an overly stuffed weekend trying to catch up on everything I missed out on getting done previously. For some inexplicable reason, Phnom Penh does not move me to write like Mongolia did. Maybe it's because I feel much more ordinary. Maybe the tropical humidity has clogged my creative juices. Whatever it is, I hope it passes.

Despite my inability to write, I am really happy here in Cambodia. One thing that has marked my time here over and over again is people. Living in a city, especially compared to rural Mongolia, I am bowled over by how many people are here. They squeeze into every possible living space and spill out onto the pavement, plying their wears and eying their toddlers squatting close to oncoming traffic. I have also been lucky enough to make many amazing friendships here. No Friday night is unfilled or joke responded to. But still I am a little different. I am different from the people who belong here and live cheek-by-jowl in their stilted wooden houses. I am different from my friends who live in nice apartments and enjoy regular hours at their Embassy or UN jobs. Living with 34 Khmer girls and working odd hours, I belong somewhere in between.

Since my week riding solo during the Phcum Ben holiday I have been thinking a lot about a book I read as a child. Working with kids who have Western literature gifted to them from their American and Australian sponsors, I am lucky that many of the books that filled my childhood now rest on a large shelf next to me. This morning I read an age-old favorite One Morning in Maine to a little girl. I hadn't picked it up since I was a child myself. One book that was particularly stunning albeit enigmatic for me years ago was called Only the Cat Saw, about the nighttime wonders that a family's tabby observed when everyone else was sleeping. It ended with a beautiful illustration of a brilliant butterfly at sunrise, something only the little girl, Amy, saw. Balancing my life here I feel strangely not unlike the cat.

Last night I went to a birthday dinner at a North (yes, North) Korean restaurant. Alas, I had to leave just as my friends were ordering since my teaching schedule begins at 8pm. Walking away from the warmth of laughing people and out into the street, I mounted a motorbike and headed home. The streets were abuzz with busy venders, hungry diners, skipping street children and couples strolling arm-in-arm. Single light bulbs hung over food carts and makeshift tables cluttered the sidewalks. The short commute back to the head of the class was lovely and alive. But I had no one to share it with. The people I knew were either finishing up dinner and homework at the dorm or chatting over kimchi and Tiger beers. Only I saw the brilliance of Phnom Phen on that particular night. And that was okay.

In college and life previously I found it difficult when there was no one to share things with. My sister or parents were never far. And my Mom was very diligent about pointing out 'sitters' and 'lifters' at construction sights and on the road to me at a very young age. She would gesture excitedly out the windshield and we would share in the sight. I realize I now do this pointing-out-of-things-I-think-are-cool with friends and dates. I hope it's endearing. At any rate, I am finding it easier to point out the sitters to myself now and simply enjoy whatever spectacle is outside the windshield whether anyone else is around or not. Those moments are special, but in a different way. And I have grown to love them because really there is so much in life that only the cat saw.

Sorry my posts have been short and sweet for the most part this month. I've got some great ideas tucked away but sadly I don't get a weekend to sit down and really write. Today I taught the kids at A New Day (the organization for kids who used to live in the local trash dump) and tomorrow I have to do some things for Harpswell Foundation classes. Yanaa! I'll do my best for more meatier stuff soon. I promise!

At any rate, I want to give a shout out to my Goucher homegirl, Angie. We went to school together and bonded over how absurd our International Scholars Program classes were. Angie ended up in Moscow doing some awesome work and speaking fluent Russian, which is pretty impressive. Check out her blog here: http://everythingisgeektome.tumblr.com. It's super cool and very smart!

Also, I have a follow-up on the most recent video post regarding the 'employment organizations' that send Cambodian women as maids to Malaysia. There was a big article on this issue on the front page of the local independent newspaper last week. Apparently there was a major bust on this organization or one just like it in which around 22 women, many underage, were discovered to be held by force for long periods of time. This problem is a definite reality that many people deal with here and a very hot topic right now.

This new chapter of my blog/life seems to be rather video heavy. I hope you like that! Here is yet another online video I found which is rather enlightening. It's about the links in the chain of slavery that runs through Cambodian life, especially for women. I think it's interesting here how a woman is in charge of the 'employment' organization, thus profiting from breaching the liberty of other women. It's a classic case of women violating the rights of their own. Also, this is a harrowing reminder of the fate that my students might have had if the organizations I work with weren't around to educate and help them. I'm so grateful that my kids are just a handful of people who will never have to go through an ordeal like this. Give it a watch. It's interesting stuff.

Pressed with the need for suitable clothes to wear to a substitute teaching job next week I went shopping yesterday. I scooted on down to what is known as the Russian Market, a maze of stalls crammed together and ringed by nice little stores selling outfits that were spat out of factories and deemed unfit to export. The tiny errors in stitching or sizing are hardly noticeable so as far as I'm concerned these goods are fair game. Browsing some colorful Forever 21 frocks on the second floor of a shop, my spine stiffened at a noise. A young girl had been crying earlier but now her wails had become desperate. What I heard between her shrieks was an endless barrage of slaps, hard. I tried to ignore it, continue my browsing, but somehow the sound was everywhere, deafening. The smacking against her bare skin crept into every space, bounced out of every corner and reverberated from between the folds. It was a sickening symphony of noises coupled with the verbal silence of her mother who apparently was unable to comprehend why lighting into her toddler with such gusto was not making the child quiet. Though it felt like the beating was going on forever, the girl, exhausted and defeated, gave into the violence and silenced herself after a good long fight. The first time I saw the pair was walking down the stairs heading out of the store. It felt strange not knowing what either mother or daughter looked like. Seeing their faces felt wrong and though I was not asked to be a voyeur during the display of abuse against the window, I was. I was embarrassed by the intimacy with which I felt I knew them before I even saw them. I had heard everything.

This little event made me think about the sounds privy to people in places like Cambodia and Mongolia but excluded from those in the West. Violence against children is illegal in America but make no mistake- it happens. However, aside from minor violations, normally such disciplinary actions are reserved for the home. There are other shreds of evidence, a bruise or perhaps an unduly hostile attitude, but rarely do the streets of suburbia ring with the sounds of slapping.

Here, however, and in Mongolia, life is lived much more publicly. In Cambodia, people prop up camp beds and snooze in the street, cooking is done in the open and soccer games bounce about the roads. It's simply too hot to live inside but temperate enough for many to find that there is only need for a roof to ward off the rain. Mongolia is similar in attitude if not in climate. Property is communal and sometimes decorum is as sparse as the landscape. Once on a busy city sidewalk in a ritzy area I had to walk around a woman who had her foot propped up on a railing at a 90 degree angle as she cut her toenails letting the clippings fly into traffic. Apparently she was undisturbed by the throngs of people around her. Mongolia is also particularly complex in this sense. Many people live in gers and though the round walls warm and protect those within them, they are made of felt through which sound permeates very easily. I had many friends who were awkwardly privy to the sounds of unsavory business done by their host families even though they were sitting in a different ger on the other side of the yard.

Though there are unpleasant occasions like the one yesterday, often the noises of Cambodia are comforting and lively. Every night the moans of cats, laughter of children and buzzing of dinner parties filters into our rooms. I find it a tonic. It makes the world seem more alive and life less lonely. It's nice, even comforting, to be reminded of the various dramas that play out daily in other people's lives. The sounds are lightening, making my life seem less significant and situations less dire as every day. It's also hard to take much seriously if your workplace is relentlessly filled by the clucking of street chickens. It is usually a joy to live in places with such open cultures, though on some occasions painfully difficult to share in tragedies of strangers.

Adele has finally released the video for her song 'Someone Like You' and the only real words to describe it are 'soul-crushingly beautiful.' Filmed in black and white, she is just walking along the streets of Paris. It is a simple concept but I think well conceived to showcase the poignancy of the song. In anticipation of my December trip to Paris and the Champagne District I've been voraciously devouring books about France- everything from The Paris Wife, about Hadley Hemingway's life in the Jazz Age to Dancing to the Precipice, a biography encompassing the monarchy and the Revolution. Next on my list is Julia Child's My Life in France. So this video is perfect for a budding Francophile such as myself, to say nothing of the breath-taking song that it underlines so beautifully. Give it a watch. It is one of the best (I'd say the best) singers of my generation in a timeless city.

Today is Pchum Ben, the big Cambodian holiday. On this day it is believed that the gates to Heaven and Hell are opened and ancestral spirits walk the earth. In reverence for the dead and in a symbolic gesture of care, everyone goes to their local pagoda (Buddhist temple) and offers vast quantities of food to the monks in an attempt to feed the spirits. Fun fact: apparently sticky rice is favored because people believe that it will stick to the mouths of the ghosts better than anything else. The monks diligently perform various ceremonial duties throughout the day.

I went to two different pagodas here in Phnom Penh to check out the fuss and try to capture the very festive feel of the holiday for ya'll. I must admit I am pretty disappointed with the video. The relationship between my camera and I is getting more and more strained as it continues to take craptastic photos (probably also to do with the person behind the lens but then again it's always easier to blame the technology). However, it is definitely worth the watch; the audio gives a great taste of the frenetic music that, with the incense smoke, wafted through town all day long.

Apparently Atlanta has pricked up it's ears at the call of Cambodia. Within the last few days there were two articles featured in different departments of CNN's news empire regarding my new residence. Both very enlightening, I recommend the video at the bottom of the first article as it gives a good and accurate feel of Phnom Penh in addition to more information. The latter is basically fluff, but is still relevant to the current goings on of the country, including the many changes that are taking place. Enjoy!

1. Cambodia: A Place for Pioneer Investors

2. Cambodia: No Longer a One-Temple Pony

The holiday of Pchum Ben begins now. Much like Mongolian Tsagaan Saar, the actual celebration is rather short though it consumes a whole week. Work is closed, the city all but shuts down and my students have gone home to spend this time with their families. In an effort to save money I elected to spend the week in Phnom Penh, which has proved a wise choice because Siem Riep, the seat of Angkhor Wat, is flooded and the beach hostels are crawling with bedbugs. However, not everyone saw my choice as a wise one.

The head dormitory manager came to talk to me about being here alone, making the 30-mintue commute from the other dorm apparently pressed by the urgency of the situation. I sat in the dorm office as both managers stared at me in disbelief and held their press conference-intervention. 'Won't you be scary being alone?!' one of the managers asked. 'No one has done this before' the other informed me with concern. They could not fathom how I would survive by myself in the dorm. By this time I guess I'm used to people thinking I won't make it. Mongolians were convinced the foreigners would all die in the winter. Some of my friends were surprised I didn't bail out of the Peace Corps early. I just smiled sweetly and told them I'd be fine.

Though it was hard at first, I've grown used to solitary pursuits and now I sometimes look forward to time by myself. It was probably the Mongolian winters that made me accept isolation, particularly long, dark evenings when I first moved to Hovd. I would tramp up the slummy stairs to my cold apartment every evening where the walls fairly vibrated with the desolate solitude that awaited me there. It was not fun. But with the help of Six Feet Under, a crush of novels and Facebook I survived and even managed to develop a comfort in my own skin.

My days in Cambodia have not been lonely. I am surrounded by people every waking moment. But I have to make extra effort to see other expats and the weekends can be particularly tough. I have yet to fall into the rhythm that is expat weekends in Phnom Penh, though I know it includes brunch and a club with pools called Elsewhere. Last Friday, determined to see the night, I took myself on a dinner date. I parked myself at an outdoor cafe and relished a divine salad Niçoise with a glass of Australian red. But by the end of the night I had grown melancholy, stewing in my own company had made matters worse. I dragged myself back to the dorm and when I returned the girls were full of bubbles and ideas and chatter; I let their conversation bring me back to life and happiness. We laughed at the geckos on the ceiling that one girl called 'little crocodiles' and it was not without irony that I realized the people I was attempting to get some solitude from were the ones who brought me the most joy that night.

Last night I tried something different. Since Friday had been quiet and early, lulled by rain, Mad Men and Sam's G-Chat company, I decided that I would do something fun Saturday. Darn it. Armed with my Kindle I headed to a local hostel that also has a great little restaurant with a sunset vista. I planted myself at the bar and before I knew it was playing card games with a gaggle of about 10 travelers. Showing up at a hostel was a risk that felt a little predatory but it worked out in the end; the evening's odyssey included a sidewalk cafe run by Italian gangsters, people riding on top of tuk-tuks, two night clubs, another hostel's bar, greasy hamburgers of unknown origins and a 3:30 bedtime. Though I am a little worse for wear today the evening was rejuvenating. I made friends and had fun just because I wanted to. And that felt good.

Going to a hostel, though perhaps odd, seemed to make sense. Travelers understand being alone because that is the nature of the beast. Where you are from and what you have seen makes you different. Hostels become little epicenters where people from unique journeys come to be together, oases to sleep, eat, water and stave off the solidude that seeps into long bus rides and transient friendships. Once you begin traveling it is impossible to escape that no one else has seen what you've seen; you become more alone in your experiences and that feeling is hard to shake.

I must admit I am nervous about this week with no schedule or work. However, a list of things to do, open coffee shops and a gym with a sauna, free English newspapers and fishy foot massage tank will help me combat feelings of uselessness. I hope. I will do my best; I won't be scary.

It's my first gray day in Cambodia. Perhaps it's because normal life is starting to set in and harden around the edges, but the cloudy sky breathes a special sort of thoughtfulness. It has been sunny since I arrived, not a trace of coolness in the strata. But today I find myself reaching for my knit, short-sleeve sweater, pulling it around my shoulders and finding even that inadequate. Fall has taken hold of life in America, at least where all of my friends are. And as my favorite season, I sorely miss it. The crisp air and tangy apple cider, the novelty of an extra comforter and slow mornings watching leaves float away are things close to my heart. So the clouds today are sort of a brief vacation. I can get away from the perpetual sunshine and make believe myself in autumn's ocher glow even for just a little while. It is indeed a sweet spot of weather for me, but having such a sudden onset of subdued skies is lending exhaustion, too. Perhaps it's because of the sleep deprivation resulting from frequent nighttime concerts courtesy of various neighbors or the fact that my day ends at 10pm and sometimes later when I finish teaching, but today I'm heavy with the need for sleep. A week-long vacation starts on Saturday but, as Frost says from a similarly subdued landscape, “I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”

Dear People Next Door,

I am sorry for your loss. I really am. However, I was rather angered this morning at 4:30am when the Buddhist chanting started at a volume that can be clearly heard on Saturn. It roused me before the sun and I was rather puzzled and infuriated at the tinkling of Cassio music that preceded the broadcast. After the chanting commenced, it looked like today would start just as well as yesterday, when my roommate decided to hold a phone conversation at rock concert volume at 5:20am after which, lurching out of bed, I thwacked my ladybits on the corner of my desk at a very painful velocity.

But later, wrapped in a blanket at the top of the stairs, after having abandoned sleep for good, I learned that you are in mourning. The monk's early prayer was to soothe the man on the threshold of death and after his passing he did not stop the chanting or music for hours. This is a rather strange coincidence as the Skype conversation I was having last night was cut short abruptly when my friend was called away to attend her grandfather's memorial service. I went to sleep during a funeral involving someone very close to my heart though painfully far away and woke to much more immediate grief but for a man I've never met. And looking down at you from the balcony this morning I can clearly see that grief is the same all over the world. Take away the quite sterility of funeral homes and a few plastic trays of grocery store danishes, add colorful tents and a garçon's attire of black and white on all attendees and the scene here isn't as different as one last night. The exhausted looks on your faces as you slump against the party tables speak of nothing but of bitter sadness.

Your music it is plaguing both my eardrums and my life, however I do admire the way you play it all day. I can't even hear myself think over the volume so it seems like rather a good distraction to sad thoughts. It is something to push the grief into the back corners. The vacant place at the table will be ready to creep back into your every waking thoughts when all the family has left, but for now it's muted under the deafening noise. The rhythms are also a rather happy send-off for your husband and father, fitting. The ornate, hand-painted coffin is also impressive. The size of a small ship, it is a really beautiful way to set sail into the next life. However, the pregnant woman staring at it blankly as it was carried down the alley by a truck blasting 'Party Rock Anthem' broke my heart a little.

So I will conclude. I hope your family is able to carry on in spite of the loss of it's patriarch. A loss like that is truly heartbreaking. But if you or anyone else in your family is to die, please have the decency to do it during the daytime hours. I and everyone between here and Los Angeles would appreciate that very much.

Condolences and Warm Wishes,

Lara

I have found myself locked in a battle of wills of late. Ants have begun to devour my stuff, my life and my sanity. They first crept onto my desk, dangerously close to my pillow and when I moved my cotton swabs that they seemed to be developing an affection for (why, ants, why?!) they discovered my beloved backpack in which I tote my worldly belongings every time I move. Apparently they like it there and no amount of sweeping, pleading or glaring can cease their industrious pillaging of my stuff. It's amazing how man vs. ant can get to a rather obsessive, pathological level. I imagine them as ranks of foot soldiers and generals, manned out of their war room, hell bent on inflecting misery upon all until the end of time. Having dropped a crumb of muffin into my keyboard during the writing of this post, I am now obsessively fretting about ants destroying my laptop. It happened to a friend of mine. Really. Until now I never really understood my Dad's passion for spraying ants in their nests on the side of our house. My mom, my sister and I would all stand at the window and watch him, mildly confused at his display of schadenfreude. Never mind the fact that we benefited from his diligence. But now I know.

In Mongolia all animals were simply fated to die. The winters were long and bugs generally scarce. But Cambodia is different. It's like the jungle is taking it's revenge on mankind for hacking the trees to pieces and erecting a toxic city in their stead. I swear the jungle will take back over one day. The ants are just holding its place.

The ants are not the only wildlife very happily coexisting with people here. I am engaged in a one-sided love-affair with the geckos that plaster the walls and ceilings of seemingly every building in Cambodia. They scuttle comically across vertical surfaces, their sticky little fingers gripping the concrete and I wonder what they are thinking. I don't think I'll ever tire of watching them and the girls also smile at the 'little crocodiles'. At the gym the only work-out buddies I have are sparrows that jerk their heads inquisitively as I sweat and pant; they freely come and go in the exercise room. The windows are open against the heat and it would be futile to try and keep the birds from hopping all over the weights. I've never been a nature person but the larger critters that frolic around Phnom Penh are endearing, unlike the six-legged villains munching away at God-knows-what.

Further inspection of my backpack informed me that the culprit ant attracter was an old gag gift. Some Russian friends came back from a visit home and presented me with a lollipop in the shape of a rooster. (I'll leave you to your own thoughts there, friends.) Thinking it was funny I threw it in my bag on the way home and forgot about it. That is until I found the beak completely depleted by tiny bites and the face red with a swarm of ants. Who felt really dumb? This kid. So after cleaning up the mess and chucking my fowl friend, I retreated to a coffeehouse, far from the maddening swarms. Please let them not be back in their ranks, marching away, upon my return.

A constant source of joy for me here is the youth around me. Where I work at A New Day Cambodia the office space is completely integrated with the rest of the housing and class space for the 97 youngsters and teens we serve. There is little respite from the noises of children and no task is ever too important for a pair of sweaty hands to refrain from wrapping themselves around my eyes or poke me in the ribs, jolting me from the deepest of concentrated trances. But I love being surrounded by these little people all the time and I am happy to let little bits of them fill my day. It is rare for me to cross the street without a tiny hand tucked into my own; the first and last workday sounds are high pitched yells of joyful greeting or good night well-wishing. And when I go home I make to-do lists around notebook pages filled with little doodles of astronauts, flowers and castles, the proud product of concentrated youngsters. This weekend, though I have time off, I was looking forward to cheering the ANDC team on at their soccer game and surprised myself by being a little sad when I heard it has been postponed. Though it might sound overly material and graphically expose my bleeding heart, it gives me no small sense of satisfaction to labor every day for these kids who would otherwise be illiterate garbage scavengers. Interviewing children for the newsletter, reporting to TOMS Shoes about the newest shipment and cataloging Tetanus vaccinations are indeed labors of joy. I have grown to love these children and am happy to let their warmth fill my days. When I am tasked with jobs in the computer room I go when the children are at lunch so the sounds of clanking spoons and silly chatter filters through the windows and I am propelled by sounds borne of growth and nourishment. A joyous noise.

Last week, filled with vindication, I narked out a teacher I found hitting a child with an electrical cord. Admittedly sometimes my own inner Miss. Hannigan threatens to rear her head from time to time. On occasion I have to suppress urges to throttle whatever ankle-biter lies in close circumference when they are particularly rowdy. But that is rare. Mostly I am content to relish the constant dramas, successes and failures of the blossoming and complex little people who fill my life.

A little belated but happy Full Moon Festival! Night before last the residents had a beautiful ceremony in reverence to the swollen, white moon. Apparently it only happens once a year, not sure why not with every full moon, so I was very lucky to catch it. It started with some nice words as everyone clasped fragrant incense between their hands in prayer. The girls planted their smoky sticks in a bowl of rice and padded off to watch a horror film on tv, waiting for the incense to burned to nubs. After a sitting a spell there was lots of cakes and fruit for all. The whole thing was underscored by continuous giggling, heckling and camera-photo taking, which was one of the most fun parts. Apparently a Chinese ceremony, the residents were dedicated to conducting it with poise but confessed that they only did it because they wanted to eat cake. Above is my favorite picture from the evening. A laughing students next to the full moon alter. The moon is high overhead but the scene is brightened by the candles and her smile.

I encountered a hefty number of life choices recently. It took a few sleepless nights, plenty of advice from friends and family and lots of soul searching but finally everything resolved itself. In this process, my father sent me a kind and helpful e-mail that urged me not to discount the idea of staying in Phnom Penh a bit longer than planned. My contract here runs into January and after that I plan to move on. His suggestion took me aback and I started to think about how tempting an idea that really is. I then realized that if I stayed here in Cambodia I might never leave. I could very happily remain here in a perpetual Margaritaville purgatory for a very, very long time.

At the risk of sounding snotty or like Jimmy Buffett's autobiography, I want to expound for a moment on the amazing quality of life here in Phnom Penh. Take this weekend for example. Saturday morning I had a leisurely brunch at a boutique hotel with friends, luxuriating in the tranquil, relaxing environment. My friend's personal tuk tuk driver then picked us up and took us to the main market here in town. We wandered around, poking at the goods and drinking baby coconut water strait from the fruit. My friend bought a huge bag of fresh groceries for less than $4. Later I met up with a different group of people for a Mekong river boat ride in celebration of a few birthdays. I enjoyed two hours of cruise for $3, chatting away with Peace Corps Cambodia Volunteers and the American ambassador's son who apparently does not drink anything below Johnny Walker Black Label. Later we rocked out at a karaoke venue where our group had three dedicated attendants just for us. Right now I've installed myself at a Western style coffee shop and am sipping on an expertly brewed cappuccino as the rain spatters itself against the floor to ceiling windows. Later I'll head uptown to play some pickup Ultimate Frisbee with the local expat league. Great life? I think so.

The expat lifestyle is a tough one to turn down, especially for someone in their mid-twenties fleeing an awful job market in the US. Westerners make plush salaries and have few expenditures in developing countries. Goods and services are up to American standard and I can't think of much that is not available on the shelves here. But life is especially easy for expats in Cambodia; it's developed just enough to be familiar but not so much that there is either fierce job competition or a loss of edginess or exoticism. And though I know I live a vastly different life than the locals, a situation that comes with it's own moral dilemmas, having a life dedicated to service somehow makes it more okay although it does feel a little wrong at times. I landed a substitute teaching position recently and if I were a little more opportunistic and a little less ambitious it would be easy to work that up to a more permanent position, get an apartment in a trendy area, extend my gym membership and stay a good long while. But as much as this plush setup is tempting for the long haul, I feel distant corners beckoning and I know I will heed the call of relentless ambition.

In Cambodia I am rapidly learning to adjust to the myriad opposites I am confronted with. Mongolia was awash with juxtapositions but indeed different ones than I face here. Mongolia's recent history was a vastly different one and compounded with culture and climate, the countries have shown themselves to be remarkably dissimilar. But oddly the presence of death is somehow the thing that has struck me most and highlighted the marked differences between my experiences in these two countries thus far.

Yesterday the new students arrived at our dormitory and I got the day off of work to attend the ceremony which was held at the Foundation's other, larger dorm. The introduction and formal agreement signing was jam packed. All the families had come in from the countryside; quite a feat as almost all the girls come from farming families in far outlying provinces. Plump mothers beamed from their plastic chairs and fathers kept were kept in hot pursuit of munchkins attempting to make a fast break for freedom. We arrived early so I strolled around the impressive room, the Hall of Great Women. Housed at the top of the dorm, the space is a facility for seminars and the like in addition to a nod at great women in history. The walls are hung with large, gold framed portraits and it was fascinating to read the little blurbs posted under each woman. As I explored I couldn't help but glance at the same point in space that Mother Theresa and Benazir Bhutto were gazing into pensively. Tony Morrison smiled warmly, countered by Frida Kahlo's stern unibrow and I felt Golda Meir's stony stare at my back. Suddenly my walk came to a halt when I encountered a blank, black portrait. I assumed it would say something like "you could be here next!" but instead it simply read "for the great women who could not be here." The eyes of the young girls in the photos at S-21 came back to stare at me. I thought about the death and destruction a mere generation before and was taken aback by deep sadness. But as quickly as I had been overtaken I was awakened from the melancholy by a riot of laughter. I peered down the balcony and found a large circle of my girls sitting on a colorful mat on the ground cooking, munching and talking. Retreating down to chat with them I found a holiday mood, they chopped baguettes, snacked on bananas and took turns string massive vats of curry over charcoal fires. All smiles, they beckoned me eagerly to sit amongst them and share their joy, their exhilaration that their new 'younger sisters' had come. So I did.

In Mongolia I hardened quickly to the death of animals. On my morning runs it was not uncommon to see more than one frozen carcass, I learned to step unblinkingly over inside-out bloodied sheep skin when the library staff was jonesing for fresh meat and the town market was a whole world of animal slaughter in a league of it's own. But here it's different. On a daily basis I am reminded of dead people. Dinner conversations frequently turn to the legal work my girls are doing on Khmer Rouge research and who lost what family members to the bloodbath. But though genocide is omnipresent, the country is trying to grow again.

To me one girl really embodies the Cambodian journey back from Hell. Today I saw a picture of a new student. A radiant girl, she has beautiful, long hair, a disarming personality and an easy way with people. But the girl I saw in the picture, a photo taken not 10 years ago, was much altered. She lived in the garbage dump, wore tattered clothes and instead of the books and smile she carries today she welded a sharp, metal rod and a woven, plastic trash bag. Through the intervention of wealthy souls who dabble in non-profit work, her life has turned around. She was born in a smoldering heap of trash but now is going to be a pharmacist.

There is no coming back from animal slaughter; there is only Spring and the birth of new calves and lambs to look forward to. But in human rebirth there is something distinctly and universally beautiful. It has been amazing share part of my life with a people who are living in Spring.

After checking out the Phnom Penh expat Ultimate Frisbee scene, loving it and running myself ragged for a couple of hours, I picked up a sandwich on the street corner near my new pad. I've had one before but this time wanted to document it's hefty glory for you. Sadly the video quality isn't the best in the world but never the less behold, the great Cambodian street sammitch:

I have discovered Cambodian coffee with a fury; I feel an addiction coming on. Until this point I had sipped coffee here politely in cafes, clinking the ice cubes in my simi-strong brew that arrives in a tall, sweaty glass. But little did I know that that stuff is not Cambodian coffee. Flagging after a long day dealing with visas and work yesterday, I decided to delve into the world of street coffee to discover it is as thick and grungy as it sounds. On my way back to the dorm from work, I squawked at my tuk tuk driver a request to pull over when a beverage pushcart came into view. As stops are par for the course here, he pulled over and patiently waited as I timidly strolled over to a Cambodian lady in a massive straw sunhat. "One coffee?" I entreated, not sure if she'd understand. She squinted at me hard, nodded and set about mixing the drink. She dumped enough sugar to bake a cake with into a plastic cup then cracked open a re-purposed water bottle with something black lurking inside. She then commenced to pour into my cup a mixture that looks closest to what I imagine a cocktail of tar, diesel petrol and Kahlua to look like. It reluctantly sloped into my cup which was filled not even half way with the stuff. My barista then shoveled chipped ice into the vacant space, slapped a top on and demand 1,000 Cambodian Riel. I happily gave her the equivalent to 25 cents and made off with my brew. Upon returning to the tuk tuk I plunged my orange straw into the bosom of the lid and took my first sip. The taste was electric. It was the most shockingly wonderful thing to ever pass through a straw. It was thick and rich and I had to remind myself that there was in fact no alcohol in it, so intense was the bite. A few sips gave me a physical jolt so I savored the cold drink the whole ride home, nursing it slowly least an excess send me into heart failure or a diabetic coma. I watched the shack and stalls go by as we dodged speeding motos, dogs and children. Drinking my newfound beverage of choice I remembered a whole different world. It reminded me of a Turkish proverb painted above a coffee shop register in Chattanooga, Tenneessee. Coffee, the Turkish and evidently Chattanoogans say, should be

Black as Hell, Strong as Death, Sweet as Love.Given my experience here thus far this is an apt saying; an appropriate mixture. The death that screamed so loudly in S-21 and the love that I feel every day from the young people who fill my life are certainly defining elements in my time here thus far. I wouldn't say Hell has anything to do with being here though the dregs of my coffee are certainly very, very black and it was Hell to see the bottom of my cup.

My first few days in Cambodia have fittingly been those of extreme highs and lows. And very connected to the senses. The sounds I hear falling asleep at night are not the drunken shoutings and eagle cries of Western Mongolia nor the cicadas and industrial fan whirrs of my Georgia homeland but a melee of fussy babies howling into the night and mosquitoes purring away as they flirt with the meat on my ear. So here you go for a sensory little taste of Phnom Penh's ups and downs.

The first day I woke up in my new room was, as expected, quite disorienting. I padded around the dorm chatting with the girls, one of whom promised to take me to the Russian Market, a sort of local back-ally shopping square, after I had finished my errands. Happily I puttered about the rest of the day, picking up an assortment of bagels, contact solution and post-its until the appointed time to depart for the market. I met my obliging guide in the front of the dorm where I thought we would head out on foot. Instead she brought two helmets and cheerfully chirped that we'd travel on her moto (moto- see: deathtrap, the broke-down lovechild of a moped and motorcycle and the preferred means of transit in Cambodia). I smiled good naturedly and took the helmet from her outstretched hands. Silently I quickly cataloged all the reasons I didn't want to die just yet and gave them a curt nod. I hauled my leg over the back of the bike, gripped what can only be called the 'oh shit' handles behind the seat and we puttered away. It was a rough start but after my body gave in denying the moto every slight bump and curve and after we departed our pot-hole strewn street, I kind of got into it. The rhythm of the engine was intoxicating and the fluidity of the bike infectious. I felt the way Rose must have felt, standing tall at the mast of the Titanic, arms outstretched, the wind tousling her hair as she flew through space and time. Though my ship was a tad more modest and my Atlantic made mostly of corrugated steel, I really did believe in that moment, speeding through Phnom Penh with the wind in my face, that I was endless.

Yesterday, eager to explore town and make some friends I attempted to locate a pick-up game of Ultimate Frisbee that takes place in town every Sunday at 3:30. Unfortunately after a discouraging hour trying to find the field (according to an expat I located the trick is to walk between the shacks lining the squalid market street, because, you know, that's the best place to keep an International School's soccer pitch) it turned out that play has been called off until late October due to rainy season. Not to be disheartened, I decided that I'd continue trying to get to know the fair city I had plopped myself down into. I hailed the nearest tuk-tuk (see: moto but bigger and thusly a smidgen safer) and instructed him to take me to the only real cultural or historic attraction I knew of, S-21, once a school but later an infamous torture chamber and death lair of the Khamer Rouge. I've seen some pretty tough stuff in my day, from concentration camps to homeless children being dragged around by cracked-out moms, and thought I could handle whatever Pol Pot had to throw at me. But this place was different. After pushing past the panhandling acid burn victim to get into the museum, I walked into a deadly weight that filled the air. Though by no means deserted, the place was silent. Graphic photos stood somberly by the beds that had once been fateful instruments of torture. Another room was filled with former mug shots, now portraits, of children who had fallen victim to the Khamer Rouge's bloody destruction. Six-year-olds peered out at me with their big, puzzled eyes uncomprehending of the fact that they were not meant much longer for this world though saddened by the grown-ups vomiting atrocities around them. I walked by row after row of mussed children's hair that would never be combed again until I stopped short at a picture of a woman clutching her infant, similarly slotted for an unmarked mass grave. Having just moved so far away from my precious family I took this rather hard. Being alone made it harder. I moved through the museum, having difficulty for the first time with brutality stretched out before me. And just as I exited the last room I heard a sound that made me crack inside. It was the sound of children laughing. Peering down to the courtyard I saw a gaggle of youngsters swinging on pull-up bars that had gone from school equipment to implements of torture. Now the children had taken it back and were blissfully and unknowingly breathing beauty into a place devoid of life. I sat under some trees to gather myself before heading home but by the end of the tuk-tuk ride I knew the game was up. Choking back tears I stumbled up the stairs to my room. Having learned that the bathroom is an excellent place to cry from a roommate who had a a particularly douch-y lover, I threw myself into the shower where I began to sob. The unheated water rained down on me as I pressed my naked body to the cold tile wall, hugged myself and wept.

Heyo! Sorry for such a lengthy hiatus. I truly didn't mean to be gone for so long. In China I had every intention of blogging, however I found that my little blog had been fire-walled. I don't know if I was more annoyed or honored that the Chinese government found my wee site to be of any consequence. But at any rate, entries are resuming. Horray! Thankfully the government of Cambodia is more benevolent than that of China.

I have jotted down notes over the last few months of my life; so much has happened. But rather than go back first I'd rather paint you a picture of where I am now and later deal with chronological regression. I arrived in Phnom Penh after a very messy plane journey. Getting on the plane from Hong Kong to Bangkok involved sweat, tears, snot and a serious chunk of change. Not a fun trip. However getting to the dorm yesterday was something of a treat. I was dropped at my room after a brief run-down by my new manager, unpacked and holed myself up in a coffee shop for a while. Later I tuk tuk-ed back to the dorm and made a real effort to get to know my new wards. They are all very sweet girls but it was a rather awkward situation with them bustling about or chilling and my having just arrived. So I parked myself in a conspicuous place to read a magazine so that I could be available but not pushy. No sooner had I finished an interview with Rihanna when a young woman plopped herself down next to me. Her English is pretty great though not perfect and we chatted aimlessly about our lives. It was then that my surroundings really started to take hold. Twilight had crept past us and though darkness had fallen it was easy to see the heavy, pregnant clouds that hung above us as heat lightening brightened the sky. The girl told me she was a rice farmer's daughter and echos of Southern lightening and coal miner's daughters lit up my mind. This young woman wasn't as different as most would think. Humble beginnings, great motivation and a thirst for education had driven her out of a countryside devoid of opportunity. Not so unlike my grandparents or those of many people of my generation. As we chatted I glanced at the bottom floor two flights below us. In the shadows I glimpsed a kitten. I was overcome with excitement to have a furry friend about the dorm; it would be nice to have a resident cat. However, when another furball came to join the first, I realized that the kittens weren't kittens at all but rats. Guess you can't win them all. They crept into the night and soon it was time for the dorm meeting. I arrived early intent on making friends and arrived to a riot of laughter. The scene that met me was the girls making fun of each other's boobs, dancing wildly and jokingly trying to control their friends with a television remote. Not far off an American college dorm really. After the meeting the young woman who had most recently done my new job swung by and we chatted for hours. Then, content with my new lot in life, I slipped into a sweet, sweaty slumber.

Though life and some very large airplanes took me away from Mongolia I thought I'd give it one more tribute in this month's tardy but still squeaking by photo montage. Because the beauty of the country's nature is something that all its citizens are proud of I thought the theme of wild Mongolia would make for a fitting final montage. I too was struck by how stunning the Mongolian countryside could be; I have never seen a sky so big or mountains so extreme. In these photos you can also catch a glimpse of how people, Mongolians and foreigners alike, interact with the breathtaking scenery around them. Sadly the pictures don't really do the scenes justice but even so it's easy to see the splendor. Hope you enjoy a few looks at one of the most beautiful places I've ever been.

PS: Upon previewing the pics it might be worth it to click on them to enlarge- gives a much better, more accurate effect.

The river in Hovd.

Camel says cheese!

Drinking from the river.

Darkhan from a stupa.Sunset over smiling Buddha.Olgii from a goat trail.An ancient cave- there are even paintings.

Mongolian Red Riding Hood in Mankhan soum.A boy plays beer can soccer by Khovd's river.Campfire by the river.

Relieving thirst.

Just outside of town.

The view from my first apartment.

Neighbors enjoying the view.

Camel herding.

Sunset over my host family's cow shed.Country roads...

Sunrise at training.

Sunset from a mountain top.

My host family's view.

I'm glad Mongolia still looks like this sometimes.

Snow at training in May!

Camping on top of a mountain.

Red Goat in the distance.

I love how the rivers look like silver threads.

A rare gray day.

Snowy Hovd.

A pee/vodka break on the way to Olgii.Sunset in a puddle.

Pregnant clouds from my apartment.

The other half of my host family's view.Sam takes in the Tavin Bogd glaciers.

Pitching camp at Tavin Bogd.

Oh, boys.

Tavin Bogd- the Five Saints.

I was roused from a deep sleep by a poke at my thigh. I don't know if it is customary for flight attendants to wake sleeping passengers for meals but apparently this one seemed to think it necessary that I tuck into the little tray provided for me by the airline. I begrudgingly opened one eye as she folded down my tray table, set a plastic wrapped "meal" on it and wheeled away. Summoning myself from slumber I poked at the chicken salad and cherry tomato rolling around the tiny tub. I was exhausted and had little lust for the pre-packaged food. My eyes had been as rainy as the sky that morning and my body had been racked with sobs only a few hours earlier as I hugged Sam close to me then watched him disappear behind the airport security clearance. I was still reeling from the blow. But the 4am wake up time had also left me drained so I idly picked up the white roll and unwrapped the sausage-tight cellophane. Dubious of the chicken and unwilling to eat a naked roll, I dug out the little pad of butter from under the utensil packet and smeared the contents on the bread. As soon as I bit into the sweet, salty spread I was immediately struck by how far away I was going from everything I had known for the past two years. The image that plopped itself in front of my eyes was of me sitting on the floor a mere week or so before in the little, low Kazakh dwelling we had come across on the way to Tavin Bogd and eating homemade butter that old women had painstakingly made from the milk of their animals grazing just outside the door. It took me by surprise. I let myself sit with that memory for a while and absorb the fact that I might never meet such a family again. I would never eat salty, sweet yak butter made by old women who supplied generations of offspring with virtually everything they needed by the toil of their hands. I was flying away from those who lived on the land and towards a world of highrise buildings and complicated food served to people too busy to bother with its origin. It was like I was preparing to visit the Jetsons. In recalling this memory of the Kazakh family I realized how distant my own family is from their lifestyle. The butter in our fridge, fridge!, isn't butter at all and it even comes in a plastic spray bottle. Though the phrase "bread and butter" is a ubiquitous saying to indicate basic necessities, I don't know a single American that ever chows down on this former staple. Indeed, I didn't know if there would be a time in the near future that I would ever consume this fatty, carb-y paring again in hyper health conscious America and I was struck with nostalgia. Bread and butter actually is a common meal in Switzerland and while granola and fresh berries is a slammin' breakfast, thought of the American morning repast waiting for me at the end of my journey made me homesick for sitting at breakfast with Sam and chatting aimlessly over our morning toast. Decadently, he eats butter with both Nutella and honey in addition to the more traditional jam. When I told him there was no way I'd eat such a meal at home, he was stunned. "But why?! You need some fat!" he said, expressing a concept that honestly had not occurred to me. But now those breakfasts were just shades of what had been and I had finished my roll along with half the little tab of creamy, yellow butter. So I sank back into my seat and closed my eyes again, hoping I'd slip into dreams of my butter loving boyfriend and green fields filled with fat, lactating sheep as I let the plane take me far away from what I had known for so long.

Having just finished everything I could to expedite my Peace Corps exit process on Friday, a wash of emotion is rolling over me. The past two years have passed in a flash, though I remember many winter days that felt slow as molasses creeping down my window. Making any judgements on everything that has happened in the past two years is rather overwhelming but one feeling that rides aloft all my other combating ponderings and reflections is gratitude. One of my favorite quote is from Tracy Kidder's book Mountains Beyond Mountains, a study of the life and work of Dr. Paul Farmer. It simply states that "lives of service require lives of support" and it does not allude me for one second that I could ever have done what I did in Peace Corps without the scores of people who showered me with their unconditional love and support. My friends and family showed terrific understanding and kindness both on a regular basis and when I needed it the most, perhaps some even without knowing. Packages, proddings of encouragement, letters and chats that made it clear that they had every faith in my abilities were the things that buoyed me along; without them I might have sank. So I would like to acknowledge a few of those people now.

Firstly, I would like to thank YOU for reading this blog. I'm never quite sure how many people read what I post. I know 11 people officially follow it but I also know that not all of them visit regularly. However, I am told that others make a habit of returning to see what I've been up to. My mom's work friends, my elementary school administration staff and homies in New York and Hawaii have popped up on my radar as readers in the past two years. I hope they are still following. But at any rate, whoever you are, thank you. I've truly enjoyed writing my little essays these past two years and I hope you have gotten at least a fraction of the joy reading them as I have posting. Without readers, there would be no blog and believe it or not this has been a very significant and constantly positive part of my experience here in Mongolia. Thanks for your patience with my posting speed and the frequency of my comma splices.

I'd like to take time for a special shout out to Benjamin. You are the only follower I don't know but I love that you are reading my blog! You have been a subscriber for so long and I've actually dreamed up possibilities of who you could be, some outlandish, others realistic. Regardless, I'm happy to have you.

My friends have been wonderfully constant and loving throughout these past two years. The ones who sent letters bravely across the ocean never received a reply, and for that I feel shitty. But I have carefully kept each and every note that reached me from Kate, Colin, Jamie and Janelle. Kate even sent me a motley, watercolored mask that she made Spain; it lived on my wall until very recently. Many of them also kept in close contact, caring and invested as always in addition to their posted manifestations of support. And thank you to Cassie, the well-read belle who took the time and resources to send me a package that included food for thought in the form of books plus beautiful blue handwarmers and a scarf that kept me warm and good-lookin' all winter long. Thanks also to the kind Marsha Baily for the birthday package chockablock full of magazines that were gleefully devoured by both my students and I.

Other friends provided their indispensable love in a more immaterial form. Killian, Big Rachel, Mona,  Paul, Caitlin and of course Ashton were all wonderful voices from far flung lands both urging me forth into the unknown and bringing me back to my roots. Always if I felt unsure or downtrodden they were there for a good pick-me-up; these are truly special friends to have. I'm beyond lucky they're on my side and would have lost my sanity without them. I love them greatly.

Thank you also to the men who have graced my life over the past two years- you know who you are. You have cared for me immeasurably in so many ways; I am lucky to have learned so much from you and spent time in your company.

Thanks also to Carol Brantley, my original inspiration to join the Peace Corps and perpetual cheerleader. I can't wait to dish about our experiences over brunch at Ria's, the same place you told me about your adventures for the first time only a few years ago.

Of course none of this would be possible without my wonderful family. Firstly thanks to my cousin Linda for having a baller lingerie style, the adorable birthday package and being a faithful commenter on the blog. Your blog is always uplifting and fun, such a nice way to spend time online and a neat window to your world. And as for someone else- every time I heard from my little sister my whole world became brighter, even in the darkest of winter days. Hearing about your adventures in India and Portland gave me a respite from my own realities and filled me with joy for her story. Though it was difficult to communicate regularly, I always looked forward to our talks and couldn't wait to hear the peels of your laughter from so many miles away. I'm still sad I never made it to your graduation. Also, I think it should not go without recognizing, my grandmother was so dedicated to keeping in touch that she bought a computer, internet service and printer. She has faithfully sent e-mails about once a week, which I very much look forward to. Grandma, in tough times I try to channel your lifelong gusto and energy, hoping desperately it's in my blood, too. You sent care packages and greeting cards so unflaggingly and are without a doubt the most admirable, motivated and excellent grandmother a girl could hope for. Finally, none of this could have been possible without my parents. From my shampoo to my shoes, I owe it all to them. They spent inordinate amounts of time and money enriching my mental and emotional well-being and poured their lives into my education, tools which without I would never have been able to succeed here. Thank you for countless packages, Mom and Dad, and always being ready to chat about anything from answering my boring banking questions to dispensing words of comfort during the occasional meltdown. You were my rocks, always ready with jokes, stories, encouragement and advice, all of which I sought from you during these two years. Not to mention, you were the most faithful readers of the blog. To everyone else: they don't believe that I couldn't have done Peace Corps without them but it's true. Don't let them tell you any different.

I'm sorry if I missed anyone. There are so many people who have supported me it's mind-boggling. Countless people from our elderly family friends to our 6-year-old neighbor have lent a hand in my life here. I am eternally grateful to everyone. Thank you.

It's a strange feat walking the streets of Ulaanbaatar trying to remember what my life was like last week. The trip to Tavin Bogd was amazing but even so staring at the freshly tarred streets of the capitol it's funny to think that just a few days ago I saw nothing but dirt roads littered with holes and rocks. The landscape we drove through in Olgii was starkly beautiful though almost completely unpopulated. Being jostled on the sidewalk now, I am struck with a little nostalgia picturing the gers we passed, lone dwellings in a sea of grass with not another place of shelter within sight or memory. We spent a significant amount of our time on the trip driving. On the way there we drove for about ten hours and coming back about six. The reason it took so long to reach our final destination was because we had to stop at many different, very out of the way checkpoints to obtain official permission to reach the park. Though it was a rather painful ride at times, there were six of us and a feline besides the driver wedged into four seats, it was stunning. The scenery was surprisingly varied, rolling from deserts peppered with angry, green shrubs to breathtaking green mountains cut by gurgling brooks. Though our way was long and the metal parts on the ceiling were not kind to bare heads, we had an excellent adventure snaking our way slowly towards the mountains. I felt like Odysseus in our little vessel being tossed around on the empty plains. And every time we stopped, we ran into fascinating characters. Each tiny outpost had it's own pulse, every town felt something all it's own- in some places the entire population echoed the lethargy and apathy of the Lotus Eaters, while others were as fun and fascinating as Sirens. Our final permit had to be obtained from a Kazakh herder family which turned out to be rather incredible. After finally reaching the spot, the women invited us in for tea, and being in a frustrated vertigo of bumpy road induced anguish, I was happy to oblige. We sat on the floor of their low, mud house as the grandmother laid out a spread of fried bread and dairy products, including crunchy milk curds and a sweet, thick butter. It then hit me that these people probably make everything they eat. In fact, they sustain themselves almost exclusively from their herd of goats and sheep, literally the only thing they ever buy is flour. The grandmother smiled sweetly as she bounced a toddler on her lap who was fingering a crib in which lay an even smaller child and I was floored by the life she must live and how different it is from mine-- even though we both live in Western Mongolia. But alas when the milk tea was slurped to the dregs, we had to pile back into the Jeep and set off on our way.

The next day we tackled the mountain. Now, we've discussed my climbing ability, or lack thereof, but on this occasion I felt full of piss and vinegar, ready to conquer the world. But we didn't even get ten minutes away from camp before we were forced to ford a freezing rock-bedded river barefoot. In her terror and confusion upon crossing, one girl tossed her shoes into the rapids, drenching both shoes and losing a sock. She also her her leash-bound cat in tow, which complicated matters and baffled the locals to a very entertaining degree. Sam, always gallant, dashed into the river and fished out her floating shoes, soaking the boots he had managed to keep dry during his river crossing. And from there it was a whole lot of walking. We walked for literally hours but it was the scenery was stunning. Cars weren't allowed to touch the landscape and wild flowers in a riot of yellow, purple and white bloomed everywhere underfoot. The most special moment of the hike was when we finally crested a huge hill after walking for about three hours and a spectacular vista of Tavin Bogd's peaks and the glaciers curving gently between them reveled itself above the yellow grass. From there an unfortunate three more hours of walking thrust itself between me and our destination but with some encouraging words from Sam, I made it. Sadly we were temporarily thwarted by the blood vessels in Sam's nose inexplicably exploding but I played nurse to my valiant guide and we were able to continue on our journey. We climbed down a rock slide to the lowest point, Sam walked boldly with me following gingerly, then I was shocked when there I felt a cold crunch beneath my feet and I found myself actually standing on the glacier. The part of the ice closest from whence we came was covered with dirt so it was well camouflaged, but beneath the thin layer of pebbles lay the first glacier I had ever touched. A freezing air radiated from the surface, chilling me to the bone and rivers of chilling runoff ran down the face, slicing the ice from it's path. Exhilarated to have reached our destination, we frolicked on the frozen surface, taking pictures and throwing shaved ice balls through the brisk atmosphere. The whole space felt alive, with water rushing all around, air breathing up on us and ice crunching under every step, it felt like we were treading on the back of a frosty giant. We wandered across the glacier, which proved rather treacherous when I readied myself to leap across a river but quickly found the snow beneath me giving way as my foot and ankle became engulfed in icy water. The fact that I was hiking most of the way in my beat-up Chuck Taylor All Star Converse did not help much, though they did dry quickly in the sun, an unexpected boon. Sam and I ate a wee snack on the banks of the fiercest glacial river then decided to head back. I was originally unsure of how exactly I would get up aforementioned rock slide after championing it's downhill slope. It proved not as difficult as imagined and we headed confidently back through the flowers, no less beautiful the second time, on our way. As we walked back, we caught up with the other contingent of our group, who we had somehow misplaced earlier. They proved to be exhausted and slowly my tiredness began to match theirs. Sam took a rather entertaining video of my sad, sad attempts to walk near the end of the hike. My ankles were weak, the slightest bump in the grass sent me reeling and at more than one point I stumbled to the ground. In a stroke of drama, I channeled American Indians on the Trail of Tears. How in the world did they walk all that way?! I'd been walking for a whole day and was about ready to die. Good lord, I surely would have been shot on the Trail of Tears for excessive snack breaks and delirious hilarity. After face-planting solidly in the grass and declaring I couldn't walk any more, Sam good-naturedly sat by my side and waited until I was ready to take his arm, welcoming much of my weight leaning on him, though he was carrying a huge backpack and I nothing. He smilingly indulged me when I made up a game called 'list all the things you hate' and suggested we start with hiking. My mood was drastically improved, however when we not only saw our camp but also when I took a minute to appreciate the beauty around me. The sun was sinking towards the mountains, casting a golden net over the hills and painting a lone man leading a camel along the ridge of a cliff. Finally, much to my surprise, we finally made it back to camp, though not without yet another trudge through a large, frigid creek, of course. I felt victorious on the inside but on the outside I looked like Sam's 17th century Chinese grandmother, hobbling along impotently behind him. Upon staggering to the tents, I was ready for a self-administered foot rub, some blister popping a lieter of water, a cold beer and a good pee when I heard an earlier arriving friend explode the words "thank God the cook's here! What do we do?" I turned around and she was staring at me with panicked eyes. I sighed, steeled myself and lorded over, by request, one darn good dinner.

The trip back wasn't so exciting as the one going. It's normally like that, though I don't know why. There's not so much excitement, I guess; things are more predictable. Recently, particularly throughout this Tavin Bogd trip, I've been thinking a lot about journeys in general. In ninth grade we studied 'the heroes quest' as a literary theme and it's stuck with me ever since. Seeing my service in this light, as a trip taken by a traveler who leaves home to fumble through distant lands and again return home, I kind of feel a kinship with folks like Odysseus. I've always tried to live like Alfred Lord Tennyson narrated for Ulysses in his 1833 poem. He said the famed traveler sought "to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield". However, I know very well my life is not so grand as this great man's although sometimes it is pretty to think so, especially when faced with something as spectacular and humbling as a glacier that, like my hero, surpasses me by thousands of years.

Signing in briefly from Olgii surrounded by napping friends and travel buddies. Foreign Policy published a stellar photo essay on Mongolia and the "environmental refugees" that are migrating from the countryside to the ger districts. The photos are stark, beautiful images of the Mongolia rarely seen but deserves to be known about.

It's started: the shit show that is my last few weeks in Mongolia. And as such, tragically this is not a great time for prolific blogging. There has been so much in the past few days I'd love to tell you about. How the trees are laden with sweet, fuzzy pollen-balls that blows across sunsets and the town square, making life look far more like a Disney move than I ever though possible. I want to tell you about the rain that drenched town recently, flooding the streets and theater and making everyone a little bit Gene Kelly as they laughingly leaped over the rivers rushing through town. I wish to describe the heat that has settled in to stay and how Yoda-eared dogs pant in the shade. How I am wonderfully elated to have new followers on the blog! But today I depart for a week-long trip to Bayan Olgii on a quest to conquer the country's biggest mountain and the glacier that it cradles in its bosom. So needless to say spare time and internet connectivity will be difficult to come by. When I come back I have maybe 24 hours in which to pack up my entire life and depart for the city. And apparently it is imperative that the library staff have picnic in my honor during these 24 hours, because clearly I won't be very busy. Upon arriving in UB I then have four days in which to complete all my Peace Corps paperwork and interviews, apply for and procure a Chinese visa, visit my host family for the first time in two years and still make time for Sam, who is following me to the city on a plane though it is seriously in violation with his environmental sustainability principals, without driving him crazy or abandoning him. So off I go. Wish me luck! I sincerely wish I had more time to blog; it has become such a great outlet. There are so many things to say, so many reflections yet unpublished and ideas half formed. However, I'll do my best to keep posting throughout this chaotic month and will update you whenever possible, I promise.

Also, just as a note, I plan on continuing the blog during my travels this summer and throughout my stay in Cambodia. I really hope you keep reading!

Joyfully, happy tidings have rolled into town of late on the back of the beautiful weather. My student, the one who once confused "Heil Hitler!" with the phrase "great praise," has made some serious moves in life. No longer exhibiting any anti-Semitic tendencies due to some serious Come-To-Jesus chats we had, she has done something no other student from Hovd has ever done: get into the United States Student Achievers Program. This is a highly prestigious program that selects a handful of rising 11th grade students, in this case 13, from the whole country to preen them for attending university abroad, specifically in America. Unfortunately, my student will have to attend extensive monthly meetings in UB, meaning that though she loves life here in our little town and is the only family her mother has in Hovd, she will have to uproot and move to the city to live with her sister. She is both thrilled and terrified at this whole turn of events. Ten of the students selected are from UB, 1 is from one from the second richest city in the country, leaving just my student and another kid who hails from the countryside, a place where the academic rigor is nonexistent. But though it will be difficult time both emotionally and otherwise, I have every confidence in her. I just hope that the Harvard Fever that presides over so much of the education system here does not go to her head. I keep trying to tell her that Harvard isn't the best place on earth and she should look for what's right for her. I don't know if she fully believes me.

Though I know this it's selfish, I was happy she got in because it makes me look like a rock star. In Mongolia they say "good teachers make good students," a mentality I have some serious issues with. But in in light of her success I look awesome and the Ministry of Education seems pleased; it feels good to have a little validation. However, on a much more genuine, personal level I am thrilled because I thought myself more of a mentor to her than a teacher and now she will find new, better mentors. Having these professionals whose job it is next year to make sure she goes far in her education both academically and geographically makes me feel great because it's a job that I so badly want to do for her but can't. I have neither the expertise nor ability to guide her though this process. In the Shirley Temple movie "Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm" her warden tells her "I taught you everything I know" to which she retorts sadly "I guess that just wasn't enough." While the old man in the movie was comically miffed, I am okay with this maxing out of knowledge. I am happy if my student grows out of me. Handing her off to people who can take her to the next level feels wonderful, and I have found a deep happiness from this sustainability. In all fairness, it should be a natural progression, to send a high achieving and precocious student on to college guidance counselors. But sadly here in the developing world, that's a pipe dream for most. I am so supremely happy I have gotten to guide my student to the next step; she is a young woman I am lucky to know. Look out, world, here she comes.

Ironically, though I am about to leave, this is the fist time I've really been able to take advantage of being on a school schedule during the summertime here in Hovd. Last year I jetted off on vacation before the school year ended but this year I am lucky enough to have stuck around and am truly relishing the slowness of the season. My windows haven't been shut for weeks now and I wouldn't dream of closing out the cheery bird songs and fresh, sunny air night or day. This is a radical change from having my windows locked against sand storms and tapped against cold for months. I live next to the town theater so now it's been a privileged to wake up each morning to the sound of live opera or morin khuur lilting through the open window as I curl back into the covers, happy to let part of the morning float by. It has truly been a rediscovery of the world: I forgot the sound of wind running though tree leaves and the amount of shade that has overgrown the walkways around town is astounding. Perhaps the loveliest of recent events has been the luscious summer rain. Rolls of thunder rocked me to sleep last night and I woke up to a downpour this morning. Though I have many errands to run today, I hope the heavens don't dry up any time soon. Summertime in the South where I am from is a time of great abundance and relaxation and though I am eagerly looking forward to fat farmers markets and ambling, honeyed night, this Western Mongolian summer sure is sweet too.

Outdoor sports are not my forte. There. I said it. I've always had a rather tenuous relationship with nature and the idea of exposing my vulnerable, sweaty self to it's angry bugs and biting rocks strikes me as rather unappetizing. So it was with great reluctance that I agreed to follow my sitemates up the mountain just outside of town for one last camping trip before everyone left for summer or forever. The mountain they set their sites on isn't just any mountain. It's name is Red Goat and we have a relationship. At the beginning of the year, we hiked up Red Goat and camped on top. That trip, however, was not fun for me at all. It was nice to be with friends and the little bit of sunset we caught on the way up was beautiful to be sure. However, the three hour trudge to the top was more like a cruel and sandy reenactment of the Bataan Death March than the lovely jaunt in the sun that it was sold to me as. I had never really done an overnight camping trip that involves hiking and backpacking to the site as opposed to driving with coolers full of beer and a bikini. As a consequence, I had no idea how to pack. Furthermore, once we got to the mountain, I had absolutely no idea how to tackle the beast. There were no hiking trails and the landscape in Western Mongolia lends itself to disguising mountains as really tall landslides of pebbles and prickly bushes. And up this distasteful terrain I had to drag both my ass and provisions for my ass. Most of my sitemates lithely hopped from rock to rock, happily creating their own switchback trails invisible to me as I struggled and lagged behind. This compounded itself with my rather frustrating weight gain amassed in the Peace Corps and years of shit given to me for being a little chunkier than my peers in school, resulting in a rather tortuous ascent. So, you understand, I received the news with frustration and sadness when my sitemates decided to return to my rocky nimisis for a voluntary round two, especially when they knew I had recently injured my ankle.

I really didn't want to go. Really. The thought of having to once again watch my friends disappear over the top of the mountain while taunting voices from my youth echoed from somewhere behind my hulking backpack made me want to either cry, take a nap or both. But I was lucky, I have Sam. The reason I didn't punk out of this whole expedition is because of him. We have been together for a few months now and he adores the wilderness in ways I cannot even begin to understand. And when, with knitted brows and pleading eyes, I told him I really didn't want to climb that mountain he looked absolutely crestfallen and promises to carry everything I needed spilled out of his mouth in his sweet Swiss-German accent. I considered taking him up on his bargain; Sam is used to this sort of thing. His family does baffling things for fun, such as hiking up a huge, snow-covered mountains with skis and all the supplies; they dump their skis half way, hike to the top, hike down and then ski the last fourth of the trip. What, pray tell, would ever posses someone to do this? But apparently it's fun. That's just how they roll, I guess. He assured me we could go up an easier route he found, he also climbs Red Goat and times himself for fun, just the two of us. And he'd take care of my ankle. I couldn't possibly say no.

The day finally arrived. I actually found it fun packing for the adventure, thinking about what we would need in the great outdoors, tossing Swiss Army Knives, frisbees and trail mix about the apartment. In the end, poor Sam's backpack felt about as heavy as a pregnant elephant while mine looked like something Beaver Clever might take to a half day of school. But he insisted it was a normal weight for his outdoor exploits and I trusted him. So away we went. Not to be a whiner, but actually getting to the mountain sucked. To be fair, my very athletically inclined sitemate agreed that this was the suckiest part. Red Goat is surrounded by scorching sand dunes littered with bones and broken vodka bottles; if Satan had a sandbox as a child, you can bet it looked a lot like this. Once you finally arrive at the foot of the mountain, you've spent all your energy walking though ankle deep sand and wondering what sort of animal could possibly yield a skull that strange. But Sam was optimistic and hopeful, so we marched onwards and upwards.

Delightfully, this trip was a easier than the first time. Perhaps because of my über light bag, maybe because I'm in better shape, possibly because after two Mongolian winters I'm well seasoned at sticking things out. Also, it might have something to do with my cheerleader-Sherpa who patiently acquiesced to as many water and vista appreciation breaks as my rapidly beating heart desired. It was still tough though. My pink fingernails and my soft, white forearms looked comical against the hard, brown landscape as I pulled myself up the rocks. I was cheered a little when Sam finally admitted "this route is miserable;" at least it wasn't just me. I persevered, channeling a group of recently returned veterans featured in Outside magazine who had made it to the top of one of the world's highest peaks. If a blind dude and someone with one leg could climb a peak in the Himalayas, then I could tackle this paltry hill, right? To keep my spirits up during the long hours I employed a skill I finely tuned while undulating in particularly tough Pilates classes: listing things I am good at. It might sound egotistic and narcissistic, but try it sometime when you're doing something that makes you want to throw yourself under a rapidly approaching Metro. It does wonders for the morale. I geared it towards the past two years; I figured that if I were not in Mongolia in the first place, I also would not be on that effing mountain.

I cannot: climb mountains good. While we're at it, my spelling is not so hot either.

I can: juggle naked, recognize the smell of an animal being butchered, live alone without going crazy, live with a man without going crazy, make a pie from scratch in 30 minutes, rock other culinary hardships like being creative with only root vegetables and whipping up excellent dinner parties with a serious lack of resources, handle awkward silences and power outages like a pro, fix a broken bike with roadside metal scraps and bones, make a palatable shandy out of Korean beer and Christal Lite, survive on less than $160 a month, squat pee like it's my job....

Not bad, no? Anyhoo, this little game fueled me along the rocks and between my list and Sam, always ready to rest on a rock and hold my hand, I actually made it. The camping part was fun, as promised. We scrambled around on windy ledges, watched the sunset and ate s'mores around a fire. I even enjoyed my first night sleeping out under the stars. I was thrilled to discover that I had gotten a fair bit of sun, too. Finally it was time for our descent. I don't know if it was my readiness to get the heck off that pile of rocks or my shapely thighs working in pitch-perfect unison with gravity, but I very quickly and gracefully hauled ass down that mountain. I did pretty well, actually- better than maybe half of the group, a really great feeling. Granted I was pretty sore for days but I left that mountain feeling pretty good.

They say what doesn't kill you builds you. Whoever thinks that clearly has not talked to some of those aforementioned vets with PTSD. And while the first climb up Red Goat didn't kill me, it certainly didn't make me a better or happier person; in fact it made my self-esteem plummet and my arm pits smell raucous. But the second time was not so bad and I really do think it built me. I'm glad I don't have to do it again but I consider that last climb something akin to triumph. I went my own pace with someone who cared to support me (indeed, finding such a person is a victory in itself), reached within, girded my loins and made it to the top. Though I will still try to mold my future more after Kofi Annan than Sir Edmond Hillary, I might slowly reconsider my stance on outdoor sports. Maybe.

It's a difficult thing trying to say goodbye to an entire community, especially one that holds so many different members who have touched you in so many different ways. The three of us who are leaving this summer put our heads together and tried to think of a good way to say goodbye to everyone we love here in Hovd. And then it dawned on us. What better way to mark the end of our two years in this beautiful country than to kill an animal? Well, a sheep to be specific. We decided to host a traditional Mongolian хорхог or horhog for all our friends and their families. This is an alfresco feast that features each and every part of a sheep that is killed on site by incising the chest and reaching in to manually sever the carotid artery. Going along with it are chips, cookies, candy, apples and of course large amounts of vodka. It is very traditional and old-school but still the definite default for celebratory occasions today. It was especially nice to have this certain genera of picnic since one of my fondest memories of my early days in Hovd is attending my sitemate's school's anniversary хорхог. Also, it was rather perfect since my sitemate's school has an official хорхог-cookin' guy who was available to help us out, a very insistent and charismatic man named Baska (proudly sporting a sweater-vest below). Compounded with the beautiful weather and lack of bugs right now which made the river a perfect venue, we couldn't do this parting any other way. However, though this was surely the best choice of an event, I did feel pretty bad for Bo Peep's little ward; it kind of felt like a sacrificial slaughter at the alter of me which is pretty wack for someone from a family in which half the members are vegetarian. But despite my misgivings and guilt about ending this sheepy life, we went ahead and all chipped in for the 100 тɵгрɵг bleating picnic. And sad though it was to know that a furry friend was going down, the day was an absolute smash hit. We had over 50 people come by though we were randomly and inexplicably very far upriver from town. Our suspicions of success were confirmed when our friends tucked into the meal like Chinggis Khan might have. I know it might sound gross, but something about this style of eating is rather exciting because it is so visceral and intense; it's a tactile adventure in which you can relish how dirty you get. At the end of the party, everyone was a little browner, exhausted and very sated after hours by the river, a soccer game, 3 1/2 liters of vodka, a sheep and lots of laughing and chatting with friends. Everyone seemed to know each other and talk easily while their children slashed through the river. We all thought this was by far the best and most culturally appropriate way to celebrate our time here and turns out we were right. A beautiful day very well spent and a good choice to give back to the folks that have helped us along the way. Below is a little peek at how we all fared...and how the sheep did, too.

First Course: Intestine Soup.Blood Sausage?Offering vodka to the four corners.Loading up the can with rocks and sheep parts.Friends digging in.Cameron taking his stomach down.Feeding the huge birds of prey hungry for scraps.Some of our merry band.

Yesterday turned out better than I ever expected. I had planned a field day for my students and though their attendance to class had been rather sparse of late, many of them came out to frolic. We started at the town square and after waiting a healthy 30 minutes for everyone to trickle in, we paraded to the river. There they had their first encounter with water balloons starting with a gentle tossing game which, much to my delight, turned into a full-blown war. We played the squeeliest game of soccer I have ever witnessed, a Mongolian numbers game and arm-link tag. There were cupcakes and apples, soda and juice. We sang songs, took pictures and giggled until it hurt. Though the day had been brutally windy earlier, the weather decided to behave itself I believe in reverence to the laughing children. We were all shocked to find it 6:30 when the girls tired and the games finally wound down.

Our shadows lengthened as we walked back into town and the girls flanked me affectionately on either side. I knew I had to try really hard to explain to them that I was leaving soon and was not coming back. Earlier three girls had left the river and when I tried to hint at the fact that this was goodbye forever, they just smiled, waved and skipped off towards home. They didn't understand.

Mongolia is a nomadic culture; one based around journeys. People are used to their family and friends coming and going on missions and excursions, especially in such a remote town. But in all the journeys here I've seen, the wayfarer always returns. This very well might be the first time that a loved one does not come back to these teenagers.

Soon, when a few others started to peel off down a dust-packed road, I made a more concerted effort at expressing what this parting meant. This time it sank in. One girl looked at me like I was crazy and belted 'why?!'. A sad recognition crept over the faces of others. They asked me when I was coming back; 'never' seemed too cruel so I just shrugged and told them 'maybe someday'. They all hugged me and professed their love; some even walked with me to my house, as if they were trying to squeeze out every last minute together. I was glad they came with me although one of the girls started to cried.

I have held off tears until now. Thursday we had a grand graduation for my older class, the class I am closest with. Midway though the ceremony, as I was joyfully watching one of my students give a speech, my counterpart leaned over and whispered 'ok, now you must give speech'- a news flash to me. So I marched up there and squared off with my favorite class. I had written them a letter before with all my thoughts and love for them so this public affair seemed unimportant; they all knew how I felt. But it was still a struggle not to cry; I had to take a few deep breaths soaking in the knowledge that I'd probably never see my wonderful, and sometimes deviant, angels ever again.

I guess it all boils down to trust now. I must trust that they won't forget our time together, that they will continue to work hard and dream big, that they will value themselves with confidence and that I did my best during our time together. I know my absence will be like plucking the soccer ball out of the river we played next to, barely a splash will ruffle the surface. But I do hope that these amazing little people I have enjoyed so much time with will hold the memory of me at least for a little while. I know I will keep them with me forever.