openings

well, the true journey has begun.

i am an ex-pat. officially, truly, wholly, 100% an expatriate from the united states of america.

this is home. siem reap, cambodia. 

home.

i am looking around, constantly, surveying my place, my neighborhood, the faces, the at-once-familiar-but-i-don’t-know-you faces i see every morning when i am awoken by the squeak-squeak-squeak of the strangely hilarious clown horns that these ladies squeeze to announce their arrival to pick up your recyclables (and pay you for them). and in the crust of my slumber, most likely covered in a sweaty film, i think, “where am i?”

i look about in my room, my one room above the shop, hear the endless whirr-whirr-whirr of the ceiling fans that provide a tiny bit of relief from the heat, see the battered old fridge that my dear maree left me before she went home to australia, smell the scent of humidity mixed with the bouganville that hangs from my shuttered windows, and it crosses my mind that i am home.

this is mine, this is my place, my settlement, my hat-hanging, my palace. 

admittedly, i shed many tears this week. fear mixed with confusion combined with homesickness topped off with more fear. scared was like the cherry on top of this muddled sundae.

the economy and the fights on the thai border and the rain that will be ending soon, hopefully, and the distance and the no internet connection and sarah palin and the silence and the time difference and the diarrhea and the needs and the wants and the oh-my-god-what-have-i-done and the future and the past and fuck, the present. the now. i am crying about now.

i pedaled over to see kristen, my friend, my wise and sensitive friend who owns the soria moria, my home away from home all summer. i saw her, and the tears came. big, giant, monsoon-season droplets drenched my face, my already-soaked-from-sweat tee shirt.

help, i said, help.

i am here, was her reply. i get it and it’s okay. i’ve been here 9 years, i know. i understand. you’re entitled, you can cry. if you didn’t, you’d be a weirdo. it’s natural. i do it, too.

and somehow having permission to cry and long for and weep and desire and miss and have this moment of emptiness and be told it was okay, i felt better. i just needed the permission. i needed the pass.

so i planned the grand opening of the store. i wanted to dive into something that would fill up the holes, stop the gaps, clog the ducts. i printed out fliers, welcoming and beckoning our friends and colleagues to come to the store on saturday night at 6pm and have a look at my world. to have a look at dine. to have a look at me. to look at the sacrifices and the dreams and hopes for this, for me, for him, for cambodia.

and they came. 

we had beers and a dj playing cambodian music and bowls of local fruits out for the taking and bamboo rice–my favorite, bought in the countryside where it is sold–in large baskets and i had seen this teenager all summer selling belgian waffles from a vendor cart and i asked him to come and serve the guests his treats, and we had buckets of soda and the store was immaculate and people came. they came.

our street was alive. our music echoed off the alleyways and the sounds of all the children from the orphanage who were my honored guests provided the backdrop of laughter and excitement and called to the curiosity seekers. and they came.

kristen spread the word and it was a veritable united nations of siem reap in my store–expats of all types, locals, tourists, doctors, NGO workers, yoga instructors, hotel concierges. they came.

“everyone is talking about your shop,” said one expat. “we’ve needed you around here.”

i am here. i am afraid, i am lost, i am excited, i am inspired, i am needed, i am lonely, i am fulfilled, i am all the things i was in new york. i am the same.

i am here.

i am home.