Who doesn’t have an AK-47 here?

Everyone likes a midnight construction project.

I hope never again to look down and wonder: should I grab that mouse by the tail and fling it off, or drive using only my fingers?

And then the mouse ran off the throttle, into the moto and back again and I managed to get home without screaming, crashing or falling. But I did fairly throw myself off the moto once I got home and tried desperately to shake the varmint out. No luck. Fingers crossed it has extracated itself by tomorrow.

Motos for sale. Shiny, shiny motos for sale.

A few weeks ago, I bought a motorbike. It was terrifying for a few minutes, and then just really fun. I haven’t got a license or plates, so my biggest fear is the tiny swarms of policeofficers packed on certain corners. The most valuable skill in such situations is not minding alternate routes and planning ahead to use SUVs as cover. But there’s invariably that painful moment when you’re crouched behind a giant truck and the cops are *right there* and on the traffic light countdown˘ you’ve still got 70 seconds to go. So far, fingers crossed, knock on wood, it’s been fine. Equally so far, fingers crossed, knock on wood, I haven’t gotten into any accidents. Yes, dad, I do wear a helment Helmets are the Law here! (and, really, even for strictly cop-avoidence purposes it makes a lot of sense to wear one, because that is a most-evident traffic violation. You’ll see tons of people driving around who keep it on their laps and throw it on at the last possible pre-cop second.) So. I wear a helmet and I even started wearing a surgical mask because I think I’m becoming asthmatic, and between that and my super-tan arms I think I can lose myself in the melee pretty well.

˘At a few major intersections here, the traffic lights have countdowns. I think they’re a pretty sweet innovation but there’s been a rumor floating for a few years now that the reason they’re so ill-timed (some make you wait an agonizing minute-and-a-half, others, 30 seconds) is because the manuals are in Japanese and no one has figured out how to reset. Bollocks, no doubt, but hilarious.

Latenight Fruit Vendors Outside NagaWorld

Because there are so many people here (2 million) and such a constant flow of traffic, rush hour, construction projects, businessmen, etc, it’s easy to think of Phnom Penh as a major city. But it’s not, really. It’s probably more like a small town. There’s community theater - so you can see a play once every few months. There are a few bars that show depressing Khmer Rouge documentaries, and a French Cultural Center that shows depressing French films and a bunch of things in that vein. For the most part, if you want choice when it comes to your passive entertainment, you’ll have to go the route of bootlegged new release DVDs, or bars or theoretically, books. OH BUT DID I MENTION THERE’S A CASINO? The town has one casino. It’s enthralling. NagaWorld is a hotel and a bunch of restaurants and a lot of random floors that are fun to wander around until you get caught and a casino! The stakes are low and they’ll bring you drinks for free (as long as you don’t bother to divide losses among your drink) and there’s even a room with a fake sky painted on the ceiling and some tiny Venetian-style streams underfoot. I won, so I’m very keen on NagaWorld. Stay tuned for my inevitable future backlash.

Flower vendors, construction workers at the Central Market.

Massive construction projects = everyone’s favorite time killer. I hung around for 20 minutes, this motodop looked like he’d been perched watching for ages. Incidentally, all parties involved swear the super-luxe Gold Tower won’t be at all endangered by the recession.  Still, I’m not sure I’d like to have stake in an apartment there these days.

Burmese delights at Wynn Myanmar. awful junta; awesome food

There’s a pretty mind-blowing array of restaurants in this city, but somehow I keep eating at the same 10 or 15—and, since I never cook, it’s turned improbably repetitive. Sigh. Such problems I face. Anyway, to rectify the situation, I’ve been trying to systematically work my way through the best regional restaurants. Singaporean Saturday, Indonesian Sunday, Malaysian Monday, Vietnamese Tuesday, etc. (Vietnamese Tuesday, incidentally, was supposed to be Japanese Tuesday, but the much-lauded Ohan was closed. So we wound up at Pho 24 next door which is apparently the McDonalds of Vietnam, only, you know, good-good instead of bad-good—real shrimp in the spring rolls, real beef in the pho, real glasses and plates and tea. One waiter wandered the place with an electric swatter and electrified flies with slightly too much glee. So good times all around.)

The real winner so far is Warung Bali, an Indonesian place where nearly every one of the 6 or 7 dishes we got was great. We gorged on eggrolls (a translated name unworthy of the delight that were these fillings wrapped in deep-fried melt-away skins) and tender chicken coated in lime and hoisin and garlic and who knows and omelets bean sprouts and chilies and peanuts and, and, and. Malaysian at Mamak’s Halal Corner was all curries and rotis and spicy noodles and the kind of place where you can’t complain about things being less-than-stellar because the meal was $2 and you get to sit in an air-conditioned room and stare at posters of Kuala Lumpur’s weird skyscrapers. And Singapore Kitchen just reinforced my desire to follow in Calvin Trillin’s footsteps and trek to the country for the sole purpose of eating. Some stuff was great (cold and dull-looking Hainan chicken that fell off the bone and fairly kicked with flavor) and some was a bust (the oyster omelet with too many giant gluttonous bits and too few shrivelly, flavorless oysters*) but the menu was huge and full of promises that a country that boasts food courts full of vendors could never disappoint. (Provided you can’t be disappointed by canings and $10 beers.)

So, to reiterate, yes I really do eat every meal out. No, I really never do cook. Once, literally once, I “made” cup of noodles (not even ramen, the thing which comes with a heat-proof cup and a folding fork). And a few times I’ve crafted a fine peanutbutter and jelly sandwich or bowl of cereal or cheese and apple plate. Otherwise, yes, honest, every meal out. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Lunchtime!

*”There’s an old joke - um… two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of ‘em says, “Boy, the food at this place is really terrible.” The other one says, “Yeah, I know; and such small portions.”“

More post-storm photos here.