mum, don't read this

Let me begin by stating, I'm okay. I'm safe, healthy, happy and growing older and wiser by the day.

Now... If I may just briefly revisit the events of last Friday night...

It was a typical Friday night in Phnom Penh. That is to say, myself, Emily and Dee were returning from a night out, hating ourselves just a little bit for ending up at Heart of Darkness, again (a seedy nightclub on the late-night main drag, Street 51).

After paying our tuk tuk driver we approached the guesthouse and (gah!) the big green front gates were locked again, for the third night in a row.

The first time Emily and I had found ourselves street-side of the locked gates, we had tried (unsuccessfully) to rouse the figure sleeping in the make-shift bed five feet from the entrance, but no dice. Calling out, gate shaking, feet stomping; nothing worked. Those Cambodians are heavy sleepers. After contemplating climbing over the top and braving the procession of spear heads crowning the gate, I discovered (with great relief) that if you pull the gate out just enough to reach beyond a dip in the curb, you can (albeit ungracefully) maneuver your way in on your backside.

Well! After this discovery we felt a bit invincible. There was no way they could keep us from our rock-hard beds now. So, after half-heartedly trying to wake the unconscious staff member, we went about our routine of pulling out the gate and worming our way underneath. Emily went first, because she's the "expert", having done it three nights in a row. Dee and I rolled up our sleeves and placed our bags down inside the gate, ready for our slithering act. As I crouched down, a ninja-like figure appeared in my peripheral, snatched one of the bags, and bolted off behind us.

Bear in mind, we had just come home from a night out, and were a little sluggish to put it mildly. However, adrenaline is a funny thing. Suddenly Dee and I were sprinting after the bag thief in our sandals, swearing blue murder as he bee-lined for a waiting moto containing two other youths, revving in anticipation of a quick getaway.

Without warning, I slipped and hit the ground. Hard. There was no pain; all I could think about was getting to the thief before he hopped on that moto and sped away. The universe must've took pity on me, because in a wonderful twist of fate, the bag thief also slipped and dropped the stolen booty. In that rare and triumphant moment, Dee snatched the bag back.

"Run away!" she ordered, with the fury of a mother who's reached her limit. He knew she meant business.

The thief scampered away, bagless, to his moto posse. Still running off adrenaline and absolutely livid, I chased after the moto, yelling out things that I don't think I've ever yelled in my life. They looked both frightened and amused, as they sped away.

Emily woke the staff member and made them let us in. Still shaken, we went up to Dee's room and ate her Pringles until we felt content enough to return to our own room.

It was a harsh wake up call, but bag snatching is so common here in Phnom Penh you should really always have your wits about you. Westerners are are majors targets for this type of crime. We just got lucky this time.

And Mum, if you read this, it's completely made up.

phoneless in Paris

 

So I managed to navigate through my Euro trip without any major hiccups, missed flights or lost property. Until Paris.

On my sister’s last night, I suggested we ditch our local watering holes for a kitschy terrace bar in the 20th arrondissement open for the summer called La Grande Prairie. It was here that I befriended the suave cocktail-mixing Spaniard working in the terrace bar, who somehow wasn't put off by my less-than-perfect French. After clocking off, the Spaniard left with us in search of a good kick-on spot.

I remember him handing us some roadies for the walk. And not much else.

When I woke up, head spinning and too early yet to even be hungover, I discovered that my dear iPhone was gone (notice how iPhone users never call their iPhone their phone? It’s an iPhone user thing that those Android kids would never understand).

I logged into iCloud to access the 'Find My iPhone' application, and (le sigh...) it was on the move. I watched the little dot zip around the map of Paris until it became just too depressing.

I was supposed to meet a good friend that day to go to Versailles, but somehow fudged up her meeting instructions and, without any way to contact her, wound up exploring Marie Antoinette's stomping grounds solo.

Here's an idea: how about not visiting Versailles when you're wretchedly hungover, with queues that snake up and down the entrance for a kilometre in the searing summer heat? Marie, don't get me wrong—your chateau is divine, but a few more chairs and drink vendors would've been lovely.

Later that day the sexy Spaniard, who I’d had the foresight to add on Facebook, asked me out on a date. We’d made plans to meet at the giant statue outside Republique metro station at 10pm sharp; it was all very Sleepless in Seattle. I realised that if I was to pull off this little rendezvous I would actually have to be on time, like people used to be in the olden days before smart phone technology and SMS. This was going to be tough—particularly if my last meeting attempt was anything to go off.

As date hour approached and I scrambled around for my hair dryer, the door started buzzing. It must be a mistake, I thought, I’m not expecting anyone. I ignored it and continued my dryer hunt.  A little while later, my sister Facebooks me in a state: "Where are you?? My flight’s been cancelled, I was buzzing the door before!". Whoops. This wouldn't happen if I had a phone.

When I met her at the door she burst into a teary recount of her shite day at Charles de Gaulle. I was running behind schedule and I could feel the panic rising. I tried to comfort her while I blitzed through my hair and make-up (which I'm sure just oozed sincerity). I felt terrible leaving her like this. I sent the Spaniard a quick Facebook message to warn that I might be a bit late, and rushed out before waiting for a reply.

As I approached the metro, I realised that I'd forgot something and had to sprint back to the apartment. Five flights of stairs and about 100 curse words later, I returned to the subway, sweaty and tired, and caught the two lines to Place de la République, arriving at the fashionably late time of 10.15pm.

When I stepped out, it was pouring rain. I hurried out of the station and headed for the giant monument in the centre of the square, shielding my freshly primped hair (which quickly proved futile). Oh, and no Spaniard to be found.

I circled around the enormous statue to be sure, then retreated to the undercover metro station. Dripping wet and crippled with indecision about my next move, I shivered away a few minutes next to the stairway, hoping that he would have the good sense to look for me in here and wasn’t somewhere getting saturated himself.

Without any better ideas, I found myself heading towards the statue again. As if to mock me, the rain was now accompanied by thunder and lightning. Hair was now a wet mess. Clothes were soaked. I stared up at the Place de la République monument, musing over the prospect of lightning striking the towering bronze figure, just to make my night complete. I did one final loop of the statue. No Spaniard. It was 10.35pm and time to cut my losses; he either didn't show up, or went home before I arrived. I glanced one more time at the statue before plodding back down into the subway.

When I arrived back at Cadet Station, I gave into defeat and ordered a cheeseburger from the McDonalds on the corner. I returned to the apartment, and as I was relaying my date fail to Marg, suddenly noticed the message on my computer screen:

“Where are you hiding ;)”.

And another one from earlier: “Let’s just meet at 10.30pm then”.

Gah! I’d left before he’d sent the update. We'd probably missed each other by minutes. Hate not having a phone.

I actually set out for Republique once again. Can you believe it? Am I insane? Perhaps. This time, however, the elusive Spaniard came good and fun times were had by all.

Now, I'm sure there's a lesson somewhere in this experience. Something about punctuality, persistance or Gen-Y's unhealthy dependance on iThingys? I dunno. But let it be a warning for all to take good care of your belongings, particularly while meandering around the globe.