“Snnnnnk!” Matt sucks snot deep into his nose.

“Wow, you are just so attractive,” Chelsea mocks sweetly. She scrunches her face when her congested travel partner swoops in to kiss her.

Two nights ago, the first night of Chelsea’s arrival in Cambodia, he’d caught a minor head cold, a sinus infection. How do you get a head cold in the tropics? Easy: just blindly turn the thermostat of your room all the way down, causing the air conditioning to blast unseasonably frigid air onto your face all night. The sniffles had started before they left the hostel the next morning.

“I’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

They’ve just settled into their seats on a bus that will take them the length of Cambodia, from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap in the far West. It’s a Giant Ibis bus, the best brand in the country, which means electrical outlets and some decent climate control (both worthwhile and affordable luxuries for many Western travelers).

Matt is carefully aiming the pair of vents above him away from his face while the seats fill up in ones and twos around them, when from the row in front of them comes English wrapped in that unmistakable, throaty voice. “Ran?!”

“Matt! My friend!” Ran exclaims, turning in his own seat. “What are the odds?”

“Chelsea, this is the Ran I was telling you about. And Ran, this is my girlfriend Chelsea that I was telling you about.”

Ran’s face lights up. “Ohhh, Chelsea! I’ve heard so much about you! So many good things!”

Chelsea returns the sentiment before Matt butts in again. “I haven’t seen you since I left Kampot a few days ago, but I thought you said you’d be in Siem Reap yesterday.”

“I was, after Tamzin, she went home for her shoulder.” He shakes his head. Just when he’d found a good traveler-girlfriend, she’d gone and broken her shoulder, which forced her to return to Canada. “And then I got food poisoning,” he winces, “so I stayed inside.”

“Well, you’re feeling better now?” Matt continues at a nod, “Then travel with us. I’m pretty templed-out, but we’re going to do Angkor Wat tomorrow.”

They have to do Angkor Wat. Chelsea insisted. She’s excited to explore what she envisions as an Indiana Jones movie set–though really only Tomb Raider was filmed there†. And of course it makes a lot of sense, it being one of the biggest tourist destinations on the planet.

* * *

Tourists stream around them, though technically Matt, Chelsea, and Ran are just as much a part of the flood as the others. It’s the next evening and they’re filtering out of the steeply tiered colosseum-style seating of Siem Reap’s pre-eminent circus: Phare.

For the past forty-five minutes, the audience has marveled at the show of teenage enthusiasm and acrobatics. In an entertaining Cirque du Soleil-like show, the cast sought to exorcise ghosts (played by other students) whom had taken up residence in their ‘schoolroom’ and intermittently descended from the rafters by way of silk streamers to terrorize them. The seven or eight performers were all teens who have suffered from various traumatic experiences, such as human trafficking, alcoholism, physical and emotional abuse, and the fallout from the Khmer Rouge.

They attend a school for the arts that seeks to use art as an outlet for overcoming trauma and promoting growth and development. The students develop skills in several different areas, such as gymnastics, juggling, and contortion, as showcased in tonight’s show. Moreover, production of the show (music, lighting, stagecraft) is all done by students from the same school.

“So now what? Pub Street?” Matt asks their group, referring to the aptly named road of bars and restaurants in the middle of the Siem Reap backpacker hub. Today is the lanky Ran’s birthday. And while it’s 8pm and the trio is flagging, celebrations must be enforced.

Flagging is the right word for it. It’s already been sixteen hours since they’d woke up at 4am this morning to catch a tuk-tuk to watch the sunrise over the main temple of Angkor Wat.

* * *

The wait in the chilly darkness as fleets of tourists jostle for space at the edge of the temple’s moat. The dawn skyline bristles with selfie sticks, and guides solicit business with memorable nicknames like ‘Honey’, ‘Darling’, and ‘Harry Potter’. The sunrise is anti-climactic: pretty, but nothing to lose sleep over.

They hop into their rental they picked up from the hostel–the same hostel that all three of them had ironically booked independently online before ever boarding that bus to Siem Reap. It seems destiny has bound Ran to the couple for his birthday. The fate-twisted trio tours from temple to temple, posing for photos with the ruins, other tourists, and even some regional travelers.

A pair of monks waves wildly at them.

“I think he wants a picture with you guys,” Chelsea points out, directing the guys’ attention to the orange-clad men standing beneath a crumbling statue of a far-oversized head.

When Ran and Matt head over, the lead monk grins widely, yammering at his friend at his success.

“So you want to do the peace sign, or what?” the culturally-aware American asks when they’re all hugged up and posing.

They respond in Thai. They’re definitely not talking about food, which is pretty much all of the words Matt knows in the language.

“Peace sign it is!”

As pictures start to snap off and the sweat from standing in the sunlight starts to bead on their brows, a Chinese tourist rushes over to get in the photo, dumping her camera with a friend.

“Sure, yeah, let’s take some pictures with some white people,” Matt jives. It’s Ran’s birthday, why not celebrate?

* * *

“Yes! To Pub Street!” Ran declares once they’re out of the circus. At thirty-two he’s as energetic as a twenty year-old.

“Are you sure you can handle this?” Chelsea asks her ailing boyfriend, her brow furrowed down the usual crease. “It’s fine if you’re too sick…”

Matt sniffs, as much in mock affront as to clear his sinuses. “Yeah, I’m tired, but we can sleep when we’re in Bangkok.”

* * *

“Uch, are we almost there? My feet are killing me,” Chelsea huffs in the jungle/urban heat and smog.

“Yeah, just like,” Matt consults his phone, ”another few blocks.” Or something. Downtown Bangkok isn’t the easiest place to navigate. And the tuk-tuks are dickheads.

It’s two days since the circus and the pair has been exploring all around the metropolis. Today has seen them taking off shoes to enter temples scattered throughout the city (one of which housed a Buddha statue that was easily thirty feet tall), being ripped off by riverboat operators, wandering through back alleys where old couples watch incomprehensible soap operas, and snacking on meat-on-a-stick that’s sold on every street corner. In need of more-filling nourishment and a rest from walking, they decided to check out the fabled food courts of the enormous Bangkok malls.

Twenty minutes later they slump into their seats at a 400 baht ($12.26) international buffet. Sushi? Check. Assorted noodles and stir fry? Check. Ice Cream? Check. And more, much more, but at the moment the weary, sweaty couple only has eyes for the beverages. The cool, refreshing beverages.

At the sodajerk two Thai kids fiddle with the ice tray, unable to figure out how to open it properly. Matt steps over, shows them to open the latch (up from the side, not the front).

“Khop khun-khrap!” the boys thank him amid their giggles, rushing away.

“Cute kids,” Matt murmurs, filling his and Chelsea’s cup with ice.

In about three hours this mistake is painfully obvious. The now-full-of-buffet-food travelers are sitting in the mall movie theater where Matt only coughed once now that his cold is under control (with some delightful Western antibiotics). If he could hug an anthropomorphized Ciprofloxacin, he would. At the movie’s climax, however, Chelsea jerks out of her chair and power-walks out of the darkened room where Matthew McConaughey is wooing crowds in Interstellar.

Why would she leave like that? This movie is awesome! It’s finally getting to the part where [SPOILERS]!

Three more hours and Matt understands. The couple spends their evening (and most of the night) in the Saphaipae hostel suffering from some rather harsh food poisoning. Or rather, ice poisoning. They’ve eaten street food at the sketchiest of places, and their downfall is bootleg ice from a mall food court‡? Unbelievable. At one point the rapidly dehydrating couple finds themselves back in their dorm for a minute.

“I think it’s the beard that’s making me ill,” Matt confesses.

Chelsea’s briefly shocked out of her own torture. “What? How?”

“Well, every time I look in the mirror, I look like I’m a Sikh.”

Chelsea groans at the grinning punster.

The next morning they opt to skip breakfast to avoid further upsetting their queasy stomachs. After checking out of their room at the last possible minute, the couple spends the day on the couches in the hostel common room, sipping ginger ale and moving as little as possible. Eventually, they make their way to the city’s metro line, bound for Hua Lamphong, the city’s railway station, to travel to the southern island of Koh Pha Ngan.

“Come on, that’s our train!” Matt shouts while screeching funnels down from the elevated metro rail.

He starts taking the steps two at a time and Chelsea races after him. His backpack is bouncing in the annoying off-cadence of encumbrance. Another flight of stairs and the straps dig painfully into his recently scoured abdomen, which has been rumbling uncomfortably during the entire hustle from the hostel. He arrives at the final platform only to watch the train doors close, Chelsea hot on his heels. Wait, no, that’s not the only–

“Hnnnnggg!” Matt retches once, fighting the waves of nausea that ripple through him. He breathes deeply. He’s okay. He’s okay. “Hrrr–!” He covers his mouth, but that only serves to cover his hands in the orange-colored vomit that spews forth from the doubled over traveler.

He lurches to the edge of the platform and empties a stomach he thought was already bare. The other people standing a few yards down, locals waiting for a different train scoot away from him. Not so much in horror as one might have expected. This kind of thing must happen often enough.

“Oh, honey,” Chelsea comforts without touching him. She hands over some napkins she saves for messes usually less messy than this.

It’ll be a while before he’s hungry again.

* * *

“I’ll have the pancakes, the Pad Thai, the French toast, the stir-fry, the fruit salad, two of the mango shakes, a coffee, a hot chocolate, the–” Matt pauses to read the curlycue font of the hotel menu, “the bakery platter–the one with the chocolate muffin–and…” he cups the receiver, “Did you want anything else?”

Chelsea shakes her head from the bed in the middle of their room.

“And that’s it. Room twenty-five.”

“Thank you, sir,” the Thai/British-accented voice on the other end of the line starts, “but the complimentary breakfast has a maximum of two entrees per room.” A pause. “And you have four.”

“Okay, what if we cancel the stir-fry? Can we get three?”

She allows it.

The couple has booked a week on the tropical island in an upscale bungalow resort. Right on the beach. They’d recovered from the unspeakable events of Bangkok and now while away their mornings by pushing the limits of the included room service breakfast and their afternoons walking through tide pools and over barnacle-encrusted boulders. Some days they venture into town to play pool at The Harp, an Irish bar down at the island’s ferry dock. They play until they have their fill of dirty glances from a pair of probably-German expats that shows up every evening to use the pool table. Through the Americans’ amateur play, they fiddle with the signature cue sticks they brought from home and glare over their sodas at those less skilled until Matt and Chelsea succumb to the pressure and yield the table.

One day, just to change it up, they visit Haad Rin on the other side of the island, the site of the fabled Full Moon Party, and find it blessedly empty (they’d booked their vacation to coincide with the dead days between events). As such, the beautiful beach is pristine, save for the industrial-strength garbage bins dotting the shoreline. The bars and party pits that jostle for space at the beach’s edge look like raver girls passed out on the sidewalk the morning after the reveling: abandoned and trashy.

After a string of disappointing sunsets (seriously how many beautiful-days-into-cloudy-evenings can an island famed for its sunsets have?!), the American couple decides to visit a lounge near their hotel one evening. The Amsterdam Bar is renowned for its altitude and corresponding expansive view of the waters to the west.

They sit in one of the lounge pits, full of pillows and floor tables. They and the roulette of coming and going islanders sip passable-to-shitty Southeast Asian beer (think Chang) and assorted island drinks. Jeremy is an accountant from New York on a quick vacation, and he takes an interest in the couple’s odd verve from the usual working world. Dallos is Swiss and a semi-pro mountain biker. Some broken ribs a month prior won’t have him canceling his Thai vacation! He insists Matt is a spitting image of his friend Marc, though being white, wearing glasses, and having a beard isn’t an uncommon look.

The conversation keeps up, through another murky sunset and unremembered number of rounds. Eventually Chelsea’s eyelids start drooping, not far behind Matt’s. They’re morning people, working world or no.

They pick their way down the steep stone stairs across the street to their resort and come to stand in front of their locked bungalow.

“This is so nice,” Matt babbles, “out here, with you.” The words have been a continuous stream since they left the lounge. “I keep traveling, meeting all these new people, but now I’m with you.” He look down at Chelsea. She’s leaning on him in exhaustion and inebriation, smiling at the praise.

“And I just love spending time with you,” he continues, flinging an arm at the darkened, crashing waves. “You’re smart,” he squints, “and you remember things–”

“Like the fact that you have the keys,” she interrupts, drawing the words out with a smile.

“See?! …Oh. Right.”

* * *

On the last day of their island escapade, they’ve left their luxurious bungalow behind and are sweating their way through the Koh Samui streets. Koh Samui is the largest of the cluster of islands that make up the Koh Pha Ngan/Samui/Tao island triplet. It’s far and away the most touristic and built up. Hell, it has an international airport!

Chelsea shrug-adjusts her backpack. “I feel kinda bad.”

Matt pauses at the curb, afraid they’re coming down with another bout of food poisoning. “What? Why?”

“Well, since I came out, nothing crazy’s happened. There haven’t been any of the adventures you were writing about before I was out here.”

“Nothing crazy? We were projectile vomiting. And we must’ve seen like half of Bangkok in a single day before that. Not to mention wandering the ruins of Angkor Wat, which is like, the oldest temple in Asia or something. Or whatever.” He moves closer to her. “And we took a cooking class–remember when that kid spilled his slushie everywhere in the 7-11? And we held our own Thanksgiving, with night market sushi and chicken legs! Yeah, I’m not partying and getting lost in some town the middle of the night, but that’s because I’d rather be spending time with you. And I–oh shit, a songthaew!”

He sprints at the truck he’s spotted coming down the street to flag it down. They’re the cheapest taxis on the island! Sure, the travelers have to climb into the modified pickup, and sure, it’s a bit cramped, but for fifty baht ($1.53), it’ll take you halfway across the island!

Once they’re aboard, “Is this bus going to the airport?” Matt asks with a map in his hand.

The assorted locals and Western travelers stare at him blankly.

“Here. Us,” he encompasses everyone with his gesture and points down, the universal sign for ‘here’. “Here” He points to where he hopes they are on the glossy paper.

Crickets.

He tries again, slower, modified gestures. More pointing.

No reaction.

“Come on, you’re looking at me like you’ve never seen a map before!”

The outburst brings on some laughter and a European couple tries their hand at English. Yeah, the truck is going the right way.

Chelsea settles into her seat and bounces with the poor-suspensioned songthaew. Tonight they head back to Bangkok, and tomorrow she goes back home to Washington D.C., while Matt continues onto Taiwan and wherever else on his travels. She’ll be coming out again in January, but until then, she’ll be content with the memories made during this island Thanksgiving.

† Tomb Raider was technically a video game that was designed to actually be Indiana Jones until someone had the bright idea to put a large-breasted woman as the protagonist. Either way, the 2001 Angelina Jolie movie was mediocre at best. Did you know she was fitted with prosthetic breast implants for the role? Angelina Jolie’s boobs weren’t even big enough. Talk about big shoes÷ to fill.

÷ ’Shoes’ in this instance mean bra cups.

‡ Ice in Southeast Asia isn’t safe to drink if it’s made from ice cube trays or anything having to do with the near-poisonous tap water. The only safe ice to drink is ice in the shape of hollow cylinders, made from purified water at specialized production centers. The buffets ice cubes were, sadly, cube shaped and made from the crappy sodajerk.

Just one of the many views and plazas in the opulent palace grounds in the middle of Phnom Penh.

As we drive into Bangkok I snapped a picture of this awesome cluster of clouds trying to hold back the sun.

It may not be as impressive without seeing it in person, but these Buddha statues are fucking huge.

A quick picture of this Thai youth topping up on root beer slushie. A minute later half of it had fallen off and was left to melt and make the floors that special brand of sticky.

Angkor Wat in the waxing sunlight. Oh, and the tourists, can’t forget them!