We'd finally fallen into a comfortable rhythm: wake up, rush to the Mekong Restaurant $2.75 breakfast buffet and eat enough pastries, eggs and rice to last us all day, hop on Bong Soriya's moto for a 20 minute ride to Takmao, attempt to locate and latch onto a physician to shadow, chat with Bill, Jan and the rest of the amazing Rose staff, spend the afternoon at the eye clinic watching surgeries or walking around Phnom Penh, have a strictly unhappy dinner at Happy Pizza and down a few $1 fruit shakes, chat with the kids who sold books and bracelets on the waterfront, play thumb war with a few of them as we walked home, then relax with a book and Asian music videos on the tv before bed. And suddenly it was time to leave.
Bill and Jan invited us to a series of goodbye dinners and activities, including one very entertaining evening that involved Bill's guitar and a song about a sloth (as soon as I can find a decent internet connection I'll upload video footage).
The highlight, however, was a trip to the Dr. Fish booth, where Danielle, the bravest girl I know, had a full-blown freakout and squealed and writhed with the urgency of a nine-year-old being tickled to death. As the typically less brave member of our traveling duo, I took a sick pleasure in her obvious discomfort.
Not that I was totally comfortable with the sensation myself. There's something about a hundred tiny mouths nibbling at the skin between your toes that just doesn't feel right.
Our last night in town, we went to Bill and Jan's for dinner, and Jan presented us with the perfect gift: gray T-shirts that had "My name is not Tuk-Tuk" and "Don't call me Tuk-Tuk" scrawled on them in permanent marker. We already miss those guys.
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