Cairo to Cambodia

Feeling of Familiarity

At first glance, even at further inspection, Cambodia is nothing like Egypt. Somehow, while settling in to a new apartment I’m calling mine for the month and wandering the streets of my new neighborhood, I feel like I’ve been here before. Phnom Penh oozes Cairo to me, in the most unconventional of ways.

The heat, while dry in Cairo and dripping with humidity in Phnom Penh, seems to slow down time itself. Traffic zips in and out of the proper lanes, motorbikes seamlessly transition from street to sidewalk, and the no rules rule holds true. But there’s no hurry or urgency in the race.

Within the bustling city, the local markets still hum and thrive. Fruits and vegetables are stacked on tables, or mats on the ground, showing what the sellers have brought for the day. I collect what I want in a plastic tub and it’s weighed on creaky, old scales. Making a loop around the wet market of BKK2, I smile to myself. I’ll soon know who sells the best tomatoes, where to find the best price for my cucumbers, inevitably buy potatoes from the smiling lady because I bought onions from her neighbor, and have an avocado and a mango lady respectively.

Shiny new buildings are glimmering, half-finished in the sunlight. Trendy cafes, blasting air conditioning and touting organic and vegan options, are many. But walk down a side street and you’ll still find the corner store tucked away, brimming with biscuits, canned goods, and the occasional ice cream freezer. I can close my eyes and replace the bahn mi carts with fouul stands and the frying banana with frying falafel. Steaming bowls of soup and noodles with handfuls of fresh coriander and Thai basil are as ubiquitous as the heaping plates of pasta, rice, lentils, and onions that make up koushry.

There are expats and tourists here, and the neighborhoods reflect that as well. Restaurants and cafes are clustered in a few areas. The neighborhood I’ve found myself in is western adjacent. Close, but local, and with a few other foreigners tucked away. The cafes closer to my place have simple tables and plastic chairs. Iced coffee with sweet milk replaces the tiny Turkish coffee cups that usually clutter the small wooden tables of Cairo.

As I walk my way home, an old woman sits in the shade watching the world go by. A smile flashes across her face after our eyes meet and I nod a silent, smiling hello. The next block over, I hear shouts of “HELLO!” from above, my eyes searching the balconies for the tangle of hanging feet and giggling children.

My own Cambodian balcony boasts a jungle of plants and space I dreamed of for my Cairo apartment. Wine bottles turned candle holders litter the table and tired furniture sits in the sun. The apartment itself shows the turnover of tenants. Long expired spices hide in the kitchen and paintings lean against walls inside. I close my eyes and can imagine the house parties thrown here, reminiscent of the ones I had attended in Cairo.

A place so new, yet so familiar. And I wonder, is it the place, or the people, or me? Could I find familiarity in anything, if I truly wanted? Is it a sense of missing my home away from home, a sense of longing that created this familiarity? I smile, because it doesn’t matter either way – my heart knows.