My late-night grocery run

I walk in from church at 6:30 PM. Was I really there for three whole hours? I'm kicking myself - I knew I needed groceries, but I never left the house between jogging this morning and going to church. Usually I walk there since it's not far, but my jogging route this morning took a different direction. Now it's late, I don't have breakfast food for this week, and I need ingredients for the birthday cake I want to make for myself. (Turtle cake, a Cooper tradition spanning three generations.)

"Where's the moto key? I'm going out to get groceries," I tell Sarah.

"Now? It's late!"

"Yeah, now. I'll be OK." This isn't normal for me. Usually, once I return from school around five, I'm in for the night. Occasionally, like last night, we take a group trip downtown for dinner, but those times are few - maybe every two months. Being out after dark, even as early as seven, just doesn't happen much here.

Outside, it's been completely dark for an hour. I climb onto my trusty moto, pleased to see that the landlords' dog is near their door and far from the gate. Maybe, just maybe, I can get the moto out without him escaping again. I crack open the gate...scoot the moto forward quietly...slip down the kickstand...

Too late. He's come bounding through before I can dismount and latch the gate.

"Khla! Mao, Khla!" We don't really know the dog's name. I thought they told me "Khla," which sounds like the Khmer word that makes nouns plural. But Michaela avows their little girl told her "Clark." That'd make sense - the little girl and her dad are fluent in English. And their last puppy, the one they sent to the farm because he wandered outside the gate one time too many, was named Scotty after the American Idol winner. Most Khmer people don't pronounce final consonants, so it's hard to tell the difference between "Khla" and "Clark." Or could it be "Claw?"

"Mao! Khla, mao!" Does he know any Khmer? Is "mao" the right word, or do dogs get the more formal version "mok"? Maybe I'd know this if they'd ever tried to train their dog. We've never heard them speak to him...their discipline consists of kicking him and hitting him with a stick, or else ignoring him. No wonder he runs outside the gate - he's never even been walked.

We'd be more upset with them if that weren't completely typical for Cambodians with dogs. I make a face at my across-the-street neighbors, who are sitting on their curb waiting for just such an occasion. Laughing at the white girls trying to catch the dog again is pretty good entertainment. What would they do - just leave him? Hit him so he'll learn his lesson? They've never offered any advice or help, just sympathetic grins.

I grab his collar and try to coax or drag him, but it's not happening. At probably 80 pounds and resembling a black lab mix, he's pretty good at resisting. He rolls over and tries to get me to scratch his belly. Seriously? Can't this wait for inside the gate, or better yet, after my grocery trip?

Finally, exasperated, I close the gate with him still sniffing through the trash on the street. The landlords are away, so I can't let them know he's out. At least the street is deserted so he can't easily get hit. Please, Lord, don't let me be responsible for a major incident.

I drive the two blocks to the mom-and-pop grocery store, peeling my eyes for unlit vehicles. Khmer tradition says that ghosts follow vehicles with lights after dark; cars always use headlights, but young guys on motos don't always bother, and bicycles rarely have lights. I've forgotten how jumpy I get here, driving in the dark. There's little traffic until I hit the major road that the store is on - crossing it is always a challenge.

Inside the store, I quickly find what I need, except the cake mix I need for turtle cake. I feel silly buying a mix - I usually prefer cakes from scratch - but it's the one recipe I like that calls for one, and today I'm not up to the hassle of finding an equivalent recipe that still works. "Samto bong, mien 'cake mix'?" I ask a young employee, carefully pronouncing the foreign word. She stares blankly at me. Come to think of it, though they carry a few imported treats like spaghetti sauce and Nutella, I can't recall ever seeing cake mixes here. I don't know the word for "mix," and "cake" doesn't have a separate word from "bread." "It's OK," I reassure her in Khmer, "maybe you not have here. It's OK." She begins repeating "kay meek" to the other four employees standing around, one of whom leads me to pancake mix. I'm impressed how close he got. "Yes, similar, but cake sweeter and bigger than pancake. Maybe you not have."

The cashier rings up my other purchases and I walk out behind a Korean couple and their darling toddler girl, the only other customers at the moment. Is it worth it to try the other local grocery store with foreign foods? I suppose. I really want to make this cake tomorrow.

I dodge the luxury SUVs and drive an uneventful few blocks to the new Thai Huot grocery store. I heard rumors the last two years that it was coming, but was shocked when it actually opened, practically next to Logos' old campus. My neighborhood has become so much more developed since I've arrived: both these stores are new, as well as the bank and several upscale cafes. The markets are still cheaper, but it's such a novelty to be able to buy chocolate within walking distance, especially after 5 when market vendors pack up.

One of the three guards drags two other motos apart, creating a parking space for me in the tiny area designated for motos. He hands me a ticket and staples a matching one to my right handlebar. I soon choose my cake mix - a Malaysian brand, 70 cents cheaper than Betty Crocker! - and head out again. One guard takes my ticket while another thoughtfully pulls my moto back out for me. I drive straight down this road toward my house, even though I hate this road after dark. Did you know red-light districts are actually marked by red lights? The street to the other grocery store has a sketchy snooker lounge, but nothing as blatant as this line of red-light rowhouses. The moto driver in front of me stares to his left, where girls in short shorts sit just outside their buildings. Somewhere on the right is the former Asian Hope boys' house - they moved to get away from all these not-so-stellar neighbors, and their house too succombed to the industry. "My house is now a brothel?!" I've heard these students bemoan. That's just messed up.

I turn right onto a road that's bustling during the day with small businesses, but now is completely dark. I guess these business owners don't actually live at the same place, like most similar shops? I've never paid attention. A quick left, and to my relief, there is Khla, jumping on the gate and clamoring to be let in.

"Ready to come back inside? Me too! It's late."