3175 km (takeo).

it's november 4th in cambodia. when i wake up tomorrow morning, we'll have a new president.

i read hemingway's a moveable feast in phnom penh and felt inspired to do some slightly more personal writing. i can say with 100% certainty that this would not have happened a year ago.

i actually wrote this two days ago, but thought i'd share it with you now:

i've loved phnom penh, but somehow i feel guilty about this. guilt guilt guilt. thanks, pomona.

phnom penh is such a contradiction: a bustling, forward looking city that is still haunted by the atrocities of the past. a city proud of its independence after shaking off colonial rule in 1953, that now thrives on and grows with the heavy aid of outsiders. french colonial buildings that age and then crumble in poorer parts of the country are here maintained by expats and developed into leafy restaurants, bars and boutique stores for the benefit and enjoyment of other westerners.

phnom penh, a ''backwater capital,'' feels very cambodian. it is also the easiest developing capital city i have ever spent time in.

easy, for me, has always been the source of guilt.

the last thirty years have been a constant struggle in cambodia, as every person in this country tries to move on from the genocide of the khmer rouge. families attempt to recover, if they can, from losing a quarter of the cambodian population.

and now, thirty three years after the khmer rouge took over, i bike in from the north, and everything comes so easy. the cambodians i meet are warm and friendly. the weather is wonderful. i hear more english and see more westerners than i have in weeks. i eat well and stay in a beautiful apartment.

before my arrival, i'd only focused on the difficulties of the past. now, it seems, i'm surrounded by a very optimistic present.

i force an acknowledgement of the contradictions, both hidden and overt, to make my experience feel more real, which maybe means more difficult. why does privilege bring the desire to make things harder?

i spend the morning aimlessly winding my way through the stalls of central market, bargaining with women over cashews and ray bans. i bike slowly along palm shaded streets, in a futile attempt to stay cool as the midday heat descends. motos with three, four, five people speed by, dodging the young children splashing in puddles from last night's rain. i see victims of khmer rouge landmines begging outside of enormous, gleaming temples. lunch is on the shaded, open roof of a colonial building. i treat myself to a chocolate almond crepe, as i watch the traffic circle independence monument below. i spend the afternoon in a khmer rouge detention center made queasy by the sight of elementary classrooms turned into torture chambers. before spanish tapas, i find myself at the foreign correspondents club drinking sangria beside belligerent foreigners as i watch men fish with mosquito netting from the banks of the mekong below.

how can this all happen in one city, in one day?