Cracked, chipped, cut -- the lady mountain city's sidewalks sigh, raise and fall flat in uneven segmentation. Phnom Penh applies an uneven concealer of clothing scraps, cigarette butts and shattered colored glass on the bruised and broken, plastic-bottle littered pavement lining Preah Monivong. It's inhabitants rudely camp out atop its wrinkled corners, signaling to those that daan-leng (walk/stroll) along its surfaces, eagerly offering to sweep them away on Daelim motos or tuk-tuks.
A small almost-inaudible "click" announces the direction I take every time my brown Beautiful tiny round-heeled sandals (visit st. 143 Beautiful Shoes) touch this crooked pedestrian terrain. My arms occasionally swing upward, balancing my body as it squeezes past SUV and Toyota invaders accosting this unkempt path. At each potholed section I make an effort not to become Miss Trip-y, tip-toeing carefully over and around the jagged breaks.
The steps I take lead me to insignificant places-- restaurants, copy shops, cross-walks-- yet, each time the misaligned cement takes me on a journey back to similar, occasionally tree-shaded strolls in Mexico City's La Condesa, and for that I love the rutted paths in Phnom Penh, for the repeated short resurfacing of home.
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