Elephant Tears

Greetings,

A girl from Argentina who arrived in Siem Reap after midnight broke down after breakfast. Tears streamed down her face. Her boyfriend stood helpless. He handed her a tissue. He didn't know what else to do. She cried and cried. He suffered in silence.

She blubbered in Spanish. "I miss mama...I miss mama. Where are we? What is this strange place? Everyone is trying to cheat us. The food is terrible. They charge extra for butter. Where's the beef? The bus scam from Thailand was long, bumpy, grumpy, expensive, a drag, a mistake, a terrible tragic drama. I can't understand the people here. O woe is me, us." She discarded a soggy tissue.

Her macho man suffered in silence. 'She's a basket case,' he thought.

They'd argued recently. About their trip, lack of good sex, decent food, hot sticky weather, poor planning, lack of planning, expenses.

'Maybe it all comes down to sex and money,' he thought. Clean and clear understanding. In Spanish or Splanglish or deeper emotional levels of complexity. 

She blew snot into another tissue. She crumpled it into a ball and dropped it on a plate glass table. It shattered under the weight of her sticky mucus. It's not what she thought it would be. Her expectations were shattered by illusionary possibilities. Her life was one big question.

She gradually composed herself. They started to leave the restaurant. They paused at the top of the stairs. It was a long way down. He whispered to her. Calming poetic words. He put his arm around her shoulder. She was frigid. Mr. Romeo had his work cut out for him and there was nothing to fix.

Metta.

Commonalities

She talked of "homesickness." All the letting go. How she was born on Air and lived in a small French town on the Belgium border for some time.

How her temporary work visa finally expired and she returned home. She wore French designer sunglasses and they fit her brown oval face to perfection. One day it was skin tight jeans. The next an orange and green flowing sarong. A fashion touch. She had the island ease, a long black thick mane, the divorced island hubby and the one boy-child over on Lombok going to school. Living with his "uncle," a tribal chieftain.

She worked part-time in a small cafe-bar near the beach, the white sunset sand, rolling blue apprehensions, French tongued memories. "I am so bored," she said.

"I want to build some bungalows. I own some land. I need to develop a source of income."

She chatted up the odd European. She mixed drinks. She spoke with her son using her cells, her DNA. She stared at the sea. It poured into her black eyes. It was everything she'd run away from. To find herself. To discover her island again and again and again when she ran in reverse through dreams and memories.

 A yellow butterfly sailed through a garden. Darting high, low, in, out of fragrant red, yellow, white glorious blooms.

A diver spoke about money exchange systems after coming up for Air. How the value of economic currencies fluctuates. A butterfly and turtle have so much in common. One in air one in water. Both floating.

Metta.