Friday, June 16, 2023

Hidden, Hiding

Left caption: Poor Lifechoices Coach
Right caption: Financial Ruin Advisor

 

I mentioned before how Eriq was largely an unknown to me, beyond what he chose to share. At the time, what he shared seemed like a lot: he spoke frankly about his past and current struggles with addiction and mental illness, a reckless lifestyle, living homeless on the streets of L.A. He also talked about his preferred future, which included being surrounded by adopted young people, appreciating the bounty of each day, and enjoying the simple things in life. He asked for help on some things but refused it or denied needing it in others. 

When we put on a solo art show for Eriq's work in order to raise money for his cremation, I looked anew at his art, wondering what I'd missed, and how. One man that had delivered food to Eriq routinely stopped by the art show, and was stunned by it; and not in a good way, necessarily. He had only known what Eriq showed him: a bright, funny, kind disposition, with depth and love enough that the deliveryman had purposely carved out fifteen, twenty minutes in his route just so he could stop and chat when he delivered Eriq's food. [Contextual note: in Phnom Penh, food delivery is extremely common from all kinds of restaurants and food prep businesses.] This man said he saw hurt and pain in Eriq's works, and he couldn't reconcile that with the man he'd known, in brief snippets. 

In the photo at the top of this post, there are two works hanging next to each other. Eriq did so many of these types of characters, often with distorted facial features. These are more rounded and realistic that the ones he was working on recently. I once asked him if they were self-portraits and he immediately responded with, "No. No. Well, not intentionally. I suppose all my art shows something of myself. But no, definitely not a self portrait." It's hard, though, not to wonder if his characters were all different ways Eriq saw himself or aspects of himself, whether intentional or not. The labels below are his quirky imaginings, which were on many of his smaller sketches and works. Eriq's labels were often quirky and playful, the lighter side of his art, in my opinion.  

Below are a couple of pieces I want to share; how they make me feel; and some anecdotes around them. In a video he made showing his artistic process on the above piece, Eriq starts out: "Well. I was watching Instagram this morning, like a fool." He goes on to to demonstrate how he goes about deciding what comes next. He also shows another silhouette he was working on and commented that while he liked it, there was "nothing challenging going on." The eight minute video ends with, "It's messy, it's not like they show on Instagram. They're lying to you." This video was made ten days before Eriq died. 


One of Eriq's last, unfinished
pieces.


I remember seeing this piece in his studio and feeling kinda freaked out by it. It bothered me, partially due to its unfinished look with the guideline sketches changing weekly, partially because of the vivid red colors, and partially because of the monster-like features. I decided to purchase it, and now it lives in my closet, hidden behind hanging clothing, to be brought out when I need reminding that an unfinished work - like Eriq himself, maybe - contains a whole lot more than the initial impression given. 

 

Possibly unfinished. Seen in
multiple orientations.


This is another unfinished work. I know this because when Eriq was finished, his paintings were covered in clear epoxy; this one is not. The texture of the red, the gorgeous teal background, that odd, messy shape. What is it? Why is it that way? This piece also made me feel uncomfortable when I saw it in Eriq's studio during classes or visits. It feels forbidding to me. Now, I can't help but feel that it's symbolic somehow; anger, rage, hurt, blood, turmoil, burning smoke roiling... was this how Eriq felt inside? The lens he struggled through? 

I don't remember seeing this one before. It felt
both bright and dark to me.

My first impression with this piece is that of a tumbleweed, or something like, blowing across the yellow field behind. Others said it evoked a heart with thick skin, or damaged exterior. The yellow is bright, layered, and a bit more consistent than my photo shows. The red and brown object is made of painted, layered, torn or crumpled paper. The entire thing has a clear coat of epoxy over it and the piece is quite large. Looking at it, I feel confused. It's not something I can relate to 'before'. 

Wednesday, June 14, 2023

Terrible and Beautiful

In life, we are loved for who we are, for our differences and specialness. In death, we are all the same, we are just this; just bones. 

-- Mr. Lim, the tuk-tuk driver


This is not a pretty post. Possibly darkly humorous, but underscored with a bit of horror and a lot of sweat and definitely a fair amount of cultural misunderstandings. 

I want to preface this first by admitting that this post is mostly me processing Eriq's death and cremation. There are pictures below, which may seem inappropriate but is not unusual amongst Cambodians. 

Secondly, I have to say that it's frustrating to realize how little I really knew Eriq. It felt like he told me quite a lot about himself, but on meeting others who knew him, learning some of his history, and most especially on viewing more of his art and writings... I knew him not at all. So everything I write here about him is my perception and conjecture. The nice thing is, everyone who has spoken to me about Eriq saw one thing similarly: he was a real character, a magnetic and funny man whose light shone bright, outwardly at least. 

Eriq was alone, and I believe he was lonely, too. Estranged from his family - his siblings, his adopted son - he had come abroad to live his best life - this I know because he told me so directly. Eriq had been to Cambodia before, and met Mr. Lim the tuk-tuk driver at some point when trying to open a small hotel. They became friends of a sort, beyond expat and hired driver but I couldn't say how far beyond, except that Mr. Lim clearly honored Eriq and has been dejectedly sad since his passing. 

While I knew him, Eriq lived alone, except for his two small adopted-in-Cambodia dogs, in whom he took much joy. He deplored being around negative, gossipy people. He enjoyed dropping in on art events, chatting with those he knew, and then bouncing right out again. 

Monday, April 24: I was at work when a friend from the consular section came to my office and told me of Eriq's passing, of his being found by the landlord, of his having died alone (but with his dogs) sometime over the weekend. I didn't believe it, was sure that it wasn't the Eriq I knew, who I'd seen the previous week and texted with just three days before, on Friday. When I was shown his passport, I knew it was true. Then it was guilt: why hadn't I checked in more, knowing he wasn't feeling well? Why didn't I insist? It still didn't sink in, though. When I got a text asking if I'd like to join a small group of Eriq's friends for drinks to discuss and remember? Then, then it felt real. 

One member of the group, a neighbor of Eriq's, related how once the authorities were called and the body removed, he watched police ransack Eriq's apartment, taking various items. We later discovered that his electronics and designer clothes and shoes had all disappeared. When I walked my dog past his apartment building that night, I saw a pile of bedding, a mattress, and some clothing tossed on the street nearby. I felt sick.

The small group decided together that we would make sure that Eriq was not alone in being farewelled from this world. We contacted Eriq's siblings, found on Facebook; got permission from them to sell some of Eriq's work in order to pay for funeral arrangements; worked with the landlady to go through and handle Eriq's remaining belongings; and we arranged for his cremation. 

Last Sunday was the cremation. First, three Western friends, including me, and Mr. Lim the tuk-tuk driver went to the funeral home. Don't picture a stately, solemn, clean building. No, this was an open air, squat, ground floor place. The Cambodian heat and humidity was bearable but ever-present. Eriq's pine coffin - more of a pine box, really - rested on two sawhorses. Two funeral wreaths stood in front of it, one with his name and another with 'Rest in Peace', as well as a small table on which we placed a framed photo of a cheerful and jaunty Eriq. Mr. Lim was our translator and helped move things along. 

A monk arrived in his robes of bright orange, along with an elderly man dressed in white pants and a white shirt. White is the color associated with death and funerals in Cambodia. They chanted together, sometimes in cadence and sometimes in echo or counterpoint. It lasted for several minutes and when they finished, they left. Mr. Lim translated a question for us: did we want to see Eriq's body before we went to the crematorium? The three Westerners said no. I can speak only for myself: I knew Cambodians did not embalm the dead; that Eriq had died over forty days earlier; and that I wanted to remember my clean-faced, bright-eyed friend as I had last seen him. Mr. Lim chose to view the body, so the rest of us took a step back. We heard the cover removed, a moment of silence, and then Mr. Lim ran a few feet away to vomit into a group of potted trees. The three of us Westerners stared at each other mutely, then clambered into the tuk-tuk when Mr. Lim said it was time to go to the crematorium. Eriq's pine box was loaded into a minivan, which we followed for about a fifteen minute drive. One familiar thing: the minivan had it's hazard lights flashing and we kept right behind it, our very local-flavor funeral procession staying together for the whole drive despite motorcycles weaving this way and that through the slow moving traffic. 

In Cambodia, I have learned, there are crematorium where the people who tend them live, sprawling complexes of ramshackle houses made from boards, dirt roads, and cement and iron-black metal crematoria ovens. 

That's right, I said it: ovens. It felt ghoulish, and it was depressing: the ovens were encased in small structures with steps leading up and a covered area in front with room for a coffin and a small table for ceremonial items. A chimney reached skyward and I couldn't help but think of concentration camps from the Holocaust. 

The minivan was unloaded - pine box, wreaths, and all - and set up in front of great gaping black oven doors. We waited for a few other friends to join us - we were maybe nine in all - and then set up another table draped in white: incense, Eriq's framed photo, lotus flowers brought by the others. We took turns lighting incense sticks and placing them in the pot of sand. Then we spread out letters and art pieces, made by Eriq's students and friends, on top of his pine box. We murmured and we surely said a few words. We lit more incense. 

And then the crematorium workers moved everything into the oven. They motioned to a large metal rod with a flame at the end, and Mr. Lim and I took it together to light the area underneath. Then we stepped back with the others and watched as the fire grew hotter. There was not much to see, and after about twenty minutes, we all departed to reconvene at Eriq's art studio for a little wake. Before we left, Mr. Lim told me that someone would have to come back a few hours later to retrieve the remains. He mentioned something about bones and I explained that we wanted his ashes in the urn. He shook his head. 

At that point, we all thought that we would receive ashes placed in the simple urn that was part of the cremation costs. I volunteered to return with Mr. Lim. After about an hour at the wake - a nice affair looking over Eriq's art, chatting quietly, drinking sangria - I went home to rest. All too soon, it was time to go back to the crematorium. Mr. Lim picked me up for the thirty minute drive through traffic and heat. On arrival, he asked me again about the bones, and I repeated that we wanted the urn, with ashes. Finally, Mr. Lim explained that Cambodians don't deal with ashes, that this would be very strange, and that instead we should make sure the best bones were retrieved. Flustered, I didn't respond, waiting to see what would be brought to me. It should have been obvious what was about to happen: we didn't go to the funeral home to simply pick up an urn; we were right back at the crematorium, in front of the oven structure where we'd bid Eriq farewell. 

As I watched, four young men with shovels cleared out the space below the oven used earlier. They moved all of the... debris? remains? with shovels to a spot on the pavement ten feet away, spread it out carefully. Then they produced sticks and tongs and squatted around the ashes to pick out the largest bone fragments. I stood, sweating in the heat, grimly fascinated and a little bit in shock, watching them poke around the ashes, embers and bones, gently moving the latter to a flat basket. Mr. Lim explained that the bones would be washed in coconut water before the best ones were placed in the urn. I didn't ask, couldn't, what constituted "the best." 


When they were done, they buckets of water over the remainder of the ashes and shoveled it all into a garbage bag, which was placed onto the floor of the tuk-tuk. I carefully climbed in, feet to the side, and off we drove. The next stop was the river, where we got onto a large wooden party boat belonging to a friend of Mr. Lim's. We motored out to where four rivers intersect, including the Mekong and the Tonle Sap rivers, to put Eriq's ashes in the river. Mr. Lim lit an incense and chanted for a moment; then he took one corner of the bag, I took the other, and we upended it. I thought we'd pour the ashes into the water, but instead a second bag with the ashes inside tumbled straight into the water. I cried out, but Mr. Lim assured me that it was ok, tossing the first bag in after the first. I cried out again, but it was too late. We motored back to shore. I felt as though we'd just dumped garbage into the river. We had, in fact, but Mr. Lim seemed completely baffled by my response. 

Before we got off the boat, Mr. Lim asked me how much the cremation had cost; when I told him, he shook his head sadly and told me we'd been cheated. Then, he suggested we visit a nearby pagoda to ask the monks there if they would accept Eriq's urn and watch over it. I agreed, not expecting another forty-five minute drive through heat, humidity, and traffic. The day's shocks had numbed me and I was ready to go soak in my apartment's AC, to process things. Instead, we drove to Mr. Lim's favorite pagoda, where he searched for a monk-friend of his. After a few fits and starts, he found out his friend had just left to go pick onions, and would be back in fifteen minutes or so. 

I took a deep breath, and told Mr. Lim that it was time to go home. He begged me to wait for his friend, then went to speak with some women washing dishes, then talk to someone on his phone. When he came back, he was beaming: he had called his friend, who agreed to accept the urn. I blinked, not quite understanding why we couldn't have just called in the first place, but stayed quiet. We trundled off and an hour later, I was at my apartment. Mr. Lim had explained that he would pick up the urn the next day and take it to the pagoda. We should make a donation, he said, in money and in food and beverages for the monks. We should do it in person, he said, for good karma and in honor of Eriq. He would help us arrange it all, he said. 

I agreed, bid him farewell, and, stunned and tired and feeling grungy, went to my apartment to ponder the day's events. 

Would Eriq have laughed? Or partway through, would he have stage-whispered to me, "I'm bored, let's go," as he had at a couple of art events we attended together? Would he have rolled his eyes, slack-jawed in disgust, and made a pithy and snarky judgment? 

I will never know, because Eriq is gone. But I like to imagine his possible reactions. It makes me feel better. 

Because that was a terrible day, one that didn't give me much closure or sense of farewell. It was hot and sticky, raw and disturbing, real and brutal. 

Kind of like some of Eriq's art. That's a post for another time, though. 

Monday, June 12, 2023

Beautiful and Terrible


Eriq Henry Madsen (1971-2023)



 

8/27/2021: Mark introduces me to Eriq
at Sra'Art gallery. 

The first time I met Eriq was on August 27, 2021. I had arrived in Cambodia fifteen days earlier and it was my second day out of my mandatory international arrival quarantine period. Completely overwhelmed by Phnom Penh, I jumped on the opportunity when my friend Mark - who I'd met a couple years earlier during my assignment in Bamako, Mali, and who had met me as I stepped out of quarantine in my new home city - invited me to an art gallery happy hour. After a brief but exciting ride on Mark's motorbike, we stepped into Sra'Art gallery. A small crowd of obvious expatriates milled about, holding coffee mugs and alternately murmuring to each other and gazing at the artwork on the walls. It all felt vaguely dangerous and risqué, and not just because of the artsy people cleverly clinging together in small cliques, French accents real and fake floating through the air: after all, there was still a loose lockdown in place, and a ban on alcohol. 

Mark introduced me to one of the artists showing his work: Eriq Henry Madsen. I vaguely recall chatting with him and noticing his eccentricity, his force of character, and his downright exuberant friendliness. His confidence and direct, connecting engagement made me feel both seen and slightly intimidated by his purely artistic mind. 


The next time I saw Eriq was March 26, 2022. The community liaison office at the Embassy had arranged a sip'n'paint activity and I'd signed up. The instructor: Eriq. As I sipped my wine and stared at a blank canvas, completely at a loss, Eriq gave a brief talk on emotions and art and experiencing creativity rather than having a goal or final product in mind. As everyone around me started dipping and dabbing, chatting merrily and - to my mind - instantly creating art, that field of white just glared back at me, daring me to try something. I recall Eriq coming to talk to me, forbidding me to repeat my oft-used excuse of having lost out on the artistic gene lottery because my older brother had hogged it all. He encouraged me to have fun, and just put my brush into a color and put something on the canvas. Enjoy the experience, he reassured me. Don't try to make something great. Just be myself and put my emotion into color. The result has hung on my office wall ever since, a reminder that playfulness and color need not have a structure or a reason, that merely existing is enough. Every now and then I turn the canvas and enjoy a new perspective. Is it art? Debatable. Did I have fun? Oh, yes. 

On November 11, 2022, I was sitting at Enso Café, enjoying brunch and reading my book at one of the outdoor tables. All of the sudden, someone was talking to me: it was Eriq. We pinpointed how we knew each other - both of us Mark's friend, me as the sip 'n paint attendee, him as the expat artist - and had a brief catch up chat. We got on the topic of art classes and Eriq mentioned that he was working on starting a community of people doing art: explicitly not artists, but people interested in building community and doing or learning art. In what felt to me a step in a new and slightly alarming direction, I gave him my number and asked him to let me know when he got things started. He promised he would

Art is for everyone.
Two weeks later, Eriq added me to a group chat, and the week after that was my first art class with Eriq. I spent many Saturday afternoons after that, painting with Eriq and a handful of other students - sometimes more, often fewer. Most were quite talented and a few were, like me, just dipping my toe into the artistic landscape. Eriq was a kind and patient teacher: when I couldn't decide what to do, he gave me an easy exercise with some basic concepts to hold in my mind, and that was the beginning of an 8-session piece for me, my first piece of intentionally made art. Eriq always had a project ready to introduce new and interesting concepts, but was never tied to his plans. At the beginning of every class, he reminded us that the goal was to have fun, get to know each other, put paint on the canvas. We were welcome to jump on his train of thought, or do our own thing. 

Eriq was funny, friendly, snarky, brilliant, and terribly in the moment and frank. Over the course of several classes he shared that he was HIV positive, gay, a recovering addict, estranged from family. In late December, he texted me an invite to check out a rock climbing gym with him and another art student, a teenage girl. Off we went, enjoying the silliness of getting barely ten feet off the ground and plopping onto the mats, then wandering down the street to get ice cream. That's when I learned Eriq was a father, and a grandfather. He'd adopted and spoke so engagingly about his son and his experience as a dad, how he loved being surrounded by youthful energy and creativity and emotion. 

The following weekend I invited Eriq to try archery at The Playroom, which also had axe throwing and board games. He agreed immediately and we spent a great afternoon together shooting arrows, gabbing over lime sodas, and shouting Austin Powers quotes at each other ("yeah baby, work it, let me see the tiger, yeaaaaah baby!") while snapping pictures with our phones. Eriq brought out the silly and fun, adding in snide commentary on what he saw around him and never failing to buoy me up, whether I was up or down or just in the moment. 

Eriq invited me to art openings, encouraging me to come for just a few minutes. Sometimes we'd stay longer and other times Eriq would sigh impatiently, look me directly in the eye, and say, "I'm bored - let's get out of here." Then we'd walk along the bustling, dirty, motorcycles-whizzing-by streets of Phnom Penh, commenting on what we saw and thought and felt, and go our separate ways for the evening. 

Bullseye!

He checked in on my a lot, and almost never accepted the same from me. He was complimentary towards me, at times gently nudging me to be less critical of myself and at times less gently telling me how to tell the world to go screw itself. "Nobody's got time for that nonsense," I remember him saying often, about negativity or gossip or judgmental people. 

Eriq and I had dinner on my apartment building's rooftop on several occasions, one or the other of us yammering on about whatever was on our minds. I enjoyed listening to him imagine and plan and wonder. He always ordered the same thing from Enso's: the salmon dinner, croissant and nutella bread pudding, and lime soda. 

In February, a former foreign service friend of mine came to visit for the weekend. We went to an art show with some of Eriq's work on display, an apartment-turned-studio that was hot and stuffy, but full of vibrant artsy types. We stayed less than thirty minutes, but between that and a trip to Eriq's studio, my friend got a sense of Eriq and commented on the evident friendship he saw between us.

In April 2023, Eriq wasn't feeling well. He canceled a class and turned down my offer to bring him food or conversation, saying he just needed to rest. A few days later, a colleague at the Embassy gave me the news that Eriq had passed away. I was in denial, then overcome by guilt, and finally, just terribly, achingly sad. A pre-planned trip took me back to the U.S. for a month, where I alternated remembering him fondly and remembering him sadly. 

Eriq was a shining light that I was truly lucky to have glimpsed. 

Oh, Eriq. I miss you, my friend. 


Living, Breathing Art

Eriq started this piece for a 
commission, but was never
paid for it. 

The piece took shape and it
really bothered me somehow.

Finished, it appealed to me.
Title: In the pursuit of greatness
Goodness lights the way.




My Teacher, My Friend



Saturday, June 3, 2023

2023 R&R: Family Tour

In October 2022, a week of vacation attached to a training trip home took me to three states in one week. It was exhausting, though I did manage to see my parents and grandmothers, which was the goal. For my May 2023 trip, I wanted more time to breathe, relax, and chat. I also wanted to focus on and reconnect with more family. So this time, I took a month to visit nearly 30 family members in 7 cities across 4 states, while also squeezing in a solo 3-day road trip. It was a fantastic month and reflecting on it from my couch in Cambodia makes me feel really, really good. 

An extra special, huge thank you to all those who were kind enough to host me: Remi, Sarah, Naomi, mom and dad, Paul and Mary, and Eva. 

On a more depressing note, during my time in the U.S. it was disheartening to hear breaking news of bans related to transgender healthcare, and Disney movies, and works by non-white authors in grade schools; seeing 'Let's Go Brandon' or 'Trump 2024' signs; and hearing offhand comments about socialism (in relation to fishing catch and release laws?!) and other bamboozled or deliberately obtuse ideologies. During my trip the books I was reading (one about a cousin who escaped Nazi Czechoslovakia and another that discussed the bottom-line focus of social media companies that ignore health risks and invade privacy) made it painful to imagine what could happen if 'illiberal democracy' or 'Christian nationalism' were to become the political norms, and I had a lot of unhappy but thoughtful conversations with various family members about these issues. 

In any case, below are quick summaries of my travels, organized by state!


Georgia

Remi met me on arrival at the Atlanta airport and hauled my tired butt and suitcases back to his house in Stone Mountain. He and Liz were very kind as I adjusted from jet lag and I enjoyed hanging out and catching up with them. Liz took me for a nice long walk to a nearby park, lovely and green. Remi took me to the Atlanta Botanical Gardens, which had trolls made of recycled shipping pallets and gorgeous orchids, among a peaceful landscape of all kinds of plant life. 

Remi and I also went to Marietta, GA, to visit our cousins Ben and Rebecca and their families. We last saw each other pre-pandemic, at our grandmother's hundredth birthday party in 2019. This visit we got to meet their spouses and kids, which was really special. 


Me and my brother at the Atlanta botanical garden.

My sister-in-law and me at Stone Mountain park.

Cousins in Marietta: Rebecca, Remi, me with
Avery, Ben with Olivia


Solo Road Trip: Blue Ridge Parkway

I headed north from Atlanta, going through Helen (weird little German-esque town in the northern part of the state) on my way to the Great Smoky Mountains national park. A pit stop at a park office got me a lifetime National Parks pass when I flashed my veteran ID - yay! The first day, I drove to Cherokee, NC, and stayed in an AirBnB yurt: a comfy affair with a gorgeous view. The second day, I trundled along the Blue Ridge Parkway, a gorgeous road winding around and through mountains. I stopped regularly along the way at overlooks, braving the cold air to look at the incredible vistas. Occasionally I went on short hikes, lost in my thoughts and just enjoying the greenery. On day three, I found my way onto a highway and landed in Durham, NC, for a night with my parents. 

Random hike along the way.

View from my yurt (thanks AirBnB!)

Enjoying the views along the Blue Ridge Parkway.


Florida

Next up was Miami, where I stayed with my aunt Sarah and visited with my grandma Norma, who turned 104 earlier this year. Remi flew down to join me and we enjoyed a great afternoon in the pool and some quality catch-up time with Sarah. 

After a couple days in Miami, I hopped in a rental car to head up the coast. My first stop was lunch with my friend Cait, whose husband was in my Foreign Service entry class, and their two adorable little girls. Then I drove to New Smyrna Beach to visit my cousin Naomi and her smarty pants little daughter Ella, as well as my cousin Mitzi and her fiancé Josh. Naomi, Mitzi and I enjoyed a morning on a pontoon boat, seeing dolphins and wandering on a secluded beach. That afternoon, Remi caught up with us and we all went out for dinner together. Then it was back down to Miami, a quick visit with cousin Galen, and on a plane to the next city!

Me and Cait.

Sarah and me.

Cousins! Remi, Josh, Mitzi, Naomi, Ella, me.



North Carolina

The next stop was a nice stretch in North Carolina, spending a week and half of quality time with my folks. They had a full and fascinating schedule whipped up, which was a real treat! Campfire in the back yard with friends, remake of Around the World in 80 Days, Kure Beach getaway, Mother's Day fun, garden tour, shopping, art museum visit, farmer's market... it was really a special and dynamic North Carolina adventure. Best of all, I got to catch up and talk away with my mom and dad. The motel on the beach was so comfy and swimming the ocean was a welcome treat, rough waves and all. 

Mom and dad enjoying a Mother's Day snack.

Me and the folks at Kure beach.

Dad and me, watching the waves.

Exhibit MamaRay by
Wangechi Mutu at the
Nasher Museum of Art


Minnesota

Finally, it was time to head to the last state on my itinerary. Duluth and family welcomed me with cold wind and lake waves, but that just made it feel familiar. I enjoyed the hospitality and fantastic home of my aunt Mary and uncle Paul, and watched as the frame of a greenhouse (plans include a fireplace and a shower) sprung up. Extra special was that cousin Annette and her husband Ken drove in from Milton, WI, and cousin Ramon came up from the Twin Cities. So it was a full house of chatter and visiting and catching up! I dined, talked books, and worried about the state of the world with my grandma Nancy, who is turning 100 this summer, and her partner Jo. A trip up the North Shore of Lake Superior made a great reunion with my Foreign Service friend Lisa and her family. 

Then I drove down to the Twin Cities with Paul, saw my cousin Amelie perform in a dance recital along with her parents and siblings, and stayed with cousin Eva. Before heading to the airport, we walked through George Floyd Square, a sobering and yet uplifting experience.

Mama Superior gives a gift.

Cambodian connections on the North Shore

Blue Fin Bay, MN

Me and Nancy and Jo

MN Family: Amelie, Ramona, Milo, Eva, me,
Josh, Grayson, Paul and Mary

The renamed grocery store and now-famous
mural in George Floyd Square.


Phnom Penh

Then it was back on a plane across the globe, returning home to Cambodia and adjusting to the heat, which is affecting even the locals.

Heat-of-the-day nap.

Cambodian summer skies.