Where We Be
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| Leave it to us to eat a Happy Pizza without knowing what it is! |
| Kampot, Cambodia & "Happy Pizza" |
| Spectacular blooms grace the gardens at the aptly named GreenHouse |
So on our last morning in Kampot we decide to
take a tuk-tuk downtown to explore the city's
French colonial architecture. Afterwards we
pop into a riverside pizza place for lunch. As we
peruse the menu the hostess tells us, “This our
most popular pizza.” She points to one called
Happy Herb Cheese Pizza with herbs, spices,
and an egg on top, but we decide on pepperoni
pizza instead. The hostess says, “We can add
herbs to that one too.” I’m thinking she means
Italian herbs so I say, “Oh, that would be great.”
Half an hour later she sets the pizza down in
front of us, announcing “Happy pizza!” “Happy
pizza!” we reply heartily, totally clueless as to
what's really going on here. We chow down. The
herbs taste slightly bitter and Robin's not a big
fan so she eats around them, but I dig right in.
We take a tuk-tuk home and decide on a nap in
our bungalow. The next thing I know I’m having
the weirdest dream. I say something out loud
and apologize for talking in my sleep. “What did
I say?” I ask Robin. She starts giggling because
I hadn’t said a word up until then. It’s funny at
first, but then reality starts fading in and out
and I can’t remember what I’ve said and what I
THINK I’ve just said. “Did I just say that?” I say.
I’m worried: maybe enough air isn’t getting to
my brain. Maybe I'm having a stroke or some-
thing. I tell Robin, “I think something's wrong”
and wander out to the veranda. I feel like I’m
going to pass out so I sit down on the floor,
trying to get a grip. I can’t seem to hold onto
time but have to keep looking down at my watch.
Finally the dots connect. “The pizza,” I say
heavily. “We ate a HAPPY pizza. Those herbs
weren't Italian -- they were pot!” Suffice it to say
the next six hours are a blur. The bartender,
knowing of our plight, kiddingly calls us Cheech
and Chong when we show up for dinner later,
still a bit out of it. Much later, at 3 am, I awake
and have an epiphany: “Whoa: those pinpricks
of light shining through the bamboo look just
like stars!” That’s as close as I come to having a
good time on ganja.
take a tuk-tuk downtown to explore the city's
French colonial architecture. Afterwards we
pop into a riverside pizza place for lunch. As we
peruse the menu the hostess tells us, “This our
most popular pizza.” She points to one called
Happy Herb Cheese Pizza with herbs, spices,
and an egg on top, but we decide on pepperoni
pizza instead. The hostess says, “We can add
herbs to that one too.” I’m thinking she means
Italian herbs so I say, “Oh, that would be great.”
Half an hour later she sets the pizza down in
front of us, announcing “Happy pizza!” “Happy
pizza!” we reply heartily, totally clueless as to
what's really going on here. We chow down. The
herbs taste slightly bitter and Robin's not a big
fan so she eats around them, but I dig right in.
We take a tuk-tuk home and decide on a nap in
our bungalow. The next thing I know I’m having
the weirdest dream. I say something out loud
and apologize for talking in my sleep. “What did
I say?” I ask Robin. She starts giggling because
I hadn’t said a word up until then. It’s funny at
first, but then reality starts fading in and out
and I can’t remember what I’ve said and what I
THINK I’ve just said. “Did I just say that?” I say.
I’m worried: maybe enough air isn’t getting to
my brain. Maybe I'm having a stroke or some-
thing. I tell Robin, “I think something's wrong”
and wander out to the veranda. I feel like I’m
going to pass out so I sit down on the floor,
trying to get a grip. I can’t seem to hold onto
time but have to keep looking down at my watch.
Finally the dots connect. “The pizza,” I say
heavily. “We ate a HAPPY pizza. Those herbs
weren't Italian -- they were pot!” Suffice it to say
the next six hours are a blur. The bartender,
knowing of our plight, kiddingly calls us Cheech
and Chong when we show up for dinner later,
still a bit out of it. Much later, at 3 am, I awake
and have an epiphany: “Whoa: those pinpricks
of light shining through the bamboo look just
like stars!” That’s as close as I come to having a
good time on ganja.
| In the afternoon you can dive off the floating pier into the Kampot River for a swim |
| View of the guesthouse from the river |
| You can also go kayaking along the river for $1 per hour |
| We spent four lovely days here sipping wine, eating fine food, and soaking in the views |
| We'll leave you with a final view of the Kampot River from GreenHouse's veranda |
| This huge durian statue in the middle of a roundabout is a local landmark |
| Another statue celebrates Kampot Province's evaporated sea salt industry |
| A short tuk-tuk ride brings you into Kampot proper, where you can explore the town's French colonial architecture |
| This friendy fellow poses against a backdrop of Kampot's faded French buildings -- the balconies remind us a bit of New Orleans |
| Kampot's iconic Old Bridge was damaged during the Khmer Rouge period and haphazardly repaired afterwards |
| The scene of the crime looks innocent enough. Are we the only clueless people who have ever done this? |
| The town's sleepy riverside setting makes for a pleasant stroll or bike ride |
| The entire main building was disassembled and moved from its former site along the Tonle Sap River to its present location |
| Sunset view from the restaurant veranda |
| The tranquil view from our veranda |
| At least we have a wonderful bungalow at GreenHouse Kampot in which to recuperate |
| Our deluxe bungalow (#7) includes a surprisingly modern bathroom with hot shower |
| GreenHouse is located 8 km north of Kampot along the Kampot River |
| We particularly love the restaurant's veranda with elevated view of the river |
