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The sensory overload of the last few days had begun when I got off the plane at Onchentong Airport and had my passport scrutinized by a soldier with a pinky nail so long I thought of asking the guy if he'd ever heard from the folks at "Ripley's Believe It or Not." The nail curved around and around on itself, a giant mollusk that I'm sure made ocean sounds if you got close to it.

Once I got outside the airport, the crowds of the city -- hurrying to catch up with the rest of the Asian tigers -- left me frazzled. And with my first outing, a walk across the street to buy a loaf of bread, came the realization that living in this city would require getting acclimated to life in a sauna. It reminded me, too, of one of the cardinal rules of the developing world: If being gawked at like an American Indian shipped to England to entertain the court for the winter season tends to unhinge you, perhaps you really should be living in Dayton.

My boyfriend's arrival in Phnom Penh had preceded mine by three months. During that time, he'd become friendly with his Nepalese boss, Nabindrah. Nabindrah and his wife Lilah lived nearby, and they would brook no excuses -- we were expected at their place for dinner tonight at 7. No matter that the party was going to be about the 16th new experience I'd had in three days. No matter that I felt up for nothing more strenuous than sipping a Tsingtao beer on the rattan sofa we'd just bought that afternoon. No matter that most of my things were being shipped from the States, leaving me at present with a wardrobe as limited as a Shaker's.

Chris appeared at the bedroom door and said, "casual." I glanced back at the clothes and grabbed jeans and a white T-shirt. After all, I figured, I'm an American -- might as well go in native costume.

While we were en route to the Nepalese dinner party, the lights in the city went out. There are frequent brownouts in Phnom Penh during the day, and nightly blackouts -- unannounced, to help Phnom Penh live up to its reputation as the Wild West of Asia -- are not unusual. Because of the lights being out, I never did actually get a look at the inside of Nabindrah and Lilah's apartment that night. Like a contestant in an unending game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, I spent the evening feeling my way around.

It began with groping our way up three flights of steep concrete stairs. Nabindrah, who had spied us from the balcony, stood with other guests and shouted encouragement to us. "Come on. We're up here on the top of the mountain," he sang out. When we reached the summit, we were joyously received by about 10 Nepalese adults and at least twice as many children. There were in fact so many children that my first confused thought was that Nabindrah and Lilah were running some sort of a high-altitude day-care center out of their home. Every adult woman had a baby on her hip. I waited to be assigned mine -- would the child like me? -- but it never happened, which was a bit of good luck in that I'd already begun the infernal sweating that was to occupy my thoughts for much of the evening.

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