I was bouncing up and down in a tuktuk along a road outside of Kampot, my shirt glued to my back, the relentless sun beating off the orange dirt and the metal railings of the carriage, the only relief from the oppressive heat found in the slight breeze caused by moving through the air at a snail's pace. Maybe this country actually sucks, I thought, angrily glaring at a dusty shop set up in the open part of a home contructed of corrugated metal where a pants-less little boy stood lethargically watching the world pass by.

We passed another shack where a mother was bathing her naked child by pouring a bottle of water over him. The child squirmed with glee as the water fell over him, while the mother chucked the empty bottle into a pile of litter nearby.

Maybe I actually hate it here. This question had been percolating in my brain since arriving in Cambodia and finally surfaced now. Because unlike other places I've visited, it hadn't exactly won me over at first sight. I started racking through the countries and cities I'd been, trying to remember how they first made an impression on me; I had instantly loved Portugal and Italy and Hungary, was smitten with Madrid and London and Buenos Aires and Melbourne; had been swept away by the scenic beauty of Chile, Kyrgyzstan, the Alps, and, closer to home, the landscapes of Wyoming and Maine. Even India, as challenging as it can be, made an impression where the ultimate takeaway was one of being charmed -- once you got past the culture shock and despair and peoplepeoplepeople everywhere, it had a kind of mystique that made you want to discover more.