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It is August and this is Phnom Penh, Cambodia. The temperature and humidity are competing to see which can cause the greater discomfort, and I already have sweat through the clothes I put on a few minutes ago. Flies sortie around the malodorous meat and fish in the market stalls. It's enough to make an instant vegetarian of anyone.
And my wife is thinking about Christmas.
We are threading through the crowded alleys of the city's "Russian Market," fending off hawkers of miniature Buddhas, knockoff Britney Spears CDs and used motorbike parts, but we could be anywhere. Wherever and whenever Janice and I travel, a permanent item on her mental checklist is "shop for presents."
It's kind of nice. Right now she's looking at miniature tea sets - little teapots, each with six thimble-sized cups - for her three young nieces. Oh, the cute parties they will have, pouring out imaginary tea for their dollies and the uncooperative cat who won't appreciate that he is the guest of honor.
Three little nieces, half a world a way, are with us now, in our hearts, as the shopkeeper brings out set after set for Janice's examination. Just like the previous week in Chiang Mai, Thailand, when my mother and sister were in our thoughts as we purchased embroidered purses from a tribal craft shop.
Actually, this is kind of a pain: The sets must be identical, lest there be cousin rivalry. And how are we going to fit three seven-piece sets of china doodads into our roll-on bags? What are the odds that all 21 pieces will make it home intact?
I can hear it now: "Hey, how come her set has six cups and mine only has five?"
And will they appreciate them, or just ignore them in favor of some kid-trendy, battery-powered gizmo from Toys "R" Us?
Moreover, what can we get for the young nephew, to balance things out? A set of six miniature beer mugs and a tiny keg?
Grinch-like reservations aside, anticipatory holiday shopping fever abroad actually has several advantages. The chances that the recipients are going to get identical gifts from someone else are virtually nil. Further, such gifts are special because of their unique origin and even more special because someone thought to bring them back personally from overseas.
(I recall how pleased I was, for example, to receive the small wood case filled with five half-bottles of French wine that my brother-in-law lugged halfway across western Europe for me.)
And it is highly unlikely that these gifts are going to be returned for a store credit.
More selfishly, we get to learn about the art and culture of our host country when we do our shopping there. Many of the pieces we consider buying have religious significance or reflect some aspect of daily life. Frequently we are able to speak with the craftsmen themselves.
Plus, and please don't show this paragraph to our families, the stuff is so darned inexpensive. Devaluation of currencies and avoidance of shipping and marketing costs can make bargains of things overseas that would cost a ton of money here, assuming you could find them at all.
Yes, the artisans who made the items - little old grandmas crocheting all day, potters working in the dim light of a one-room hovel - probably were grossly underpaid for their work. But will I make their lives better if I don't buy?
So each time we travel, we come home with presents. But there are the accumulated e-mails to answer, the stack of bills that need attention, the lawn that seems to have died while we were gone.
The presents are unpacked (miraculously, all 21 pieces of the tea sets survived six crews of airport baggage handlers in four countries). They are added to the stash in the spare bedroom and then forgotten.
In early December, there comes a moment that rivals Christmas morning for excitement. We recall vaguely that we had bought something for the folks on our gift list. We raid the stash, unwrap the tissue or the Khmer language newspaper and - "Oh, wow! I had completely forgotten that we bought that. Remember that little shop where we got it? We had just eaten at the place with the good dumplings ..."
Each present - each tiny teacup, each hand-knit sweater, each meticulously carved jewel box - apparently has been wrapped in a vacation memory.
Then the very un-Christmasy, sinister specter of greed intrudes.
We bought these things because we liked them. Perhaps, we rationalize, the intended recipient won't really appreciate the gift. And golly, isn't that little vase we got for my secretary similar to the one we got her last year? And that cat-themed picture frame that we meant to give my cat-fancying sister - she's probably getting sick of the whole cat thing by now anyway ...
Yes, we should keep these gifts. We know they will have a proper home under our care. We appreciate the whimsy in a flying Balinese pig, the craftsmanship in a Brazilian table runner, the cook's apron decorated with French cows.
And because we never told anyone about the stuff we bought for them, who's going to know that we decided not to give it away?
But usually these gifts do end up with their intended recipients (although, candidly, we're still debating about that cat picture frame).
Some might think that we are motivated by guilt; the more charitable may assume that the spirit of the season has embraced us, just as it turned the Grinch, just as it scared old Ebenezer straight.
Actually, it's the realization that if we don't give these gifts, we'll have to go out and do some real shopping. It's not the singing of angels that does it; it's the thought of the parking lots at the mall.
Shopping our way spreads the holiday feeling throughout the year and makes us think about those we cherish, even when we are separated from them by an ocean and several time zones. And it gives us one more way to relive our trip.
And so, I raise my glass to make this holiday toa- ... Hey, isn't this the 20-year-old port that we bought in Lisbon to share with our friends?
Ah, what the heck, they never read anything but the comics. Here's to the holidays!
- Freelance travel writer Jerry Haines has dispensed the stash from the spare bedroom of his home in Arlington, Va.