Farewell and First Steps
On August 29th, it was finally time to leave for Cambodia. With everything packed and ready, I set out. Friends from Usagiya Guesthouse gathered to send me off with warm smiles and encouragement. Their kindness filled me with gratitude.
This was more than just a border crossing—it was the beginning of my very first long-distance cycling tour. I silently thanked the university student who inspired me to take this step. With that, I pedaled forward… only to face my first obstacle: a flat tire just 20 kilometers in.
An Unexpected Savior
I tried to stay calm while fixing it, but the repair wasn't going well. Then, like a scene from a story, a man appeared—a true craftsman of puncture repair. Without hesitation, he sanded the tube and patched it with practiced hands.
I wasn't sure if it would hold, but when the tire finally took air, relief washed over me. I thanked him deeply and paid him about 1,000 yen, grateful not just for the fix but for the reminder: I want to be someone who can extend a hand when others are in need.
Shelter Beside a Food Stall
Hunger soon reminded me I hadn't eaten lunch. I stopped at a small roadside stall and ordered noodles. They were simple but delicious—a comfort after the struggle.
As dusk fell, I asked the stall owners if I could camp nearby. To my surprise, they immediately welcomed me, offering not only a safe place but also a shower and the chance to wash my dirty clothes by hand. The act of scrubbing each shirt with soap—something I hadn't done in so long—felt grounding and unforgettable.
Gifts of Stickers and Smiles
The stall owners' child loved anime, so I shared some stickers I carried. Watching him happily decorate the wall reminded me of the simple power of small gifts. For me, it was just a sticker; for him, it sparked joy and wonder.
His mother then invited us to share dinner. Around the table, we ate together, laughed, and raised bottles of Saigon beer in gratitude. It was a reminder that meals taste richer when shared.
A Child’s Pure Expression
After dinner, the boy wanted to draw. I handed him my paints and brushes. He dipped a calligraphy brush into colors and painted freely—pure expression, untouched by rules. His smile, hands stained with paint, was the purest thing I had seen in a long while.
Even the brush itself seemed happy in his grasp. In that moment, I realized again: children, with their honesty and imagination, remind us of what it means to live openly.
