September 2 - Richard Perkins

I scan the faces and signs in the passenger meeting area of Phnom Penh International Airport until I make eye contact with a short, sweaty Cambodian man holding a sign that says Richard Perkins.
I smile. He smiles back.
"Mr. Perkins?"
"Yes."
"Welcome to Cambodia. Right this way, please."
He takes my duffel bag (no checked luggage) and ushers me through the crowd into a black Lincoln Town Car. Moments later, we've left the airport and are driving into the capital.
Outside our air conditioned car there are hundreds of scooters with three, four, five passengers on them. Concrete schools, palm trees, water buffalo, gas stations, billboards in Khmer, English, and Chinese.
After the usual post-arrival small talk, we get into talking about the coming weekend: the conference, my business proposal, the mood at headquarters, things like that. I answer his questions as best I can, but it's not easy. I'm not up on the mood at headquarters. I'm not prepared for any sort of proposal. I know nothing about this conference.
I'm not Richard Perkins.
But the airport pick-up guy doesn't know that, so hey, free ride into town.
I ask the driver to swing by a crowded roadside market where I buy a couple of Tiger beers and offer him one. He declines, and I've killed them both by the time we pull into the hotel, where I play the pickpocket card. Somebody must have gotten my passport and wallet at the market!
We have a tug-o-war about what we should do, and eventually I'm able to talk him into getting the hotel to check me in sans ID (the conference will vouch for me) before we go to the police.
I get to the suite and move fast. The clock is ticking. The real Richard Perkins will be contacting somebody soon if he hasn't already.
I call room service and order a steak (medium rare) and three bottles of Johnny Walker (black). Then I shower, change (business casual to backpacker), sign for the room service when it arrives, empty out the contents of the mini bar into my duffel bag along with two of the three bottles, and slip out the back exit of the hotel to enjoy my walking picnic.
Most people don't eat T-bone steaks with their hands. Most people are idiots. Walking the streets of Phnom Penh with a grilled steak in one hand and a bottle of Johnny Black in the other? You're indestructible. You should try it sometime.
I finish the steak, throw the bones to some stray dogs, and take occasional hits off one of the bottles, selling the other two to a bar owner on the outskirts of the backpacker section of town.
The next few hours are a blur of smoky go-go bars, back alley Mahjong games, street vendors, cockfights, pool hopping, cheap cigarettes, and alcohol. I end up crashing at a cheap guest house near the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum.
The next day, I take some fancy schmancy hotel's free shuttle service back to the airport, scan the signs and faces at the passenger greeting area, and try to figure out which one looks the most promising.
This shit never gets old.
My friends keep telling me I'm stupid for doing this kind of stuff, especially when it's so unnecessary. It's not like I can't afford a cab ride into town or whatever. But I've tried the straight and narrow brand of travel, and it's not nearly as much fun as the crimes and misdemeanors route. Besides, in all my years of doing this, I've never once gotten arrested or been confronted by the real Richard Perkins or whoever.
You should try it sometime. Seriously.