The guy walks up to me, smiling. He looks about 20, maybe 25. What does this guy want? I think. In shy, broken English he says, “I help. I fix. Can?”

He wants to fix it? Did I understand that right? I let him try. He walks over to the scooter, studies it, and starts fiddling with it. After a couple of minutes of messing around and giving it a few solid hits, he turns the key and the scooter starts!

I don’t even know how to thank him. I offer him a few dollars, but he shakes his head. “No, no.” Instead, he invites me to his family’s shop, which he says is just a little further down the road. I think he actually wants me to meet them.

What else do I have to do? Why not, Ricky? I tell him to hop on, and he shows me the way.

When we reach the shop, I’m surrounded, once again, by a bunch of kids. But these are his little brothers and sisters. Then the parents join us. They’re happy to see me, happy to meet me, even if our conversations are extremely limited. The guy, sorry, my friend, I don’t remember your name, is the only one who speaks a few words of English.

They offer me water, and I take a look around the shop. I want to buy something: a few boxes of toothpaste, some toothbrushes, and other random stuff. The total comes to just over a dollar. I try to give them five, but they won’t accept it.

“The price is this. We don’t want more.”

What wonderful people.

I spend a bit of time with them, then get back on the road as the sun has already set. Since I’m not in a rush to get back, I decide to take random roads, to ride without a destination and explore until it’s completely dark, thinking about how lucky I was to have met that guy.

While randomly wandering through the villages, I notice colored lights glowing at the end of a road, lighting up the night. With no streetlights around, they stand out even more. Curious, I move closer. There must be some kind of event, an outdoor one, because I can hear loud music coming from behind a wall. I see lots of cars parked along the road, so I park too and go check it out.

I walk up to the entrance and peek inside. It’s clearly a party, probably a wedding or a birthday. The “bouncer” approaches me and says something in his language. I have no clue what he’s saying, so I make a gesture with my hands like I’m taking photos. He seems to understand and lets me in without any problem.

Inside, people are eating, dancing, and having fun. There’s a large garden with a huge gazebo, maybe fifty tables and at least two hundred guests. In less than a minute, I feel dozens of eyes on me, and I start feeling embarrassed about my outfit, especially with so many beautiful girls dressed up for the occasion. In the previous months, I hadn’t often found myself surrounded by people dressed so elegantly, so I feel completely out of place. Obviously, we’re not talking about Milan’s Via Montenapoleone level of elegance; this is a small village in the province of Phnom Penh. Some men are wearing polos, others shirts, a few even suits. The women have stunning colorful dresses, elegant hairstyles, carefully done makeup. I take a few photos, then I leave.

What am I even doing here?

I’m about to get back on the scooter when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around. A man in an elegant suit, with a serious look on his face, says something to me. Since I don’t understand, he makes an effort and asks in English, “Who are you?”

I justify my presence at the party by saying I’m just a tourist who happened to pass by, that I only wanted to take a few photos and was already leaving. He looks me up and down.
“Tourists don’t pass here. What do you do here? Where are you from?”

I tell him I’m Italian, but he doesn’t seem to get it.

“Italy! Pizza, pasta, maccheroni.” Nothing.
Then I try again. “Football, soccer, Fratelli d’Italia.” His face suddenly lights up.
“Italia? Del Piero?”

It takes me a couple of seconds to realise he actually said “Del Piero.”

“Yes, Del Piero!”
“Italia Del Piero, Italia Del Piero, Italiaaa!”

His face lights up like a kid who’s just been given a Game Boy for Christmas.

The fear I was starting to feel, I don’t even know of what, maybe of getting beaten up, suddenly disappears. Then the man says, “My brother’s wedding. You special guest. You invited.”

“Thank you, but I can’t! I smell, I’m dirty, I don’t have the right clothes!”
“No. You special guest. You come. Table with men.”

Did I understand that right? A stranger you just met on the side of the road in a small Cambodian village is inviting you to his brother’s wedding.

Why the hell wouldn’t you go?

Why not?