Yi Kakada (often known as Kakada Yi) is a prominent, self-taught contemporary Cambodian street artist and muralist. Born in 1996 in Battambang provinceâhistorically the artistic hub of Cambodiaâhe has become a recognizable figure in the Kingdomâs flourishing urban art scene.
One of Kakadaâs most famous physical talents is his ability to paint ambidextrously. He can draw different images with both hands simultaneously, a skill that often captivates audiences during live painting showcases. He is also recognized for creating âtwo-canvasâ paintings that seamlessly merge to tell a singular story.
Kakadaâs journey to becoming a full-time artist is marked by resilience. He lost both of his parents at an early age and faced severe financial hardship, which forced him to drop out of high school. He moved to Phnom Penh with his siblings to look for opportunities, relying entirely on his raw talent.
Without formal art school training, he mastered his craft through hands-on practice, initially using standard house paint because expensive spray cans were out of reach. His breakthrough came when he won first place in the âAsian Drawing Categoryâ in a competition organized by UNESCO.
There are weeks when coffee is mostly about the coffee.
And then there are weeks when coffee becomes a way of measuring a life.
This was one of those weeks.
Nine coffees. A little over 347,000 Vietnamese Äá»ng. A ridiculous range of prices, places, textures and moods. Everything from a 13,000â« cĂ phĂȘ Äen ÄĂĄ in a District 3 háș»m to an 89,000â« coconut coffee at a retro bar. And somewhere in between, I had one of those small realizations that seem insignificant until you realize they arenât.
But letâs start with the coffee.
My week began with a cĂ phĂȘ sữa with salted foam from MĂȘ TrĂ on Nguyá» n Thá» Minh Khai – 25,000â«. Silky, thick foam. Sweet, creamy, indulgent. The kind of coffee that makes you stop pretending coffee is merely a beverage and admit that sometimes itâs dessert wearing a caffeine costume.
Then there was a 20,000â« cĂ phĂȘ Äen ÄĂĄ from YO Coffee, served from a little cart on Nguyá» n VÄn TrĂĄng. Sitting outside, watching the street do what Saigon streets do, I was reminded again that some of my favorite coffees here cost less than a bottle of water in plenty of places.
I found another little street stand in a District 3 háș»m and had a 13,000â« cĂ phĂȘ Äen ÄĂĄ. Later, near LĂȘ Thá» RiĂȘng, a graffiti-covered backdrop provided the setting for a 20,000â« cĂ phĂȘ sữa ÄĂĄ.
And thatâs one of the things I love about drinking coffee in Saigon.
The setting doesnât have to be impressive.
Sometimes the setting is the point.
A plastic chair. A metal table. A wall covered in graffiti. A narrow háș»m. Motorbikes passing a few feet away. Someone sweeping the sidewalk. Someone else arguing cheerfully over something that sounds very important.
And suddenly youâre sitting in the middle of somebody elseâs ordinary Tuesday. And it feels extraordinary.
Then came the hazelnut latte.
The day before, I had walked past an advertisement for a beautiful hazelnut latte. I remember thinking, Iâll be trying that soon.
And the next day, I did.
This may sound like a ridiculously minor thing. But lately Iâve been thinking about how much freedom is contained in that little sentence: Iâll try that.
And then actually doing it.
So there I was at Cheese Coffee on LĂȘ Thá» RiĂȘng, drinking a 75,000â« báșĄc xá»u hazelnut coffee, enjoying the hell out of it.
It was really good.
And I realized that Iâm increasingly grateful for the freedom. And the means to build a life out of these little things.
Not the big things.
The little things.
A coffee because I saw an advertisement and became curious.
A book because I happened to have it with me.
A shady sidewalk because the breeze feels good.
A neighborhood because I wandered into it.
A conversation because somebody happened to sit nearby.
A day that doesnât have to justify itself.
That particular afternoon was especially good. I was sitting in the shade with a light breeze, reading Fernando Pessoaâs The Book of Disquiet, and thinking that I could probably have stayed there all day.
Honestly, I could have.
There are worse ways to spend a life.
The next coffee took me to Phuongâs Retro Bar on LĂœ Tá»± Trá»ng, where I tried a coconut coffee for 89,000â«. Then another coconut coffee at BĂČ CĂ PhĂȘ, a 60,000â« phin dừa.
Because apparently this was the week I decided that coconut and coffee needed to become a major theme in my life.
Iâm not complaining.
Sunday brought one of my favorite rituals: my neighborhood coffee.
I had started teaching online early, and afterward I wandered over to my usual spot. The guy who knows my order – or at least knows the general direction my order is headed, asked if I wanted more condensed milk.
âYes.â
And on this particular Sunday morning, that was exactly right.
Rich. Sweet. Just the little kick in the ass I needed to start the day.
Monday morning, however, called for something different.
A 25,000â« coffee at Passio on BĂči Thá» XuĂąn, which I described in my notes as a âdetox of sorts.â
After a week that included salted foam, hazelnut, coconut, condensed milk and enough sweetness to qualify as a minor health event, Mondayâs coffee felt almost virtuous.
Almost.
Looking back at the weekâs list, what strikes me isnât really the coffee.
Itâs the accumulation of small choices.
I can walk past a picture of a hazelnut latte and decide I want one.
I can sit in a háș»m for a 13,000â« coffee.
I can spend 89,000â« on something ridiculous and delicious.
I can take a book into the shade and disappear into it for an afternoon.
I can teach online in the morning and be sitting on a plastic chair drinking coffee in a neighborhood a few minutes later.
I can wander.
I can stop.
I can try things.
I can change my mind.
And I can build a life out of all those little things that, taken individually, donât seem particularly important.
But thatâs the trick.
The little things are the big things.
A life doesnât have to be spectacular to be a good one.
Maybe it just has to contain enough moments when you look up from your coffee, feel the breeze, realize youâre exactly where you want to be, and think:
It is what it is. I love that phrase. And I know a lot of people who hate it. I think they misunderstand it. I view it as acceptance. I think others view it as surrender.
Acceptance and surrender are not the same thing. The Buddhists have known this forever, and Iâve been living among people who practice this understanding my whole nomadic adult life, from Bhutan to Southeast Asia.
You do not light incense in front of something youâre giving up on. You acknowledge reality as a starting point, not an ending. You see the thing as it is before you decide what to do next, or whether to do anything at all. Thatâs not passivity. Thatâs clarity.
Iâve noticed that the people who hate the phrase, tend to be people who are very invested in things being other than they are.
But thereâs a particular kind of suffering that comes from refusing to see whatâs actually there.
IT IS WHAT IT IS. And what it is, is extraordinary.
I think thatâs the part of the phrase that haters donât get. Accepting reality is not the same as settling for it. It means youâre actually seeing it, which is the prerequisite for loving it, changing it, or writing about it.
Thereâs a a whole philosophy of peace inside these five words, and if you donât understand that, then, you donât understand me.
Quintessential example of New Khmer Architecture (often intertwined with mid-century modernist shophouse design), a transformative architectural movement that defined Cambodiaâand particularly Phnom Penhâduring the 1950s and 1960s.
Following Cambodia’s independence from France in 1953, King Norodom Sihanouk spearheaded a grand modernization program. This movement blended international modernist principles (like Bauhaus and the works of Le Corbusier) with traditional Khmer elements, motifs, and climate-conscious design.
True to the shophouse tradition, the ground floor serves as commercial space (shops, mechanics, cafes) with open storefronts and awnings, while the upper floors are dedicated to dense residential living.
Today, blocks like the ones here tell a vivid story of Phnom Penhâs layered history. They survived the evacuation of the city during the Khmer Rouge regime in the late 1970s. When residents returned in the 1980s, these structures were re-inhabited and organically modified.
The former French Colonial Police Commissariat, one of the most storied and deteriorating buildings on Post Office Square. đ°đ It was originally built in 1892 and served as the colonial police forceâs headquarters in Phnom Penh.
đ°đ Pop culture footnote: the building is widely known for its role as the guesthouse run by Jacques Depardieuâs character in Matt Dillonâs 2002 crime drama City of Ghosts. đ°đ A recent 2026 report noted the building is still standing though its fate remains uncertain, as Phnom Penh continues racing toward modernization while many heritage buildings quietly disappear with little public debate or legal protection.
đ°đ The House Arrest: He was caught by French colonial authorities. While awaiting his high-profile trial in Phnom Penh, he was placed under a form of comfortable house arrest at the Hotel Manolis, spending several months confined to his room here. Ironically, this âtemple thiefâ would go on to lead Franceâs national architectural preservation and museum expansion drives decades later.
đ°đ Post-War Transition & The Squatter Era (1979âPresent) The Evacuation & Return: Like the rest of Phnom Penh, the building was completely abandoned in 1975 when the Khmer Rouge forcibly evacuated the cityâs population. đ°đ Following the fall of the regime in 1979, citizens returned to the ghost city and claimed shelter wherever they could. The grand hotel rooms were partitioned into small apartments. For decades, the upper levels of the building have been home to roughly 30 local Cambodian families. đ°đ The corner space is occupied by Le Manolis, a French bistro and wine bar that deliberately preserved the buildingâs name and original architectural bones to honor its long, eccentric history.
Located near Wat Phnom on a square intersected by Street 13, it stands in the heart of the cityâs former French administrative quarter and remains the largest post office in Cambodia.
When the Khmer Rouge took control in 1975, the regime allowed no civilian private communication and abolished the postal system entirely. No stamps were issued and mail ceased to exist. Service resumed in early 1979 when the Vietnam Peopleâs Army drove the Khmer Rouge out of Phnom Penh.
The building is recognized among 39 structures of singular monumental character in Phnom Penh deserving protection, and under Cambodiaâs 1996 Law on the Protection of Cultural Heritage it is inventoried for national preservation.
