In our two months time in Southeast Asia, we were yet to have a decent burrito. America is wonderful because you can get great international cuisine practically anywhere due to emigrant populations who have brought their signature dishes with them. Said signature dishes inevitably become absorbed into the canon of American cuisine, albeit in a slightly mutated form (take Tex-Mex, for example). You could say its all part of America being the great cultural mixing pot that it is.

But in other countries that don’t have such a reputation for welcoming people from all corners of the world, it is difficult to find certain types of ethnic dishes. There aren’t many Mexicans in Southeast Asia, so as a consequence burritos, nachos and fajitas are all minus a certain flair that they would otherwise have in Mexico or the U.S.

In Siem Reap, the town abutting the temples of Angkor Wat, Brian and I tried some Mexican food at what was reputed to be one of the most “authentic” Mexican restaurants in Southeast Asia. If by “authentic” they meant “tastes like it came from a freeze-dried package,” then they were spot on.

Having a burrito that was so lacking made me pine for home.

It wasn’t just the food that made me look forward to coming home, though. The familiar and comforting sights and sounds of Pendleton were calling to Brian and me as the date for our return flight home drew close.

Though the last week of our trip was bearing upon us, we tried to keep our focus on enjoying what time we had left. We soaked up the temples of Angkor Wat and the beaches of Sihanoukville, Cambodia, before taking a 10-hour ride bus back to Bangkok, a place we had visited over a month before.

Being in a somewhat familiar environment for once in two months was reassuring. We stayed in the same neighborhood we had before and recognized all the taxi drivers and street food vendors that made Soi 11 or Sukhumvit their haunt. Even the Royal Thai Police Officer with whom we had a rowdy evening with was stationed at his favorite noodle stand/drinking hole.

While in Bangkok, we made a final souvenir stop at Chatuchuk market, a sprawling composite of stalls and tents selling everything under the sun from counterfeit designer sunglasses to bundles of Thai silk to factory-produced knickknacks to dog food. Like any respectable outdoor market, Chatuchuck had its fair share of street musicians. One of them was a local Thai who dressed in convincing Western attire (cowboy-cut blue jeans, boots and snap-button shirt) and played traditional claw hammer-style banjo. Seeing him in the market served as some kind of divine reminder that we were about to be returning back to the West.

In spite of our return home, I couldn’t help feeling sentimental about the gleaming high rises, chaotic traffic and seedy streets of Bangkok as our taxi hurdled toward the airport.

Our return flight was operated by Korean Air and we once again experienced the Koreans’ exemplary level of service. Unfortunately, we had a 12-hour layover at Incheon International Airport in Seoul, but the airport provided enough complementary amenities to keep us satisfied. Shower facilities and leather reclining chairs were freely available to any travel who wished them. For passengers with long layovers like us, we were offered a complimentary tour of the city during the day, which we gladly took advantage of. It’s no wonder Incheon has been consistently ranked as the No. 1 airport in the world by Airports Council International since 2005.

While touring about Seoul, we had to bundle ourselves up for the first time since leaving the States. The cold weather was just another reminder that we would soon be in the cooler latitudes of the Pacific Northwest.

Upon arriving at SeaTac, we were subjected to expectedly brusk treatment by U.S. customs and immigration officials. If there was one thing I could count on not looking forward to when returning home, it certainly had to be dealing with immigration officers.

While waiting on our next flight to Portland, I wandered over to some sort of franchise Mexican food stand in the airport’s food court that was selling Mission-style burritos. The beans were cooked just right and I actually had guacamole and sour cream for the first time since leaving.

It was nice to finally get a decent burrito.

James Dean Kindle is a local musician and an infrequent (but frequently enough of a) world traveler. When not abroad he is busy making music with his band The Eastern Oregon Playboys and working as a GIS technician in Pendleton. This is his last column detailing his trip to Southeast Asia