We had one final evening in Malaysia, and it fell on our 2 ½ year anniversary, so after the five-hour-long bus ride back to Kuala Lumpur, Colin and I strolled around the Chinatown night market (Why did we stay in Chinatown? It was a more-commercial version of our night markets in Taipei!) and looked for dinner.
“Every single person on that patio is foreign.” (Mostly Swedish from the looks of things.) And they were charging RM$17 for a plate of fried rice—only about US$5, but highway robbery when they’re selling it for RM$5 around the corner. Maybe night-market robbery.
So we went around the corner, literally, and ate on the sidewalk. That makes it a sidewalk café, right? It was so good, Colin wanted another plate, but with it pushing 10 p.m. and our having an alarm set for 5:45 to get us to the airport in time, we called it a night and pushed our way back through the throngs to the Chinatown Hotel II. Yeah, we’re staying in the particle-board cubicle again.
Seven hours later
The bus driven by a man who only slows against red lights barreled through the darkness during our last few hours in Malaysia. Though it hadn’t been as easy or idyllic, and certainly not as sunny, as I would have hoped, I wasn’t at all dissatisfied with our trip. I felt no ill will toward Malaysia because of its cloudy weather or long-distance buses, only a desire to come back and do things a little differently.