Sitting on our porch in Singapore late one evening, Chris and I planned our escape. The destination: Penang.

That summer had found me sweating profusely in the most un-ladylike way while spending a month in Singapore. Tired of the heat, humidity, afternoon rains, and the nonstop sweating, I was desperate to leave, escape, even if only for a few days. So late one night Chris and I boarded a train to Kuala Lumpur, where we would connect to another train bound for Butterworth, Malaysia and then onto a ferry to Georgetown.

Determined to be frugal on this spur of the moment venture, we had purchased the cheapest possible tickets, even though the difference when converted to US dollars was negligible, we were determined to rough it. Several sleepless hours later, having spent the majority of the night propped up in a dirty, uncomfortable train car with several other weary travelers we made it to Kuala Lumpur. Promptly upon disembarking from the train, we made a bee-line for the restrooms in an attempt to feel more human and less like livestock, and then it was straight to the ticket booth to upgrade our remaining tickets to first class – although feeling guilty about this first departure from the vow of frugality, it was at the time seen as a necessary expense.

The second part of the journey was much more enjoyable, and we were able to enjoy the beautiful landscape that the train slowly cut through. As the train started north from Kuala Lumpur the tracks ran alongside the edge of the Malaysia jungle, until near Taiping when it cut to the west to follow parallel to the coast line. After being shepherded off to the ferry with the other travelers, we were able to see it – the clock tower – standing at attention in the waning evening light.

I have always thrilled in the exotic, arriving in an unknown destination with little more than a guide book and a change of clothes. Every place is endowed with its own aurora, a sight or feeling which can’t be explained, only witnessed or experienced in person. I am always intrigued in how any given location can have such a strong identity, but is itself a sum of its parts.

Navigating through the streets of downtown Georgetown, Chris and I find our way to the hostel – yet another attempt at frugality. Checking-in involved hunting down the little Chinese woman who ran the hostel, paying the thirty dollars for two nights lodging, and picking our room. The hostel is on the second floor of what seems to be a junk shop; I’m still not exactly sure what is sold there. Ascending the creaky old stairs first to come into view is the “dorm” area (about a half dozen beds out in the open), it appeared as if one or two were occupied, but it’s hard to say. The remaining rooms were situated around the perimeter of a larger reception room filled with seating and some old maps and things laid out on tables. It reminded me of a hospitable prison, if there is such a thing: the doors to the rooms slid open and were locked from the outside with combination and pad-locks and had heavy bolts to lock them on the inside. Chris and I selected a corner room with: a full size bed, above which was hanging a turquoise mosquito netting; an armoire; one straight backed chair, upon which was perched an oscillating fan which must have been at least 20 years old; and one bare light dangling from the ceiling.

That first night brought many realizations. First, although the heat was stifling, the windows needed to remain closed, because while open first came the mosquitoes then came the rain and when the rain was over the mosquitoes returned. Second, mosquito netting can be quite oppressive, making even the most collected claustrophobic. Lastly, the walls were paper thin, and a Dutch couple a few rooms over were getting quite frisky – poor Chris and myself were subject to the sounds of their lovemaking for a lengthy period that first night.

To be continued…

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