KL: Day One, Morning.

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia - A much needed respite after spending the morning trekking solo around KL, particularly considering the heat. It’s currently 32 degrees out, with the humidex pushing that up to 43 degrees. Yeah, it’s warm. Throw some curry on me, I think I’m done.

I had nowhere specific to go this morning as SCS is busy presenting at her conference, but I knew she really wanted to show me around KLCC (Kuala Lumpur City Centre), where the Towers are, so I didn’t head there. How to start the day was a bit of a dilemma considering I was keen to start discovering, but, being ‘on vacation’, I also really had no reason to hurry. So, it was a casual breakfast buffet in the hotel where I got my fill of food spanning a number of cultures.

Then it was off into the tropical heat, headed wherever my feet took me. A battered prison in the middle of the city, the blue-domed mosque and the famed Petaling Street, or China Town. I was also drawn to KL’s sports stadium, which was surrounded by extremely tall, spiked fences and seemed rather austere. The guard let me poke around inside a bit and it seemed nicer, if not very colonial on the inside.

As much as I expected this experience to be a smorgasbord for the senses, there were times they felt a bit overwhelmed. The noise was abundant: horns, people speaking in many languages, Christmas carols (yes, even though this is a predominantly Muslim country, Christmas carols), motorbikes and trains. It even seemed you could hear the heat. Smells of fresh fish, incense, diesel pollution and various foods blended in the nostrils like the mixture of cultures that are so evident here. Strains of Celine Dion, P-Diddy (or whatever he’s calling himself these days) and John Lennon mixed into Christmas carols – with too much bass – and Indian sitar. And then one figure (besides myself) stands out in the sea of dark faces: Santa Claus.

China Town was an experience unlike any other thus far. “Nike”, “Adidas” and “Mont Blanc” pens everywhere, interspersed with clucking chickens who didn’t know the end was nigh. Buckets of left over parts and fish heads hanging, grinning maniacally. A man, sitting on a butcher’s table, getting a deep tissue massage (were they planning to relax him prior to quartering him, I asked myself). A woman asked where I had bought my hat and looked at me incredulously when I replied, 'Canada'. Another man walked three or four blocks with me, telling me how his sister is moving to Toronto in the new year to be a nurse. I became a little skeptical when he later asked if he could meet me in a particular spot this evening.

“…Colonial stone crumbles into glass:
Commerce, the new imperialism.”

I long ago learned to not look as much like a tourist by walking as though I belonged and by not pulling out a map every twelve seconds (that’s my excuse if I get lost, anyway). It’s funny here, because regardless of how much I keep myself from gazing at the tops of buildings or wandering too aimlessly, I still stand out. In a country predominantly populated by Malay, Chinese and Indian, I come across as being pretty pale. And tall. I suppose the camera doesn’t help my cause either.