A Night in Asgard

The Chua Brothers breakfast of fish ball noodle soup, yong tau foo and a bowl of three kinds of noodle, accompanied by thick Malaysian indigenous coffee was a far cry from Tiptree marmalade on toast, and Earl Grey tea in an aging English seaside. That fateful morn, stomach rumbling as breakfast was not included in our deal at the hotel, I was led into the bowels of Kuala Lumpur's China Town by my 'I don't do mornings' wife, who nevertheless did that morning.

This is the very same woman who, bright-eyed and not exactly bushy tailed, but nevertheless excited, had grasped my arm tightly, the previous night, and squealed when Thor, god of thunder, was beating up the bad guys attacking all he held dear at Times Square, near Bukit Bintang. It was the very same she who drooled at that thunder god's naked chest, asking in a seemingly casual way - ‘who was that actor playing Thor’.

Over breakfast, in that backwater Malaysian Chinese eatery, I watched one elderly chap peeling those tiny, salty, dried fish called ikan bilis. Meticulously he disposed of the tiny silvery heads and black innards, then he bagged the remainder up ready to be fried or used as a flavoring in soup/congee. Noodles were being blanched all around as a tall, young, Chinese beggar, all crinkled long dark hair and raggedy clothes, encouraged diners to give him a hand out. None did. Not five feet from where that disheveled outcaste was standing, begging, offerings of oranges and red coloured bread (pau) lay on the more blatantly red Taoist alter. This led me to two rash assumptions, 1) beggars become invisible in Malaysia, and 2) Malaysian Psychiatric care is patchy.

The daily November rain had held off, but Kuala Lumpur's humidity drenched my Cambodian cotton shirt anyway, just to prove a point to this son of another soil. Exiting that noodle house, we took the long way round, back to the hotel, and back to the sleepy son who could not rise for breakfast. The night’s stay was a one off. It was a chance for those in the family who enjoyed swimming, to swim, and for those who preferred a reasonably good (e)book, to watch.

The Swiss garden Hotel was comfortable enough, but a tad far from the fun of China Town that, and the inconvenience of having to wander the hotel finding what’s what, as that incarnation of Swiss Gardens International has two towers and numerous confounding exits.