Can...can...cannot

Being a fifty something year old means that I feel entitled to grumble and mumble sometimes. I notice the long hours my husband puts in at work, the haze, the traffic, our condo building which seems to empty early in the morning. Language differences crop up when I try to organise a car wash.

My regular trips to Bangsar (expat land) are beginning to irritate, as I wait for another taxi. My never ending search for something useful to do and adapting to the forward planning needed to get across the city.

We drive up to Ipoh and view the limestone cave temples. Just as we are leaving, I hear the high pitched sound of a gang of motorcycles approaching. Having received warnings about bag snatchers, I hurriedly cling to my bag and run to put a fence between myself and newcomers. They circle and look menacingly at me. I stare back and after split second they leave going back from whence they came. 

Lying on our beds back at the hotel, we try to ignore the hammering which continues above us for an hour before complaining to reception. Tired, we traipse across the steamy road to try the open air 'food court.' All manner of foods is served here and we enjoy our first bit of R&R in Ipoh feeling very like the newcomers we are.

Later that day we frequent a popular western pub on the other side of town while we plan our escape home. Arriving at breakfast the next morning to squealing children, food fights, queues of people waiting for food, we realise we have made the right decision.