My land, my own.
I have done nothing for you and yet you embrace me as yours.
And how I have missed you.
For as of now your warm smell of after rain and palm trees mixed with smoke and steam from the asphalt fills my nostrils. I ready up 2 ringgit to pay for my meal only to have the brother give me a funny stare and utter an "80 cents only" notice. A reminder of Malaysia's understanding and warmth in dire and dry moments of bachelorhood. Not implementing that that is now mom but...I wouldn't mind some.
But maybe it's not you, KL, that i've missed. Maybe it's the good loving of Ms. Familiarity.  Without her I wouldn't have found the whereabouts of good saucy, sour, spicy, grilled sting ray. Thanks to familiarity (or Janie too). Or where to find a consistent banana leaf rice (Nirvana's of course). Bak Ku Teh? Ikea's meatballs? Can't get that in Bangkok. I realize that it's nothing special to claim that I am a food lover if I'm a Malaysian in Malaysia. Not noteworthy to realize too that the meat of what I've just written had been foodically inspired (pun intended).I love goofimistic words.

To have it rain for 5 hours straight on your journey, and not have it be anything out of the ordinary.
To have cookies or mandarin oranges or other goodies awaiting you (depending on the festival) at your aunt's & uncle's/ grandparent's/ friend's mom's crib.
To spot and recognize various radio djs, vj, or celebrities around town.
To pride of being able to hear a mentioned landmark and know how to get there via sky-train, car, bus, taxi, horse. 
To know that most here would back down from staring at you if you stare back (doesn't really happen in Bangkok to my observation?).
Familiarity? Sorta.

But now in retrospect, I think it's not familiarity that I miss. I love being flaky on my blog. But give me some time to churn my thoughts to more than it's wimpy milky state.

It's still raining.
 
There's a lot to appreciate when you've just come out of an industrialized, tourist-eating town, the softness of their hearts steel gated to you depending on your skin color (or anything apart from their own light Asian tan). I'm not labeling Thailand. I love Thailand. Bangkok is a little scary though. Like an old soldier gnarled by the treachery of fighting the wars of his time. Every reflex is one of defense if you don't speak the code. You know that there are sparks of humanity and goodness left in him though. You've just got to speak his language.

So here I am on the bus home that would have left before I reached the station if not for the friendly mustached man who gave me a free lift on his motorbike when he saw my yellow bags of burden. Overlooking the fact that it wasn't very far from the train station and that he probably gets a commission for promoting his bus of
course. Ha.

Okay.
I've churned enough.

So I guess I could say that I miss you, KL. But really, I miss being able to use my comprehension of what you have to offer. If that is gone, I'm not sure if my heart will stay. So maybe I don't really miss you?

I think it's the one's whom love. Be you in Malaysia, Chiang Rai, Chiang Mai, Miami, Philadelphia, Australia, New Zealand, Singapore, Korea, Seattle, or even Bangkok. You know who you are. And it is you who is truly, undoubtedly, unabashedly missed. Our conversations, jokes and impressions will never ever be forgotten. Here's to our goofimism and foodicallity. If you lack these two skills, dear readers, question our friendship. No, haha i'm just goofing with you.

This was a pathetic blog.

Peace from the bus.

It is still raining.

But i'm home.

                                                                              

The backstage in which we rush about making preparations at the departure terminal for the next crowd, adjusting our fittings, wigs and make-up. Touchdown. The curtains open. The slight possibility that the crowd might cheer if you're a good act. Besides that, they watch intently for a pop, flop, flip, slip, spill or a spelling mistakee. Heehee...point made.
Apparently, most of us dance our hearts out to win theirs. Or at least try to. Others march to their own drum by not marching at all. Or rather, indifferent to what the audience thinks [this relates to the idea of making a statement, by not making one]. Our eyes swiftly pecking glances at the audience for a giggle or a boo. Carry on now, carry on. And if you've saved up enough, it's back to the airport for a makeover to cunningly adapt to please the upcoming crowd once you've landed. I love airports though.
Tough crowd this time around. I've used up my whole bag of tricks. I just might join the laid back un-marchers sitting at the curb eating gourmet food watching the others juggle flaming knives doing handstands atop a huge rubber balls rolling across tight ropes after being shot out of a canon. I don't mind actually, to be on opposite side of the audience (I sorta am). I strive for a good show. It gets tiring when the audience follows you off stage only to gross out about how you cook instant noodles with butter and italian herbs with a slice of cheese on the top. High class tea sippers. I'd love to try that life sometime. I rest in the fact that the God that I know, needs no show...bro...yo (I get pretty darned lame don't I? In fact, He shuns it. It doesn't matter whether you've donned your Giordano shirt/Hugo Boss perfume/7-in-one Listerine/Loreal Paris hair-dye raising your hands to the most recent heart mushing Hillsong or if you break down runny nosed kneeling under a shower singing Everything by Lifehouse...sweat, tears shampoo and all. Speaking of showers, I need one. Physically for the body odor, mentally for the face paint I've layered on in a rush for this next crowd. Maybe this time i'll join neither the clowns nor the chillers. I'll join the handful of runners stopping by anyone who cares to receive the uncomfortable news of the flood plus a ticket to the lifesaving ark of heaven.
Heaven.
Home.
The last stop.
I await the airport of death.
Oh, how morbid!
Jane, it's your fault ;)