Foreigner

To the person who told me that the flight was "only like 7 hours"...lucky for you I've already left the country. IT WAS NOT 7 HOURS. I was notoriously under prepared for the 10 hour haul that Air Asia had in for me...with no local currency and no cash on me, through no one's fault but my own, I managed to do a pretty good job of dehydrating and very nearly starving myself in the last 12 hours. Well done CG, as always - we're off to a roaring start. But then again I still have nightmares about losing my backpack, and I've still got that on me so far.

I amused myself by reading this "Guide to Malaysia" on the plane, and one of the top things mentioned was to eat with your hands. I very nearly scoffed. Many of you who know me well know that I'm that girl who uses a knife and fork to eat pizza. I'll never eat a piece of cake with my hands, nor will I ever venture too far out without a wet wipe in my purse in case things get messy.

Feeling faint from lack of substantial nutrition, I wandered through the airport like a lost little bunny, in search of food and water. It was with a taught smile that I politely asked the miniature race to excuse me,and I tried to walk in a decent pace through the terminals. I think my frustration at the looks of awe for being so tall, and my irritability at their lack of height was evident. Little children ran around and between my spindly legs, and I had to take a deep breath and remind myself that kicking miniature humans at KL airport would not get me very far.

I like to think that I am decently well traveled - what Tony Wheeler, the founder of Lonely Planet Guide, refers to as a 'parachute artist' - someone who can drop into a place and quickly assimilate, someone who can write about anywhere.

In terms of assimilating - we've already striked out with the height thing, on a count of the fact that I am a good 2 foot taller than all the mini humans that surround me. I'll never be one of them. And you know what, it hurts.

But it's surprising how, no matter your extensive travel experience, no matter how on top of things you think you are, no matter how many times you've landed in a foreign place not knowing the going currency rate, how to get anywhere or how to speak the language...how you can still feel like an amateur.

So far I'm finding myself totally lostt in Asia - and despite my general vagueness and blank stare that makes you think that I'm (to quote Dice) "never quite with it" I seriously feel quite dumbfounded. It's good. It's like an electric current running through my veins, something that I don't quite know how to take, I don't know where to turn nor do I know what to say, but it makes you feel....I dunno...good?! For lack of a better word; invigorating. It's frightening, but that's the thing about travel - if you're not afraid to some degree, you're not doing it right. It's not always for the easily frightened.

Well, that's my philosophy, anyway. And we're always lost. Lost souls on a journey from here to anywhere, seeing what crops up along the way.

Anywho, so low and behold I find myself tickling my taste buds with a Malay braised duck soup or something, I just picked the 5th thing down on the menu, and smiled hopefully at the middle aged waiter who had kind brown eyes.

Low and behold my dish comes out pronto, complete with chopsticks and a plastic glove. Mr Kind Eyes gave a little bow and backed away. Clever man. Not only am I absolutely terrible at using chopsticks, I was torn between looking like an ignorant foreigner and being on the brink of passing out. I chose the lesser of two evils, and after battling with the goddamn sticks for what I would consider enough time to consider 'a fair attempt', I asked Mr Kind Eyes for a fork. He willingly agreed, but I saw the judgement in his eyes. But honestly, even with the fork I was splashing and slurping things all over the place, and I got so self conscious because I was sure the couple next to me were watching. I even flung some ginger out of the bowl and across the table. I managed to get some noddles on my fork (which was quite a battle given the seemingly endless pit of swirling noodles to a bowl that had no depth) only to drop them into the hot soup and soak my face in soupy splash-back. It was awful. Mr Kind Eyes exchanged some words with a colleague and they had a giggle.

I told myself that he told a joke.

I secretly hoped that joke wasn't me.

The leg of duck was still swimming around in my pot of disaster, and I spent a long moment glancing from the glove to the duck to the fork to the glove. I looked around the restaurant - why was no one else using their hands to eat if this was allegedly something that happened all the time?! That's something the stupid bloody guidebook author should have rather written about; "How to assimilate and not look like an idiot whilst eating Malaysian cuisine"

Actually no - copyright, that's winning article material right there. Give me a couple of weeks and I'll write a novel on the topic. I assure you, I'm quite the expert.

Anywho long story short, lucky I didn't have a whole lot of dignity to begin with; I ended up pulling that glove on with the confidence of a doctor who's about to do a rectal exam.

Then I went in for the kill.

Minutes later, I got a proud look of approval and a little nod from Mr Kind Eyes. It was like he was saying "I believed in you all along".

One small step for backpacking me, one giant leap for Friday-Night-Pizza me.