Grand Mama Malaysia, you’ve blanketed me with your warm, loving kindness for four months. Best I move on before being smothered by your embrace. Or die from heat stroke. For real—you are one hot granny.
One last tango with Borneo, then I’m off the dance floor. Dragging Denise along, I summon our great leader Eddie and a few tag-alongs for my final hurrah: Sabah’s Floating Mosque and a mangrove boat ride to cha-cha with the proboscis monkey.
As a kid, I spent most Sundays watching Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, had unlimited access to my dad’s lifetime subscription of National Geographic, and visited more zoos than I can count. If I’d ever seen one of these odd fellows before, I would’ve remembered. Let’s just say these simians have a fabulous face for radio.
“The male with the longest schnauze and biggest beer belly gets the most action,” Eddie explains.
Denise and I roll our eyes and chuckle.
Denise cracks me up. We find humor in just about everything, and her husband John is a hoot too. If we lived on the same continent, I could see us playing cards, drinking a pint or two, and laughing our asses off. It gives me hope—that wherever and whenever it feels right to land, I’ll find my people.
Could Vietnam be my promised land?
OMG. Vietnam.
I need to check in for my flight.
Probably because I’m on a boat in the middle of a mangrove past sundown, relying on spotty cellular data, I’m somehow able to converse with Chat but completely unable to check into my flight. So bizarre.
Dammit. Late check-in equals inflated baggage fees at the counter. Nothing I can do for the next four hours except sit back, relax, and enjoy the massive rainstorm heading our way.
Back at the hotel—locked, loaded, and fully internet-equipped—autofill takes care of the Vietnam visa mumbo jumbo… until I’m unable to upload my passport photo. Chat gives me a long list of complicated instructions to reduce the photo size. After an hour, he casually suggests I just email it to myself and select “small.”
WTF???
WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST TELL ME THIS.
Welp. Now I know.
It’s 2:00 a.m. My flight takes off at 2:00 p.m. Talk about cutting it close. In a few minutes, I’ll enter my visa number, check in for my flight, and—fingers crossed—get five hours of shut-eye.
Life is good.
Until I read the fine print: processing time 3–5 days.
“Oh, they say that all the time,” Chat assures me. “Don’t worry—they’ll approve it within five hours.”
“Well my flight takes off in twelve hours, Chatty-poo.”
“Plenty of time.”
Every hour on the hour, I check my visa status.
Checkout time is noon. Last checked baggage is 12:30. Still in my pajamas at 11:50 a.m., with no Visa in sight, I make the executive decision to stay another night.
WTF, Chat? I’ve paid for a non-refundable room in Vietnam, now I’m paying double to stay here again. The flight I just missed is also non-refundable, meaning I’ll need to buy another one.
“I understand the frustration and recognize the cost,” Chat says gently, “but please, Lary… you will get your visa.”
Yeah. Whatever.
Day three of daily hotel changes, 100-plus-degree heat, no visa. Bleeding money. Mind muddled. Of all my challenges so far, living in limbo does not bode well with me. Chat’s suggestion to “just hang out at the airport until your visa is approved” nearly sends me over the edge.
Clearly, he’s on drugs. Not only has he given me erroneous information—he’s now lost his marbles.
I book a room near the airport. Twenty-three dollars. At this point, it may as well be a hundred. The stench emanating from both me and my suitcase is deplorable. Whatever. I just want sleep.
Functioning on zero to no sleep, I follow the check-in instructions and grab the keys—along with the lift (elevator) and pool cards, commonplace in most rentals. The name on the key says Belle Suite, third floor.
Behind a small metal gate sit two side-by-side doors, each crowned with its name in individually nailed, tacky gold script letters. One reads La Suite. The other, Belle Suite. Of the two keys in my hand, only one is labeled Belle Suite, so I unlock that door and shove my suitcases, overstuffed purse, and computer case inside.
This place is enormous. Woo-hoo.
I don’t recall booking two bedrooms, a living room, dining area, large kitchen—and a washer/dryer. I must be mildly delirious.
I crank up the AC, dump the contents of both my suitcases here, there and everywhere, throw a couple water bottles in the freezer, and flop naked onto their version of a queen-sized bed.
After chilling—literally—for an hour, I throw my first load into the washing machine, twist the top off the finest Chardonnay available at the 7-Eleven below, hop back on the bed, and start episode three of The Mole.
The idea of having my entire wardrobe clean at the same time creates a melatonin bomb that detonates the second I hit play.
Beep beep beep.
Beep beep.
Ring ring.
RING. RING.
OMG. WTF.
SHHH.
I hit snooze.
RING. RING.
WhatsApp.
Probably my last Grab driver.
Two more rings, then a text. Not Grab.
Ms. Kennedy, my clients are trying to check in, but you took both sets of keys. They are downstairs waiting for you.
OMFG.
Adrenaline shocks my mind and body into hyperdrive. It all makes sense now—the unit next door is the one I actually paid for. That’s why there are two sets of keys.
Panic on a level I’ve never experienced overtakes me. I am naked, sleeping in someone else’s bed, my clothes are in the washer, my belongings are strewn everywhere—and they are waiting to enter the unit they paid for.
This unit.
I start shoving everything into my suitcase. I go for the keys to open the adjoining unit—and I can’t find the fucking keys.
WHY. WHY. WHY can I never find my keys? I hate keys. Hate them. Why does anyone still use them? I am going to have a heart attack. Or a stroke. This is it. This is how I’ll die; naked, afraid, and in someone else’s hotel room. A cheap bottle of Chardonnay by my side.
I’m sweating, crying, fully unraveling. My clothes are still in the washer.
“I’m so sorry,” I text. “I didn’t realize. I’m moving everything now.”
“They’re outside waiting for you,” she replies. “It’s pouring rain.”
Jesus Christ—can this get any worse?
Yes. It can.
I can’t get my clothes out of the washer, and I still can’t find the goddamn keys. Seconds from hyperventilating, Sam Harris and my meditation practice finally take over.
Breathe, Lary. Breathe. Breathe.
I calm down just long enough to find the keys, buried in the dishevelment of my belongings. I fling open the door of my room in a frenzy I never want to experience again and with both hands hurl all my shit inside.
My multitasking skills kick into high gear. I whip through the apartment with octopus arms, the speed of a jaguar, and the will of a honey badger. You’d never know I’d been there if it weren’t for the washing machine running, a bottle of water turn to ice in the freezer, and one missing towel I’d used and tossed in a closet.
Fifteen minutes later, I meet the intended renters—two twenty-something guys from India. Handing the keys over with the calmness of a cow, I apologize profusely.
“No worries,” they say, as I feel my blood pressure drop just a notch.
In the elevator, almost as an afterthought, I add, “By the way… I left some clothes in the washer.”
“No biggie,” they say. “We’ll let you know when they’re ready.”
Thanks, guys.
Back in my unit, wading through my disaster of a room, heart pounding, body temperature somewhere north of 120, it occurs to me this is probably the closest I’ve ever come to death.
And in the midst of all that interminable chaos—
My visa comes through.
The next morning, I pack both bags—my Monos hybrid suitcase-trunk and the cheap carry-on I bought in Bangkok. Rolling my trunk out, I take one last look at the ridiculously cramped storage closet I’d spent my final night in Malaysia, wave bye bye to my carry-on and its contents, lock the door, and get the hell out of Dodge.
Enjoying the chaos? 🍷 Buy me a glass of wine
