Passports and Eyerolls

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Do not be fooled that pool is swampy!

A comfortable chartered bus took us from Malacca to Kuala Lumpur. Pro tip for anyone traveling around Malaysia: if at all possible, avoid heading into KL on a Sunday. What should have been a tidy two-hour trip stretched into four thanks to traffic alone.

We arrived at the massive main bus terminal and hailed a Grab for the final leg into the city. A short distance as the crow flies, but apparently crows do not account for KL Sunday traffic. Our driver was visibly nervous, white-knuckled in a way we hadn’t experienced before, and actually scolded us for not taking the MRT. I had considered it, but with a hungry tween and six large packs, Grab felt like the better choice. With the three of us, the cost difference was negligible.

Apparently Sundays are brutal traffic days in KL, and this one was the last holiday weekend before school started – extra chaos for good measure.

Meanwhile, our hotel contact was pinging me repeatedly for updated arrival times. I had already messaged from the bus to explain the delay and, while I always appreciate proactive communication, the steady stream of “ETA?” texts felt…a bit much. I updated them when we were five minutes out.

We finally pulled up to our apartment complex. The driver sped off in a mild huff after commenting on the number of bags. The boys were tired and hungry (so was I), and we found ourselves standing in the middle of a sprawling apartment complex with absolutely no indication of where to go.

I messaged our very chatty contact. Silence.

A security guard took pity on us. After reviewing our booking he asked, “Which lobby?”

My blank stare: “There’s more than one?”

There are six.

I messaged again. No response. The guard suggested we wait in Lobby C1, where at least there was air conditioning and seating. I reached out again, and also tried the second number listed on the booking. That number responded: our main contact had gone to lunch and would be back in about 20 minutes.

I’ll spare you the rest of the miscommunication saga, but we finally (FINALLY) made it into our apartment around 5:00 PM. Tired. Dirty. Very, very hungry.

The complex was probably lovely…about twenty years ago. It had clearly seen better days. Even the pool was a suspicious shade of swamp green, another blow to the boys, who had been dreaming of an afternoon swim. The apartment itself was fine. Sparse, worn furniture, but clean. And it had a washing machine, which for long-term travelers ranks somewhere near “luxury amenity.”

My original plan? Dinner at one of the recommended restaurants followed by the Petronas Towers light and water show.

What actually happened?

Showers. Pajamas. Western comfort food. A movie.

And honestly? That was the right call.

All of this is to say: first impressions matter, and KL’s wasn’t great. But I promised this blog would capture long-term travel as it really is. Most days are wonderful. And then there are these days. The ones where nothing clicks. Where you feel tired, mildly scammed, anxious, and deeply hungry.

Add a teen and a tween and you get whining, bickering, and because they are boys, the occasional pushing and shoving. Then comes the parental guilt—the snap you didn’t mean, the irritation you know is rooted in exhaustion more than behavior.

On days like this, all you can do is remind yourself: it’s one day. The universe is not targeting you personally.

Order the comfort food.

Start the laundry.

Let the washing machine hum in the background while everyone resets.

Tomorrow is another day.