We arrived at Kuala Lumpur’s BTS bus station somewhere out in the far-flung suburbs of this vast, sprawling city. Like most large Asian transport hubs, it seemed to exist in a parallel universe where buses arrived, buses departed and nobody appeared to actually live nearby.

We stood for a moment, packs on our backs, scratching our heads before making our way to the nearby train station.

AP had already done his homework. After a quick consultation with his phone he announced that, with a couple of train changes, we could get to a station only a short walk from the apartment we had rented.

Excellent.

The train system worked surprisingly smoothly, and before long we were standing on a platform, turning slowly in circles while pretending we knew exactly where we were.

“Right,” said AP, squinting at Google Maps. “This way.”

Outside the station he stopped and pointed.

“That’s our building.”

Sure enough, a gleaming skyscraper rose into the sky not far away.

It looked close enough to stroll to in ten minutes.

What we hadn’t yet appreciated was that Kuala Lumpur appears to have been designed by someone with an unhealthy fascination for motorways. Between us and our apartment lay a bewildering collection of dual carriageways, elevated highways, rail lines, fences and roads that seemed to exist solely to prevent pedestrians from ever reaching their destination.

Still blissfully ignorant, we stopped for a late lunch before setting off.

Within minutes we encountered our first obstacle—a fenced railway line.

“Look,” I said, pointing towards what could generously be described as a track disappearing through a patch of weeds.

It looked as though someone had walked there before.

Possibly yesterday.

Possibly while being chased.

As experienced travellers we did what any sensible people would do.

We followed the dodgy-looking track.

It led us to a bridge that appeared to be held together by optimism, duct tape and perhaps a few cable ties. Up and over we went before emerging into a car park beside one of the busiest roads I have ever seen. As if several lanes of speeding traffic weren’t enough, cars continuously burst from a tunnel beneath us to join the already chaotic flow.

We stood there for a while contemplating how, exactly, one crossed this particular monster.

Eventually I made my decision.

“I’m going.”

Before AP could object I launched myself across at something approaching a gallop, backpack bouncing violently behind me. Halfway across I paused briefly on the tiny refuge in the middle, questioned my life choices, then charged the remaining lanes.

Somehow I made it.

A moment later AP arrived beside me.

“One of these days,” he muttered, “you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“But not today,” I replied with what I thought was a reassuring smile.

He simply shook his head and returned to consulting the GPS.

“This way.”

Ignoring my near-death experience entirely, he marched off with purpose.

We followed roads, then lanes, then smaller lanes. We rounded corners, squeezed between buildings and, at one point, crossed what looked suspiciously like somebody’s backyard. All the while our apartment tower hovered in the distance, always visible, always appearing tantalisingly close, yet somehow never getting any nearer.

Then we turned one final corner.

Bang.

Without warning we found ourselves in what was unquestionably the dirtiest, smelliest wet market I have ever experienced.

And I’ve visited quite a few wet markets over the years.

I stopped dead.

“Oh…”

That was about all I could manage.

Fish, meat and vegetables were piled everywhere. Water ran across the uneven concrete floor carrying with it things I preferred not to identify. Flies hovered in enthusiastic numbers, scooters threaded impossible gaps between shoppers, stallholders shouted over one another and every imaginable smell competed for attention.

It was a complete assault on every single sense.

AP, seemingly immune to both the sights and smells, simply kept walking.

I hurried after him, concentrating very hard on breathing as little as possible.

Eventually we escaped the market, negotiated a few more roads, found an underpass that looked only marginally safer than the bridge we’d crossed earlier and finally arrived.

The Continew Residences.

A soaring skyscraper wedged between two major motorways and directly opposite a shopping centre.

It wasn’t exactly the picturesque neighbourhood we’d imagined, but we hadn’t chosen it for its charm.

We had chosen it because the dentist was directly across the road.

The apartment itself turned out to be excellent. From the forty-fourth floor the city stretched endlessly into the distance, often disappearing beneath low cloud that drifted past the windows. The infinity pool became our favourite afternoon retreat, and most days we had it almost entirely to ourselves.

I still don’t understand Malaysian apartment pools.

They are spectacular.

Nobody seems to use them.

Over the following days we discovered several excellent little restaurants within walking distance, a metro station that made getting into the city remarkably easy and a wonderful neighbourhood coffee shop. By our third visit the owner had our coffees ready almost before we’d sat down, which is exactly the sort of efficiency I can wholeheartedly support.

Of course, none of this was the reason we were there.

That honour belonged to the dentist.

I’ll spare you the finer details, but what I had confidently assumed would be a straightforward filling evolved into a root canal, a crown, the discovery that two old crowns had failed, one replacement crown, one tooth that couldn’t be saved, oral surgery and several appointments stretching well into the future.

Apparently my teeth had been quietly planning this for years.

The result was that our intended week in Kuala Lumpur suddenly became a month.

Not only that, but we would have to return again before flying to France to complete the work.

So our carefully planned journey north through Malaysia disappeared overnight. Ipoh would have to wait. Georgetown would have to wait. Instead we extended our stay in our apartment in the sky and accepted that, sometimes, the itinerary has other ideas.

Fortunately, Kuala Lumpur proved to be an easy city in which to linger.

We wandered through the gleaming towers of the city centre, admired the iconic Petronas Twin Towers, explored Merdeka Square and its colonial buildings, and spent time wandering the bustling markets of Chinatown. As evening fell, Petaling Street came alive beneath its canopy of red lanterns, the stalls spilling onto the pavement selling everything from T-shirts and handbags to mysterious herbal remedies and snacks whose ingredients were best left to the imagination. We ate our way through the food stalls too, although for much of the month my choices leaned heavily towards anything soft enough not to require serious chewing.

Afternoons often drifted by beside the pool, floating lazily while aircraft traced white lines across the tropical sky far above. It wasn’t quite the month we’d planned, but it wasn’t difficult to adjust.

Looking back, Kuala Lumpur became one of those unexpected chapters that travel so often delivers. We hadn’t come for the city itself; we’d come because I needed a dentist. Yet circumstances forced us to slow down even more than usual, and in doing so we found ourselves settling into a comfortable routine, getting to know a small corner of a city we might otherwise have hurried through.

Eventually, after what felt like countless dental appointments and cups of coffee, it was finally time to move on.

Our next destination was Thailand.

We booked a flight to Krabi, planning to spend a night at Ao Nang before catching the ferry to Koh Yao Noi, an island we had first visited many years earlier. Back then it had been wonderfully quiet—a handful of bamboo beach shacks, a few wandering backpackers and little else despite sitting in the middle of the Andaman Sea’s tourism machine.

The question was…

Would it still be that island?

Or had time finally caught up with it?

That, as they say, is a story for next time.