Melaka sits on the Strait of Melaka. Conveniently enough, that’s how it got its name.

Once the greatest maritime trading port in the region, ships from China, India, Arabia and Europe all passed through here, exchanging spices, silk, porcelain and just about anything else that could be loaded onto a wooden ship. Today its wonderfully preserved old town is UNESCO World Heritage listed, and it seemed a jolly good place to spend a month as we slowly made our way north through Malaysia.

Our apartment occupied one of the upper floors of a building that was difficult to categorise. It was part resort, part apartment complex and possibly something else entirely. I suspected it had begun life as a luxury resort before many of the units were sold as private apartments, although I never did uncover the full story.

Whatever its history, it worked rather well for us.

The balcony overlooked the Strait of Melaka, where enormous container ships drifted silently across the horizon day and night. Down below was a huge swimming pool that looked as though it belonged in a five-star resort. Curiously, almost nobody ever seemed to use it.

Except us, of course.

The location was just about perfect. Shops and restaurants were nearby, there was an excellent coffee shop within easy walking distance, and the historic centre was close enough to wander into whenever we felt like it, yet just far enough away that we escaped the endless stream of tour buses and weekend crowds.

As we unpacked our bags we looked at each other and agreed.

Yes.

We were going to be very happy here.

As always, much of our life quickly revolved around food.

For me, finding wonderful local restaurants has never been solely about eating. Good food is simply the excuse. Sitting among local families, watching everyday life unfold around you, trying dishes you’ve never heard of and occasionally pointing randomly at something because you have absolutely no idea what it is—that, to me, is travelling.

One of our favourite discoveries was Kopi Harian in Jonker Street, tucked inside one of Melaka’s beautifully restored Chinese trading houses. I became rather fond of their nasi lemak, Malaysia’s much-loved national dish of fragrant coconut rice served with sambal, peanuts, anchovies, egg and whichever accompaniment took the chef’s fancy that day.

The real revelation, however, was cendol.

Imagine shaved ice covered with coconut milk, rich palm sugar syrup, bright green rice flour jelly and often sweet red beans or corn.

It sounds utterly bizarre.

It is utterly delicious.

It became one of those desserts that, after your first hesitant spoonful, has you wondering why nobody back home has thought of serving it.

Just around the corner we regularly ate at Amy’s, a perpetually busy local restaurant where the queue alone was enough recommendation. Another favourite belonged to a couple from Sarawak who proudly introduced diners to the food from their home state on the island of Borneo.

We also became quite fond of the Malaysian buffet-style eateries where dozens of trays held curries, vegetables, fish, meat and dishes that, quite honestly, defied identification. Ordering largely consisted of pointing hopefully and discovering later exactly what you’d chosen.

It was a system that rarely disappointed.

As was often the case, we were usually the only obvious foreigners in the restaurant. The staff and customers seemed genuinely delighted we’d wandered in, smiling, chatting and making recommendations. Those simple interactions are often the moments I remember long after I’ve forgotten which museum we visited on Tuesday.

Travel isn’t always about famous landmarks.

Sometimes it’s about sharing lunch with complete strangers.

With so many incredible fresh ingredients available, I also decided it was time to improve my Malaysian cooking.

I bought a blender and spent several weeks happily experimenting with laksa, rendang and an assortment of Malay curries. One morning I spotted a banana flower at the local market and became ridiculously excited. It’s not exactly something that turns up in Australian supermarkets every day.

That evening I made a Thai banana flower salad.

It was excellent.

Across Southeast Asia there are still a handful of grand colonial hotels that recall another era entirely. Places such as Raffles in Singapore, the Caravelle in Ho Chi Minh City, the Eastern & Oriental in Penang and The Strand in Yangon once hosted governors, wealthy merchants, adventurers and anyone else who considered gin before dinner an essential part of civilised life.

Melaka had the Hatten Hotel.

Conveniently, it sat directly across the road from our apartment.

One evening we decided to make an occasion of it.

Out came the least crumpled clothes we possessed, and across the road we wandered, fully expecting to enjoy a refined drink while watching the sun set over the strait.

Reality, however, had other ideas.

The rooftop bar was enclosed by extraordinarily high brick walls.

From most of the seating areas you couldn’t actually see the view.

You could, however, admire an impressive expanse of brickwork.

AP ordered a beer.

It was perfectly acceptable.

A beer is, after all, fairly difficult to get wrong.

I ordered a gin and tonic, partly because it somehow seemed appropriate in a hotel with colonial aspirations.

The waitress returned carrying what can only be described as an industrial-sized measure of gin in an enormous glass containing one solitary ice cube. Alongside sat a tiny bottle of tonic water.

There was perhaps half as much tonic as gin.

Possibly less.

It rapidly became apparent that I was drinking chilled gin with tonic as an optional garnish.

We sat there staring at the brick wall while what appeared to be a magnificent sunset unfolded somewhere above it.

Undeterred—or perhaps simply optimistic—I decided my second drink would be an Aperol Spritz.

This forms part of a personal mission.

Having lived in Italy’s Veneto region, where the Aperol Spritz was born, I have set myself the entirely unnecessary goal of drinking one in every country we visit. I’ve been enjoying Aperol Spritz long before it became fashionable almost everywhere else, so I freely admit to being rather opinionated about how one should be made.

I wandered to the bar.

Good.

They had Aperol.

Things were looking up.

“I’ll have an Aperol Spritz please.”

The young bartender reached for the Aperol.

Then she picked up a bottle of tonic water.

“Sorry,” I said. “How are you making that?”

“Aperol and tonic.”

“But… that’s not an Aperol Spritz.”

“Yes, it is.”

There are moments in life when you realise further discussion serves absolutely no purpose.

This was one of them.

In hindsight I probably should have learnt my lesson after the gin and tonic.

Hope, however, springs eternal.

I politely cancelled the order, leaving the poor bartender looking thoroughly confused, and returned to our table.

Not long afterwards we admitted defeat, wandered back across the road, settled onto our own balcony with glasses of iced tea and watched one of the finest sunsets of the month.

No brick walls.

No experimental cocktails.

Sometimes less really is more.

It wasn’t all eating and questionable drinks, of course.

We spent many afternoons wandering Melaka’s wonderfully preserved old town and Chinatown. Jonker Street is lined with beautifully restored heritage shophouses reflecting Portuguese, Dutch, Chinese and Peranakan influences, each one quietly telling part of Melaka’s remarkably international history.

By day they house antique shops, boutiques, cafés and curious little museums.

By night the street transforms into one enormous market. Food stalls appear from nowhere, smoke drifts through the air from satay grills, vendors sell everything from souvenirs to handmade crafts, and people stroll slowly along simply enjoying the atmosphere.

It’s touristy.

But in the nicest possible way.

Mostly though, we simply lived.

We drank coffee.

Cooked meals.

Swam in the deserted pool.

Watched ships pass along one of the busiest shipping lanes on Earth.

Went to the markets.

Read books.

Worked.

In many ways those ordinary days often become the most memorable.

Then, just a few days before we were due to leave, I woke with an alarming toothache.

Naturally, I attempted the highly sophisticated medical strategy of ignoring it.

Unsurprisingly, this failed completely.

After some discussion we decided I’d find a dentist once we reached Kuala Lumpur a couple of days later. Thanks to the wonders of Google and WhatsApp I quickly located a clinic close to our apartment and booked an appointment, confidently assuming I simply needed a replacement filling.

Oh, how wonderfully wrong I was.

That innocent little toothache marked the beginning of what would become an almost two-year dental saga.

But that, as they say, is a story for another day.

And so our month in Melaka came to an end.

It had been an easy place to live. Friendly people, excellent food, fascinating history and enough everyday life to make us feel, if only briefly, like residents rather than visitors.

Would I go back?

Probably not.

Then again, I’ve learnt never to say never.

Travel has a curious habit of bringing you back to places when you least expect it.

For now, though, our wandering was taking us north.

Next stop: Kuala Lumpur.