Luckiest Man Alive?

If you are reading this in an effort to sate your hunger for candid reports on my Nepali experience, you will be disappointed. If you are reading this for any other logical reason (e.g. you occasionally find my tales amusing, you are desperately seeking relief from a lengthy spell of boredom, you merely want to confirm that I am still alive), then you are in luck. For my next few entries, I will be taking you all the way back to my week of solo travel through the bustling metropolises of Kuala Lumpur, Chiang Mai, and Bangkok. (Warning: unchaperoned travel ahead!) Please try not to fall off the edge of your seat, which is where I assume you are rather wobbly perched after reading the preceding parenthetical note.

After a send-off for the ages in Krabi (well, that probably exaggerates my role in the festivities as I, after eating my greasy pizza with a tad too much vigor, was forced to retreat to my hotel room for a "nap" and a self-imposed verbal lashing for displaying such lackluster send-off spirit; to those concerned, I did eventually rally), I readied myself for my flight to Malaysia. (And by "readied myself," I mean I woke up and went to the airport.) During the goodbyes with the group, I was somewhat surprised by the visible emotion displayed on the faces of some of my teaching compatriots. (Note to self: improve self-esteem so affection does not come as a shock.) Maintaining my usual stoicism (or is it emotional repression?), I set out for Krabi International, arriving the customary 3 hours prior to my international flight's departure time. Alas, the Air Asia check-in desk had yet to open. Thailand foils my attempt at organization once again.

The flight to Kuala Lumpur was short in both duration and entertainment value. (But that obviously won't stop me from writing about it.) My one mildly interesting observation was that the emergency exit rows, which afford their occupants significantly more legroom, were left vacant by the herd of Asian passengers (read: everyone but me) who boarded the plane. This also occurred on the two other Air Asia (a budget airline with no assigned seats) flights that I took, thus "inspiring" me to put it on digital paper. In stark contrast to American carriers, on which you now have to pony up an additional fee in order to secure those precious extra inches, Asians (or at least those on my 3 flights, which I felt was enough of a cross-section for me to make sweeping generalizations) seem to prefer a more compact in-flight seating arrangement. I will now consider slapping myself in the face with the computer mouse for devoting the last 5 minutes of my life to this incredibly inane tangent.


My two-night stay in the Malaysian capital was largely devoid of amusing experiences. I have to take the lion's share of the blame (well, I have to take all of the blame seeing as I was alone; I just wanted to work in the phrase "lion's share") for the lack of "action." (Look at the picture above. Does that guy with the fluorescent identification necklace and high school yearbook pose look like someone who would go in search of "action?") I was tired, hungry, and staying in a hotel that had cable, room service, and air conditioning. I know my mother will scold me for not seeking out KL's cultural treasures, but I just wanted to decompress after my exhausting time in Thailand. (I also did not want to give Malaysia a chance as I only went there because I needed to exit Thailand in order to get a new visa upon my return. I know that blaming the inconvenience of a visa trip on an entire country is absurd, but it's certainly not the first time that I've gotten angry at something for nonsensical reasons. I can be weird like that.) The Petronas Towers (exterior picture below, assorted interior pictures above), which are Kuala Lumpur's globally recognized landmarks, offered amazing cityscape views, high-end shopping (which thankfully allowed me to replace my backpack with a new Louis Vuitton man-bag), and "premier" toilets. However, I much preferred staring up at the skyscrapers' glittering facade in the evening. Glittering facade? Who the hell am I?


Despite the traditional bent of my Malaysian trip (I stayed in a nice hotel, saw the main tourist attraction, etc.), there was a random event that prevented the trip from being completely story-free, although it has absolutely no cultural relevance. On my final afternoon in town, I was walking down the street when a man approached me. Although he appeared to be relatively lucid, his incessant babbling proved otherwise. The basic gist of his soliloquy was that I was a very lucky individual. In fact, I was the luckiest man on the face of the earth. He supported his claim by gesturing toward my face and its supposed "luckiness." For the first minute, I politely let him speak and responded with merely a furrow of my brow.

For those who are in the dark, I have had lengthy and strangely consistent string of "unlucky" things happen to me in the last 5-7 years. Starting in high school with a few harmless incidents (e.g. my car broke down in the Wendy's parking lot three times during my senior year, I broke my writing hand thumb a week before final exams), it snowballed during college into a theme, thus inspiring my friend Pete to coin the phrase "the wonderful life of Alex Tilton." A play on the then wildly popular VH1 show "The Fabulous Life," the bad luck theme manifested itself in the form of my broken ankle (suffered during a snowball fight), a small blister (which morphed into a staph infection and forced me to stay in the hospital for 3 days), my bedroom ceiling caving in (which made said bedroom smell like a sewer for three weeks), etc. The list is endless. To be sure, I am well aware that I have been very lucky with the "big things" in life: a loving family, loyal friends, and good health (most of the time). However, I am usually characterized as "unlucky" because of the aforementioned trend. Thus, I felt the overwhelming urge to correct the young man who was aggressively badgering me in front of the Petronas Towers.

Normally, a crazy street person in Asia wouldn't understand English well enough for me to communicate the unfortunate events of my past. However, my new acquaintance clearly grasped the gist of what I said to him. Or at least his face indicated such. As I enumerated the aforementioned broken bones and ceiling mishaps, his smiling face gradually devolved into a despondent frown. He concurred that I was "no lucky" and departed to find his next target, leaving me to continue my walk in peace. I was feeling good and even thought that perhaps I had been a bit lucky that he was able to comprehend enough of what I said so that he left me alone. Maybe my luck was turning.

Then I stepped in a puddle. Guess not.

NB: My buddy Brice recently expressed his disappointment that my blog did not contain the timeless phrase "wonderful life of Alex Tilton" in its title. My oversight is inexcusable and I apologize sir. I have appropriately amended the title and I thank you for your constructive criticism.