A Return to Malaysia, Through the Five Senses

 The first thing that greets me every time I return to Malaysia is scent.

While Japan carries a fresh, almost imperceptible cleanliness, and Taiwan can feel neutral, Malaysia is saturated with scent. The air feels alive with it. Curries drifting from nearby eateries. Strong perfumes, especially sweet vanilla. And at the hotel lounge, the calming, citrusy fragrance of lemongrass. Nothing is subtle, yet everything feels familiar. It is the smell of a place unafraid of presence.

Then comes sound.
The rhythmic “gor-gor” birdsong that marks the mornings and evenings, a sound so ordinary here yet deeply grounding. And the sea—steady, patient—its waves brushing the shore along Batu Ferringhi, creating a background hum that gently dissolves the sense of urgency.

Sight follows naturally.
Black-furred spectacled monkeys appearing outside my room window. 

The wide, unbroken sea view from our hotel. Rows of heritage buildings, murals splashed with colour, and the festive glow of Lunar New Year lanterns. The vivid presence of Bunga Raya—hibiscus—everywhere. 

And then, a quieter reminder of nature’s proximity: freshly shed snake skin, dangling from the gate of my apartment’s swimming pool. Slightly unsettling, yet entirely in place.

And of course, taste.
Penang never disappoints. Kaya toast paired with kopi—again and again. 

Nyonya cuisine, delicate kuih, and even indulgent Western cakes. These are flavours that require no introduction, only recognition. They belong not to discovery, but to memory.

With the ringgit relatively strong this time, there was little shopping to be done. Instead, I found myself doing something far more meaningful: slowing down. Cleaning my room. Playing my old piano—the same one that once accompanied my teenage years. Swimming in the apartment pool as I used to. Listening to the sea. Reading quietly. 

Talking late into the night. Sharing unhurried meals with family.

And finally, there is a small ritual I’ve come to treasure: the inflight movie on my return journey to Taiwan. Somewhere between takeoff and landing, between leaving and resettling into daily life, a story often finds its way to me.

This year, it was The Taste of Things.

In one scene, Dodin quotes Saint Augustine to Eugénie:
“Happiness is desiring what you already have.”

Suspended in the air—carrying memories of birdsong, sea sounds, familiar meals, old piano keys, and a suitcase made heavier by more than thirty-five books—the line felt uncannily precise. This trip was not about acquiring more, nor about seeking novelty. It was about returning, remembering, and quietly inhabiting what was already mine.

Perhaps that is what going home does best.
It reminds us that happiness is not always found in wanting more—but in recognising the fullness of what we already hold.

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「幸福とは、すでに持っているものを欲することである。」
「幸福，是渴望你已經擁有的事物。」