Living traveling, Tripluca.com

My flight leaves from London to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia's capital, the country of adoption of two animals: The Cat and the Monkey, also known as Fulvio and the Monkey (Motherfucker is what the Rock and all that bullshit there).
I had then planned to stop overnight in the Malaysian capital to be able to see and do some "catch up" (updates).

I met the Monkey about two years ago to a tripraduno in Emilia Romagna, and he immediately distinguished himself as a rocker who toured America as U2 and had not become rich but had remained pure.
After that rally had gone to China to teach English a seasoned "M **** fucker", "nigger" and "you can kiss my yellow ass" to unsuspecting students pre Mongolian steppe.
Finally got rich had decided to take early retirement and travel south through the tricky China and gradually approaching the pleasant South East Asia.
During this epic journey had demonstrated another quality: the writing.

And I, a prolific writer, but finicky player (I never read blogs, travel), I started to follow his inner adventures, realizing perhaps for the first time what people find in my reading.
Each of his article was a welcome change and always gave me material to reflect, so that some time ago I named my son the literary man who, when I will disappear from the scene, take my place in the Olympus of the travel writers of the 21st century.

I was very curious to meet him again even to see the effects of extreme heat of the journey overland (2500 euros spent many months of travel, including deodorant, Nivea and prostitutes on Friday), this young mind, trying to get rid of the legacy Anglo-Saxon and to become a little less European.

I was disappointed.
While I was drying the scaggi (hairy armpits), after a shower in the hostel I had booked, someone knocked on the door and appeared before a young elegant, shirt, which seemed straight out of a beauty salon gay.
I said something in Italian, but in my shock I thought I heard "come on, we're late for a drink, fiiiiiga."

One of the downsides of traveling is to judge for most of what I did before.
The continuous visual contact with people of all races will take you to refine the art of the scan: look at a person and in two seconds you've already placed in 23 categories to which humans belong.

But, aware of this limitation, I gave it another chance at the Monkey and I have not found guilty only half a shirt ironed, suspending the response until tomorrow.

Now, you say, but how do you judge this tripluca. I actually started trying to write the comic effect of the beast monkey comes in versions that I drink and I was stuck.
Because in reality, the topic of this report is another: the evening porn.

Yesterday (I write from London, in a long night waiting for the flight to Stanstead in the morning), was the last day of the feast of Ramadoski, the Polish Muslim holidays, and through the contacts of our Fulvio, we were attending (or, invited themselves, perhaps, is not understood) at a party at the home of a girl.

After trains, phone calls, various doubts and taxi, we arrived in a good neighborhood, complete with guards at the gates, and found ourselves in front of a house worthy of Don Porchetta of the golden years.
It has opened the gate and some girls came to greet us.
We were four, there was Frederick, a boy who has recovered from the Monkey parts of Penang, and we were all beautiful and Italian.

I was expecting something a Muslim, a bit like when you invite to Christmas and they all pretend to love Jesus
But as you enter the house, we realized that the situation had all the numbers to be dangerous: there were only women, and particularly chicks.
The first thought: "if you know me Lek chemically castrates" (using a mixture of chili and grasshoppers Ubon Ratchatani learned from her mother).
As a good married man I immediately felt guilty for not being at that time a tavern to drink Indian tea with milk and praise the quality of our sweet half so far (my in Bangkok, one of Fulvio in the village and that of Monkey in Penang).

The house was spectacular, with a koi pond and swimming pool for humans, carpets, pots of Bohemia, written in Arabic with pictures and even a TV screen with a closed circuit from which we could see all the rooms.

While in a low voice greeted the crowd of girls like they were behind glass dressed in pink and blue pom-poms, we were escorted to the kitchen where there was food.
In order to suppress an instinct with the satisfaction of another one (also Fulvio and Monkey are men in self-imposed probation), we threw ourselves on the food.

There were some girls with us, the owner Malay and a couple of her friends less rich, and we chatted a bit.
The hostess was a mixture of Malay-western with excellent English that in a little goes to Padua (accent on "o") to visit friends, and then to study in Australia and as he speaks suggests that you have traveled the world , to expect admiration because even when it is a big pussy like those in the living room, has a lot of money and is extremely cool.
Nevertheless, quite nice and refreshing after Thailand where the conversation is a bad thing because it could lead to discord and imbalance of the universal and Bali where every conversation ends with a purchase proposal.

After the food we went to the biscuits, nell'angolino Chic VIP lounge. There we also did a photo session (the closest thing to porn movies that we thought to shoot) with the space and then, to round off "want to see my room? I need a beer. "

As we climb his parents arrive, dressed as Muslims, and I, educated man, look at the father and waved.
He Sees through me like a ghost, demonstrating the pinnacle of Asian art is not shit the next even if it is breathed in the face. Mighty.

From what we begin to imagine the internal dissensions of a family rich Malay and traditional (books and paintings of Allah written in Arabic on all sides) with a daughter who drinks, smokes, he attended the club and he goes to Europe to find friends. It probably has lost the purity of the last century.

The rebellious daughter's room is upstairs, 50 square meters of red walls and design, Latvian mega orgies interfaith and balcony with miniature golf.
I fell the Monkey Mini Golf on the moral and decides that his soul is too much for a man of the steppes of Mongolia.

We are a little there to pretend to be excited by being part of KL for a night well, and get other girls.
A bearer of swine flu, starts talking in an English Notting Hill and another allows me to close the account of the evening in size.
The little guy, maybe 18 years, maybe less, is in evening dress with pride and show the legs, with a half permanently, it is nice and plump but still holding a cigarette end with the little finger.
But when he talks about is who reveals himself in his genius.
He asks:
- "So, what's your name?"
I look at my mouth and I notice that the right side of the lip rises more than the left.
No malformations, is induced behavior, which aims to convey the air of aristocracy.
In a split second my brain recreates the story of that sick grin:
All born in 1880 when "Portrait of a Lady" Henry James wrote of Madame Merle and his wry smile.
The novel became a classic and the wry smile reappears regularly in the literature, until, in 1981, Joan Collins Dynasty series, is presented for the first time the American public and became the icon of the matron billionaire and vaguely slutty. His smile is slightly oblique and becomes iconic, too.
From there it is taken up by actors and actresses of all soap operas in the world, following the transverse Hollywood - Rio de Janeiro - London - Shanghai - Bangkok - Kuala Lumpur.
Today, in fact, if you watch any soap opera, you will recognize the bad guy by three elements:
- It has a wry smile
- He looked sideways that lasts four seconds (up to six seconds in India) during which you know is thinking something bad.
- It 'nice, but it uses too much makeup.

So I say to the dear Veronica, a little embarrassed by the fact that that "He's got less than 20 years of" I want to put me at ease, and I do not find anything better to say that "Luke" as a schoolboy, and she went further the dose:
- "And your friends, what are their names?", Throwing the ashes, always with the little finger.
"No," I think, "I just wondered how you call my buddies ?!?!?"
And 'ongoing struggle for supremacy, the girl clearly has the intention to declare not to be a girl but a woman of the world, and that the rules here, she said.
And I succumb:
- "... Ehmm Mark, Fulvio and Frederick, heh heh."
Embarrassed smile, she has won.
I need a beer.

The evening ends and ask us to go with them to drink at a club, but we hard steppe travelers can not wait to go on the terrace of the hostel with some beers and make speeches made at 7eleven travelers of the steppe.
We are now left to the naked chest of KL with beers and peanuts to speak of the relationship with our loved ones, to exchange tips on how to manage the cultural gap that separates them and how not to abandon the relationship that no matter how hard we give a sense of belonging and detachment at the same time.
The membership of the devotion of the Asian woman to man and the posting of the cultural gap that makes it all so difficult, but interesting and educational.

Let the three, it reconfirms the Monkey Monkey, and I go to bed reconciled with the world within hours of the trip that gave me more than three weeks of age residing in Bangkok.

The day ends with us that we walk the streets of KL, and the Monkey which is stopped in the street by a guy who recognizes him from the photo on his blog and turns out to be the Giredue, a frequenter of tripforum, none of us has ever seen live and who goes around with the beautiful Japanese girl.
Photo remember, I leave them to discuss what sucks Bali, and I'm going to take the train with Federico to do couchsurfing which sits in the university area.
Bus to the airport. Flight. Stanstead. All'adiaccio night, I write the report. Among some at home.

Tripas 2009 could not end better.

(And if you want another point of view, read, in English, the Monkey and his account of the evening )

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