A hearty breakfast in the Hareem@Courtyard café on the other side of the road from the hotel preceded a visit to the Baba-Nonya Heritage Museum. The guide entertained with cheeky stories about wedding activities and toilet habits as we were herded from one room to another trying to avoid a Chinese group whose guide dominated every room.
Somehow the morning disappeared and thoughts turned to a quick bite before returning to Singapore. After running through the dining options with our guests in mind, I am ashamed to say I suggested the ‘Hard Rock Café’. Presumably, ‘World Heritage’ also means build an international burger bar to attract only tourists who are prepared to pay silly money for humongous portions while shouting over the top of music from screens placed next to glass cases containing pink trousers and guitars purportedly owned by someone famous who would probably be unknown to most of the population of Malacca. That’s progress. A waitress with an unnervingly squeaky voice took our order that featured a plate of nachos glued together with cheese-coloured gloop for the Other Ms, a salad for Mrs M and a nasi goreng for myself. After stretching the visit out to fill a bit of void before departure, which allowed Jamie time to play with the high-tech toilets, we paid the squeaky girl a huge amount of money and departed for the hotel.
A small panic ensued at the bus station when we were informed that our bus had departed two hours ago, in accordance with the time on our tickets. Mrs M was most apologetic, but saved the day by finding the last six seats on a bus to Singapore that cost a ridiculously cheap 20 Ringgits each, about the price of half a potato skin in the Hard Rock Café.
Several hours and refreshing showers later, we sat around the table at home consuming bowls of eight-hour-simmered spaggy-bol. The Other Ms planned a lie-in tomorrow.
Somehow the morning disappeared and thoughts turned to a quick bite before returning to Singapore. After running through the dining options with our guests in mind, I am ashamed to say I suggested the ‘Hard Rock Café’. Presumably, ‘World Heritage’ also means build an international burger bar to attract only tourists who are prepared to pay silly money for humongous portions while shouting over the top of music from screens placed next to glass cases containing pink trousers and guitars purportedly owned by someone famous who would probably be unknown to most of the population of Malacca. That’s progress. A waitress with an unnervingly squeaky voice took our order that featured a plate of nachos glued together with cheese-coloured gloop for the Other Ms, a salad for Mrs M and a nasi goreng for myself. After stretching the visit out to fill a bit of void before departure, which allowed Jamie time to play with the high-tech toilets, we paid the squeaky girl a huge amount of money and departed for the hotel.
A small panic ensued at the bus station when we were informed that our bus had departed two hours ago, in accordance with the time on our tickets. Mrs M was most apologetic, but saved the day by finding the last six seats on a bus to Singapore that cost a ridiculously cheap 20 Ringgits each, about the price of half a potato skin in the Hard Rock Café.
Several hours and refreshing showers later, we sat around the table at home consuming bowls of eight-hour-simmered spaggy-bol. The Other Ms planned a lie-in tomorrow.
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