I have arrived on Malaysia's east coast. In the unlovable town of Kuantan, two waiters position themselves at the table next to me and click their pens incessantly, impatiently expecting that within a minute I'll know what I want to eat. I stare at the menu for a long time, because as a punishment for this audacity I recite Schiller's "Kraniche des Ibykus" (23 stanzas) three times in my head, and then order the green curry, which I had already decided on after ten seconds.
