Writing from Penang, Malaysia, an island off the coast of the Malaysian peninsula. It is not an early morning place. For the last few days, I've climbed out of bed at seven and found the streets empty, with not even a breeze to ruffle the star-and-crescent flags on the porches.

Georgetown -- the old city I suppose you'd call it, a former outpost of the British Empire -- is a mash of crooked streets crammed with old Chinese houses and broad boulevards lined with sately old colonial buildings, all porticos and pillars and long, austere lawns. The oldest among them, Saint George's Anglican, with white paint peeling and spire stiff in the blue tropical sky, is empty of churchgoers even on Sunday morning.

"We changed the time for services," a woman tells me cheerily when I enter the nave, having found no life at the two Catholic churches in town, nor anyone home at the Chinese bakery that ostensibly serves breakfast. "Just for today, we thought we'd combine the 8:30 and the ten o'clock and do something at 9:30."

And so it goes in Penang. People do as they like, when they like, without much bother about schedules and convention and even visitors who might not be in the know, although Penang enjoys a robust tourist industry.

At the Cheong Fatt Tze Mansion, where two American friends and I are staying, the guest relations manager can hardly tolerate guests.

"Children," he announces, as one squalls from somewhere in the back of the house, "are best served deep fried."

If you don't mind sharing common space with other people -- families, honeymooners, Western and Asian tourists packed into the foyer for the 11am and 3pm tours -- the Cheong Fatt Tze Mansion is a lovely place to stay. Formerly the home of a 19th century immigrant-turned-tycoon, the mansion has been restored to such detail it has received the status of UNESCO heritage site. Sleeping in one of the bedrooms -- twenty foot ceilings, lavender walls, lime-colored ceiling, bright red bureau -- is like pulling back the canvas and climbing into a work of art.

"Two hundred and fifty ringit per room per night," says the guest relations manager to an inquiring tourist.

The tourist whistles. "That's a lot for a hotel," he says.

"Not really," says the guest relations manager. "And it's not a hotel. It's a home stay."

The guest relations manager turns his back on the tourist and rolls his eyes. What do these people want? his look says. You offer them a nice place, and they want to play let's make a deal.

This view seems to hold true for most of the island. Taxi drivers are disinclined to bargain, which is a shame because they are expensive compared to Bangkok, and the cook says as she lays down a plate of fried noodles before you with a clang, "You pay now." Visitors to Penang will do well to do as they're told -- don't order dahl with nan but rice at the Indian restaurant across the street, for instance, or request apple struedel at the Green Roof Cafe when the date cake is delicious ("But I don't like date"; "Nevermind," says the owner, an Australian emigree, and hands me a plate. ) Likely you'll find the suggestions are good ones.

Once the attractions of Georgetown have been exhausted (24-36 hours, I'd say), head to the beach at Batu Ferringhi. Compared to Thailand, it's not much -- coarse sand and a crowded strip of hotels, ranging from backpacker guest houses to a Holiday Inn to the Lone Pine, a 1950s era establishment a hundred steps from the sea. Still, the beach is lively, most notably for the cabals of men selling parasail rides.

"You want to go up?" asks one, jabbing his finger at the sky. "One for eighty ringitt. Two for a hundred."

I've been watching people go up one after the other, lining up at the seaside like they're waiting for a taxi, and then suddenly lifting off the ground like characters in a fairy tale. Harnassed beneath the bright, billowing parachute and attached to the end of a motorboat, they're pulled over the ocean and three stories into the air. Some let go and ride with arms spread wide. A dad goes with his four-year-old son. A pair of Japanese girls ride together, the one almost in the lap of the other, and nearly take out a crowd of Aussies as they come tumbling back to the sand.

When I finally go -- after having been asked no fewer than eighty-seven times if I want to try -- I scream the entire way from the beach to the air, and then, once aloft, consider staying forever. Is it possible, do you think, to skip the Air Asia flight home and simply parasail back to Bangkok, bumping over the air currents and letting the green island of Penang recede and disappear?

Floods yesterday in Bangkok, and the city was knee-deep in floating garbage. It's been raining hard in the north and in the Philipines (much as the first word I learned in French was "abbatoir," even Thais who don't speak English can say "tsunami" and "typhoon"), and the city finally succumbed to the deluge.

I was at an Internet cafe when the rain started and, no fool, rolled up my pant legs and promptly waded next door to the massage parlor. (FYI, the first thing the masseuse does is wash your feet.) The whole time I was on the table I could hear the girls squealing. Half an hour into it, the owner poked her head behind the curtain and apologized for the noise: the store had started to flood, but they had sandbags now, and it should be okay.

Back outside, miserable-looking tourists were forging the main drag with their suitcases held over their heads while cars sloshed water up around our shoulders. Of all the things I worry about when I cross the street in Bangkok, a wake is not usually one of them.

Now, here's the thing. Bangkok is a city very much like New York -- population density, great public transportation, citizens who consider good style part of the social contract -- and, like New Yorkers, residents conduct their lives on the streets. So, when the public space is flooded, it's not water in the road; it's water in your living room. Sidewalks were packed. Women pushed baby carriages. STREET VENDORS KEPT SELLING FOOD. I swear to God, the tables were packed, and diners simply tucked their feet up under them and kept slurping away at their noodles.

Ah, Bangkok. The more it reminds me of New York, the more I love it.

I ended up going to Khao Yai, a national park about two hours from Bangkok, all day
yesterday -- it was really and unexpectedly gorgeous.

The Asoke Valley is much drier than other parts of Thailand, no palm trees
but vineyards. It looks like Napa.  We rode dirt bikes and drank wine, and I tried
to go horseback riding (also unexpectedly, there is a stable of about two dozen
Arabian horses) but it was already too late in the day.  Dinner at a dairy
farm, with fresh milk.

Whole thing wonderful and disorienting.