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The alarm on my phone goes off at six, but the thunder has already done the job. There's a crack that rolls across the sky like a bowling ball down a long alley, and I lie there in the dark of my TTDI flat, listening to the rain hammer the roof. It is August in Kuala Lumpur, and the afternoon showers have started arriving earlier and earlier. Today, they're here before dawn.

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I get up, make a cup of coffee with the little electric kettle I bought at a shop near Chow Kit, and stand at the window. The rain comes down in sheets, and the street below is a river of red tail-lights. I think about the Jungle Railway ticket I have booked for Friday. The east coast is supposed to be dry this time of year. But the weather has its own plans, so I've got a rain jacket in my backpack, and I'll pick up a cheap umbrella at the station if I need one.

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My plan for today is simple: run the last errands before I leave KL. I need a few more toiletries, a power bank that actually works, and I want to top up my Touch 'n Go card. The rain has cleared by eight, so I grab my daypack and head out. The air is washed clean, and the streets have that just-scrubbed smell. I walk to the MRT station, tapping my card on the reader. A single ride to the city centre is about two ringgit, maybe three, depending on how far I go. That's around sixty US cents, which still seems almost absurdly cheap for a modern train system.

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I get off at Pasar Seni, which is the old heart of KL, and walk towards Petaling Street. The stalls are just setting up, rolling out their racks of knock-off bags and sunglasses. I keep my phone in my front pocket and my backpack zipped. Snatch theft is a thing here, especially in the touristy stretches, so I'm not taking chances. I buy a padlock for my locker at the hostel, a rain cover for my backpack, and a small dry bag for my electronics. It all fits in one plastic bag, and it costs me less than a nice lunch back home.

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From Petaling Street, I wander towards the river. KL started here, at the muddy confluence of the Klang and Gombak rivers, back in the 1850s. It was a tin-mining camp then, and you can still feel that raw, frontier energy in the narrow streets and the shophouses. I cross the river on a footbridge and make my way to the Central Market, a big art-deco building that is now full of craft stalls and batik prints. I buy a small tube of tiger balm for the train ride, and I stop at a stall selling “ais kacang”, the shaved ice dessert with red beans and palm sugar. The woman who runs it is patient with my Bahasa Melayu, which is slowly improving.

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The rain starts again around eleven, a steady drizzle that sends everyone scrambling for cover. I duck into a kopitiam near the market, one of those old-school coffee shops where the floor is slightly sticky and the ceiling fans spin slowly. I order a teh tarik, the pulled tea that is the national drink of Malaysia. The man behind the counter stretches the tea between two cups, back and forth, until it's frothy and sweet. It costs about two ringgit, maybe fifty cents, and it is exactly the thing to drink on a rainy morning in the old town.

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I sit by the window and watch the rain run off the awning. I think about the paperwork I did my first day here — the visa stamp, the bank account, the SIM card. I got a prepaid plan from CelcomDigi, which cost around seventy ringgit for a month, and I registered my passport number like the law requires. It wasn't hard, just a bit of queuing and signing. My bank account is with Maybank, and the teller helped me set up the app so I can use it to pay for things. It all feels less confusing now than it did on day one, which is a good reminder: the first week in a new place always feels like a blur, but it's the blur that makes you remember it later.

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By early afternoon, the rain has stopped. The sun comes out and the streets steam. I walk towards the Merdeka 118, the second-tallest building in the world. I went up the observation deck on day two, and the view was remarkable — you can see the Petronas Towers, the old railway station, and the green fringe of the forest reserve all at once. Today, I just stand at the bottom and look up. The spire disappears into the low cloud, and I think about how fast this city has rebuilt itself. It was a tin camp in the 1850s. Now it has one of the most modern skylines in Asia.

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I have lunch at a place called Bunglow37, a two-storey building near the heritage district that does Malaysian classics with a bit of style. I order nasi lemak with fried chicken and a glass of iced lemon tea. The nasi lemak comes wrapped in a piece of banana leaf, with sambal, anchovies, peanuts, and a slice of cucumber. It costs around twelve ringgit, about two and a half dollars, and it is the best thing I have eaten all week. I save some of the sambal for the rice, then I scrape the plate clean.

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After lunch, I walk to the Islamic Arts Museum, which is in a quiet corner of the city near the National Mosque. I came on day two, but the collection is so rich that I want another hour. The galleries are cool and quiet, with the sound of my footsteps echoing on the marble. I look at the Qur'ans with their intricate illumination, the ceramics from across the region, and the scale models of famous mosques. Admission is about fifteen ringgit, and it is the kind of place where you lose track of time. The light outside is soft and grey, and the rain starts again just as I finish.

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I take the train back to my flat, thinking about the logistics of the journey. I have a hostel booked for the first night, a cheap one in the town where I get off the Jungle Railway. The train is an old diesel locomotive, and the journey takes about eight hours through the interior, stopping at kampungs along the way. I packed my backpack the night before, but I repack now, checking the weight. I put my passport, my power bank, and my dry bag of electronics in the top pocket, and my rain jacket at the bottom. The forecast for the coast looks good, but I know better than to trust a forecast too far ahead in Malaysia.

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In the late afternoon, I take a Grab to the KLCC area. The fare is about eight ringgit, which feels like a bargain for a four-kilometre ride. I want one last look at the Petronas Towers, and maybe a walk through the park at their feet. The rain has cleared, and the sky is the colour of a ripe mango. The towers are made of steel and glass, and they catch the light as it fades. I sit on a bench near the fountain and just watch the families walking by, the office workers heading home, the tourists taking photos with their phones. There is a kind of rhythm to this city, a pulse that is easy to miss when you are busy with visas and bank accounts.

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For dinner, I walk to Jalan Alor, which is a street of hawker stalls a few blocks away. The air smells of satay and garlic, and the tables spill out onto the lane. I order a plate of char kway teow, the flat noodles fried with prawns and cockles, and a bottle of iced barley. The cost is around ten ringgit, about two dollars, and the taste is smoky and sharp. A cat weaves between the table legs, and someone taps me on the shoulder to ask if I want more chilli. I shake my head, and I finish my meal with a sweet, sour glass of lime juice.

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I walk back to the MRT station, passing the glittering malls of Bukit Bintang. The streets are crowded, and the sound of music spills out of the bars on Changkat. I feel a kind of affection for this city that surprises me. I have only been here for four days, but the rhythm is already familiar. The heat, the rain, the clatter of plates, the friendly “selamat datang” that greets you when you walk into a shop. The KL I will remember is not the skyline postcard. It is the old shophouses, the taste of teh tarik, the way the thunder rolls over the hills before the rain comes.

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I get back to my flat around nine and switch on the desk lamp. The rain has started again, a steady drumbeat on the window. I lay out my clothes for tomorrow: a light cotton shirt, trousers that dry quickly, and a pair of sandals for the walk to the station. My Jungle Railway ticket is on my phone, and I have a physical printout too, tucked into my passport. I check the weather once more: the east coast is dry, for now. Our adventure is about to begin. I turn off the light, and the city hums outside, all noise and heat and possibility.