Yoga Makes Love Space

20 May 2012 2 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

In my yoga practice I enjoy the heart opening poses. There are many benefits to drawing the shoulders toward the spine and down. Anyone who uses a computer for any length of time each day can see the value in reversing the hunched back and concave chest. This opposite action gives the lungs more room. The body can breathe deeply adding a higher measure of oxygen to the blood which in turn increases brain function.

There’s another benefit. One of the things I found delightful about yoga in Bali was the opportunity to experience teachers from all over the world. Sitara, my petite yogini from India whose manipulation of English was always entertaining, insisted that the heart opening poses create more ‘love space.’ Sometimes it’s a stretch for my Midwestern mind to embrace the less tangible aspects of the discipline. To imagine that by thrusting my sternum forward and breathing deeply I will invite more love and compassion into my heart is an idea I would like to simply accept without the skeptic in me saying, “Seriously?!”

The thing is, the longer I devote myself to a regular practice of yoga the more I notice subtle changes that have nothing at all to do with the physical and everything to do with attitudes and perceptions. While my body becomes strong and flexible, my mind and heart are getting an unexpected overhaul. I find myself thinking more clearly. I am seldom worried. Instead I feel intense joy just being alive. Emotions touch me more deeply and I have a new tenderness toward myself and others.

Shortly after Sitara made her comment about the results of heart opening poses, I was wandering Ubud streets that I hadn’t previously explored. I came upon this two-story hut and the unique sign advertising its function. The whole concept was so incongruous I stopped dead in my tracks and stared. I’m sure I had the open-mouthed, glazed eyeball look going on as I tried to assign some appropriate meaning to the sight before me.  Failing that, laughter came bubbling to the surface and I laughed and laughed and laughed until my face was wetter from tears than the usual rivers of sweat.

I eventually pulled myself together and continued on my way contemplating the strangeness of life. What are the chances I would stumble upon this landmark and have Sitara’s lesson so humorously  reinforced. For me it was an affirmation, a synchronistic sign that creating more love space is a vital piece in my continuing evolution.

My Wife is Fat

16 May 2012 3 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I strolled through the neighborhood this morning with a shadowy intention of ending up at Lake Harriet.  The sky was a powder-blue dome, seamless, the sun its only adornment. I’ve driven or biked the route many times but walking yields sights and sounds that are otherwise lost.

There are huge, peach colored irises in a garden right by the sidewalk. They are the size of coconuts, or cantaloupes, utterly breathtaking. One block has a row of maple trees including the showy Crimson King with the dark purple leaves. There was no traffic.  It was so quiet I could hear bugs skittering through the grass. I could also hear my own thoughts.

I’ve learned a lot about thoughts. Thoughts are the root of everything. No matter what situation I find myself in, how I choose to think about it becomes my reality. That nugget of truth was brought home to me time and again when I talked with my Balinese friends. One conversation in particular comes to mind. We were discussing nutrition, the abundance of healthy eating choices available to the native residents and foreigners alike in Bali. In spite of that, I had noticed that some Balinese women and children are overweight. My friend told me that the Balinese can earn more money now and it is easier to buy rich food or prepackaged cookies, candy, and snacks. He flashed a huge smile and said, “My wife is fat.” It was one of those moments, there were many, when I didn’t know whether to congratulate him, scold him for saying something unkind, or commiserate. I have a terrible tendency to sit with my mouth half open and a glazed look in my eyes while experiencing inner turmoil. Still mentally trying to sort through the etiquette of an answer, he rescued me. “I like it!” he exclaimed.

So, to my point, he thinks fat is beautiful. He THINKS fat is beautiful. Therefore his chubby wife makes him happy. This is what was floating about in my mind as I meandered the streets this morning. I dallied through the rose gardens, across the biking and walking paths that circle the lake, and out onto a wide, plank dock. As I sat down at the end I realized I had been noticed. The fish were gathering. I counted 21 then stopped. They formed a semi-circle at the end of the dock with their pointed noses all headed in my direction, watching, waiting. We eyed each other for about three minutes, then they tired of me and swished away. I took off my sandals and bared my shoulders to the warm rays. Ahhhh. I slowly gave in to gravity and reclined full-length.

Creating my own reality is a big responsibility. Choosing how I will think about everything makes me have to think about thinking. It requires that I become aware of my tendencies toward negative or positive viewpoints. It is the process of mind watching mind. As a child I was taught how to moderate my physical actions. I remember mom saying, “Sit like a lady,” and I knew that meant I should keep my knees together. But there was no instruction regarding how to think in order to create my own happiness.

I have neither a fat wife nor a fat husband. That’s a plus. However, I do have to organize my thinking around wrinkles, retirement, and what matters most as I enter the ‘golden years.’ What surprises me is the feeling of empowerment. Knowing that I can stop at any time, review my thoughts and change them, puts me in charge of my own happiness. Senility may eventually put a wrench in the works, but until then I’m choosing NOT to think about that.

Do You Dare to Dream?

14 May 2012 1 Comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

It’s getting better. I resisted my middle-of-the-day nap today. Went instead to Costco for a few groceries. BIG mistake! I was quickly overwhelmed by the abundance of people, products, everything. But I did manage to walk out with the vegetables and rice I needed to make Indonesian food, and that was the goal.

So this afternoon I boiled the rice, chopped the veggies, opened one of the precious packets of Gado-Gado sauce I brought home with me, and sat down to pure delight. The flavor was exactly as I remembered it and I savored every delicious mouthful. Then I pulled up my e-mail and found a note from Brigitte, my German friend. She told me how much she misses Bali, how she had started crying and hugged the guide who had taken her all over the island when he dropped her at the airport. She said she is planning to return in October. Her confession made me feel more normal.  I am not the only one experiencing separation anxiety!

I love the Amalfi Coast of Italy. The fiords of Norway struck a chord deep in my cells. Luxumborg inspired one of the best poems I’ve ever written. At Unmunsa in South Korea I simply wept from a too-full heart. In London, Paris, Lucerne, Budapest, Simrishamn, I embraced the cultures and the people with intensity and joy. There are wondrous places all over the world where I have been inspired and delighted. But Bali feeds something much deeper. Bali is the perfect lover and I have been seduced. Voluptuous and warm, it generously gives with no thought for itself.

Where is it in the world that speaks so eloquently to you, dear friend? Do you dare to wonder? Do you dare to dream?

Turbulence, Jet-lag, and the Nurse or Coming Home

13 May 2012 4 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali

I awaken to a vaguely familiar sound. My phone is ringing! For two months I’ve been blissfully without that irritating noise. Where is it? After fumbling for a few minutes in the disarray from my stint of unpacking yesterday I find it under the sarong. It’s still ringing. Staring at all the buttons I search my memory for clues. How do I answer this thing? I can’t remember! It’s still ringing. I decide the green button is a good choice and am rewarded by a voice responding on the other end.

Yesterday was a 27 hour day. I left Ubud with Putu at 9 p.m. When he saw me yawning he told me I could sleep in the car and immediately cranked up the volume on the Balinese station he was listening to and proceeded to sing along. After forty-five minutes of dodging foraging night dogs and motorbikes we arrived at the airport. Fishing in my purse for the fare, I handed him a fist full of rupiahs. He looked at it and said, “Too much.” I had included a tip. “It’s okay,” I said. “Too much,” he repeated. I smiled, patted his arm and said, “You’re worth it.” He rewarded me with a huge grin, hopped out of the car and retrieved my 500 kilo suitcase from the trunk. “Bye-bye,” he said, waving. “Good-by Putu.”

I had two hours until boarding. Wandering among the retail options that were tiny replicas of everything I had seen in the market, I quickly decided I had no desire to shop. I found a spot on a bench beside a wild-eyed, spike-haired blonde in black and white striped leggings and waited for the security gate to open for my flight. Everything over the PA was spoken first in Balinese then in English. I appreciated that. When I checked in, the gate attendant told me my first flight was an aisle seat and my second flight, the really long one, was a window seat. Perfect. Boarding the plane I found my aisle seat. It was the end of an inside row of 4. The other three seats were occupied by a family with a small child. Oh Oh. I settled in, suspiciously eying the little girl to determine whether she would be a whiner, a crier, or a sleeper.  A few minutes into the flight she was sound asleep and stayed that way. The mother beside me, on the other hand, was a sneezer! She sneezed all the way to Seoul. I hope it was allergies.

The airport in Seoul, S. Korea is beautiful. Everything is spotless and gleaming. The shops tout all the high-end designers from Bulgari to Burberry. I didn’t even look, just made a bee-line for my gate, found a comfy place to close my eyes and wait. I spent the two hours until boarding, envisioning my aisle seat, pillow and blanket. I was almost eager for the 13 hours ahead of me with droning jet engines to sleep by. The announcements now were first in Korean, then in English and I finally heard the boarding call for my long leg of the journey. I had a really high number for a seat assignment. Boarding the plane I walked past row upon row of seats watching the numbers increase. At 39 I waited for a man trying to cram a bulky shopping bag into the overhead. At 47 I stopped for a woman who was bending over, trying to find something under the seat with her own ample rear end protruding into the aisle. Finally there it was. The VERY LAST SEAT on the plane. There are a two benefits to the last row. First, there’s nobody behind me so I can recline just as far as I want to without feeling like I’m sleeping in someone’s lap, and second, the bathroom is very close.

A young Philipean man had the aisle seat next to me. He tells me he’s a nurse in Chicago, the perfect traveling companion. He took care of me! A little way into the flight when we were both awake he told me that whenever I needed to go to the bathroom, just let him know and he would gladly let me through. Even if he was sleeping he said not to worry just wake him. What a nice gesture. There’s nothing worse than being trapped by a huge blanketed lump snoring beside you when you’ve really got to go!

It was a bumpy flight. The captain kept coming on the PA system loudly explaining that we were experiencing turbulence. I didn’t really need to be told, it was painfully obvious. I might actually have been able to sleep through the dips and sways if the announcements hadn’t continually interrupted my attempts at slumber. Somehow, with three meals, three movies, and many beverages, the time passed and we were landing in Chicago. The turbulence on the approach to O’Hare intensified. The plane was swaying side to side in a disquieting manner. I hoped when we connected with earth the runway would be underneath us. The next instant the wheels touched and the plane swerved violently to the left. If I hadn’t been belted in the nurse would have had me in his lap. As it was I slammed into his side. Then we were swerving to the right and I was sandwiched between the nurse and the window of the plane feeling grateful that he was not a large man.  Finally the pilot gained control and I looked at the nurse. His eyes were as big as potatoes. I’m sure I looked equally terrified. We both said, “Whoa!” and that was enough.

Chicago was my first point of entry back into the U.S. That meant  clearing immigration and customs, finding my luggage, submitting it to thorough examination, re-checking my bag, finding my way to the train for terminal 3 and getting to the gate in time for the connecting flight to Minneapolis. Me and 2000 of my closest friends queued up for the process. Bear in mind that it has now been 24 hours since I left my room in Ubud heading for the airport, and that was at 9 p.m. at night. I slept for a few hours between Denpasar and Seoul, but I’m feeling the effects of deprivation. The line doesn’t move. I try to sleep standing up. That proves ineffective. After an hour and ten minutes it was my turn to stand in front of the immigration official. They are all scary and they do not smile, ever. I handed over my paperwork. “You’re an American citizen,” he said. Then he smiled! I almost fainted. He continued to smile as he delivered his next statement, “You’re in the wrong line,” he said. As I was trying to process the ramifications of that information I heard him continuing,”The line for non-residents moves much more slowly than the queue for citizens. You could have been finished long ago.” I might have said, “Oh?” but I don’t remember because he had looked at my passport, stamped what needed to be stamped, and he was handing it back to me with yet another smile, “You’re good to go,” he said. Relief poured through my body. He wasn’t going to make me go to the correct line. I was good to go! “Thank you!” I said with genuine gratitude.

My bag was on the carousel and I extracted it and headed for the inspection area. The woman fired a few questions at me to which all answers must be ‘no’ or you’re in big trouble. Mine were all no so she waved me on without examining the contents of my luggage. SCORE!  The rest was easy. Well, comparatively speaking. There was an older woman (much older than me) with fake red hair (much more fake than mine) who wanted to be my friend. I tried, I really did, but I prayed that she would not be my seat partner for the last leg of the journey. I waited to board the plane until the very last. Coming through the door I saw her. The seat beside her was occupied. Rejoice! I again had a window seat next to a teen-age girl who was plugged into earphones and texting a mile a minute. As soon as we were airborne she was on her laptop. I don’t know her name, I don’t know if she could speak. I was okay with that.

This pilot landed the plane like a hot knife through butter and I was home. The first thing that struck me was the whiteness of the people. We live in a region of monochromatic skin tones. The second thing I noticed was English being spoken exclusively all around me. Everything sounded so different. A friend was waiting to pick me up. My suitcase popped out onto the carousel as I approached. A few minutes later I was speeding along Crosstown Highway. My friend said, “It already looks like summer here, so lush.” I looked around at an oak tree here, a maple there, some grass, and replied, “I’m sorry, but this is NOT lush!” I should have been gentle, or kept my thoughts to myself. She seemed a little hurt. But she rallied, “I suppose it doesn’t look lush to you, but for Minnesota this is lush.” I agreed and shut my mouth.

It’s brutal when 69 degrees feels cold. Today everyone else was in shorts, T-shirts and sandals. I wore a turtleneck, insulated vest, long jeans, socks and shoes and was still shivering.  In spite of my 12.5 hours of sleep, by noon I could hardly hold my eyes open.  I took a nap, did laundry, joined friends for a bbq. Now it’s noon in Bali and approaching midnight here. I’m wide awake.

Solving the World’s Problems at Murni’s Warung

10 May 2012 3 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

MY LOVES

Leaving beauty, warmth, friends.

Returning to beauty, warmth, friends.

My heart has two homes,

both equally dear.

It is an emotional day. My last day here in Bali where I have been so utterly happy, is a tough one. Half of my heart breaks while half eagerly anticipates reuniting with family and friends. I had to write the little poem, above, to remind myself that here is not so different from anywhere else, and it is okay for a piece of my heart to reside on an island half way round the world no matter where the rest of it chooses to be.

This will be my last blog from Bali. Blogging has become a lovely piece of my life and I am not sure what kind of a metamorphosis it will make to continue once I return home. But I’m not going to dwell on that just now because the end of my amazing day yesterday was worth some photos and a blog post as well.

After the sacred cleansing pools, the batik factory, the fishing village with the mouth-watering shore lunch, Karin, Halle, and I decided that you can’t have too many farewell dinners. Our destination last night was Murni’s Warung. Murni’s was the first real restaurant in Bali. It has been in operation since 1974 and is a must-see landmark in Ubud. Murni’s occupies four levels on the cliff overlooking the Campuan River.

We were on the very lowest level with the most spectacular views.

Whereas our table at Indus had us perched at the top of a plunging river gorge, at Murni’s we were deep in the valley with the rushing sound of beautiful water music just below.

We again had our table at the edge. Often the first to arrive for dinner, we have the undivided attention of the staff who are always eager to please.

There are statues everywhere, some are old and some just look old which everything does in Bali after a short time because the humidity creates ideal conditions for moss to grow! The Warung houses many antiques from Java and Bali.

I love the flowers in this bowl in front of the giant Ganesha statue. Ganesha, the elephant, is called The Remover of Obstacles and is a beloved Hindu deity. How appropriate, don’t you think? If anything can remove obstacles blocking your path certainly an elephant can!

Here is another one of the cozy rooms for dining at Murni’s.

The three of us had such a wonderful time talking that I completely forgot to take food photos. You’ll just have to forgive me!  Halle and I had the vegetable curry with red rice and a rum soaked chocolate cake with coconut ice cream for dessert. Karin had the traditional Balinese duck and banana fritters. I will admit that the food played second to the fun of being with friends and enjoying lively conversation. Eating was a bit of an afterthought, although the three of us walked out stuffed to the gills and chose Murni’s complimentary driver over any thought of getting home on our own feet!

You will be relieved to know that between an Icelander, a New Yorker, and a liberal Minnesotan, we have solved the world’s problems. It only took three hours.

Goodbye, Bali. I’m shedding a few tears for the precious people and the beautiful memories here.

Meet Dewa, #1 Guide, Host, and Friend

09 May 2012 1 Comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Dewa says I must bathe in the sacred waters of Tirta Empul before I leave Bali. It will purify my mind and body. So this morning at 9 o’clock sharp I do as I have been instructed, don my sarong and sash then off we go. “Why the sash?” I ask Dewa as he weaves through the maze of motorbikes in early morning traffic. My Balinese walking Wikipedia thoughtfully asks a question in return, “There is the mind, and there is the body…what is a better English word for the desire of the body?” Now it’s my turn to ask a question. “Do you mean all the desires? The desire of the body for food, for sleep, for sex?” (It’s okay. We’ve had these conversations!) “Yes, for sex,” he replies. “Well, that depends,” I say. “If desire is accompanied by caring and deep feeling it is a good word. If it is purely desire with no emotional attachment you could call it lust.” By now I think I have an idea where this is going. Dewa confirms my suspicions. “The sash is to separate the mind from the sexual desires of the body when you enter the temple,” he tells me. In this culture there’s a purpose for every item of clothing, every ritual, every ceremony.

We arrive at Tirta Empul and walk through the serenity of the the gardens.

The statue is Saraswati, a female Hindu water deity.

There isn’t really grass anywhere. It’s a tiny, round leaf plant that is used for ground cover.

And here is Dewa. Always happy, always patient. The plastic bag contains offerings for our time in the sacred waters.

Before we enter the cleansing pool, Dewa takes out the three offerings made by his mother, and lights the incense.

He places the offerings on the altar along with many others. Now it is okay to enter the water.

He says I should go first. I sit down on the edge and notice there are a great many fish that are sharing this experience with me. Some are medium, some are an edible size. I decide it isn’t much different than swimming in a Minnesota lake. As I put my feet and legs in the water I detect another similarity. It’s COLD! This is fresh spring water and as such it is deep-earth cooled. I slip into the chest high water with a little gasp. There are 12 gushing spouts and I am to bow under each one of these and make a prayer.

That’s me about half way through. By this time I’ve got it down and I’m totally into the experience.

Dewa follows. It’s quite a lengthy process, this cleansing of the body!

The second pool is for the mind. There are six spouts but you only use one. I wait patiently for the privilege of cleansing my mind.

The ritual cleansing completed, we go back to the locker room, change into dry sarongs, and depart for the next leg of the journey. Our second stop is the home of a famous batik designer. Following a narrow walkway from the street, we come to a large room. Thirteen women sit at makeshift drafting tables, each with a length of fabric and a bowl of hot wax. Using a paintbrush they painstakingly apply wax to the fabric in all the areas where the dye is not wanted. The wax is a deep amber color and the waxed pieces are beautiful before they are even dyed.

The next room holds the huge vats of dye. The fabric is soaked in the color then hung to dry.

Once dry, the pieces are moved into the next room to await wax removal. In this factory the batik is done on cotton, linen and silk. They are limited edition fabrics. Only a few of each of the designs are made. The quality is magnificent. You won’t find these in the market!

The contents of the two huge, black cauldrons in the center of the room is heated with a wood fire. The dyed material is placed in a cauldron and the wax melts leaving the raw white fabric showing through creating the design. If more pattern and color is desired the piece is returned to the wax room to have a new application placed over the dyed areas. Now when it is dipped in a different color the already treated portions will not be disturbed.

Here is a block of the amber wax. Pieces are sliced off and melted for the women to use in the fabric waxing room.

I so appreciate the opportunity to see the Balinese people doing what they have done for hundreds of years for the most part unchanged. It can be a severe shock for those of us coming from the industrialized West. Most tour guides take you to the showrooms. There you will find a few pretty vignettes where Balinese people demonstrate how jewelry is made, or batik fabrics are created. Then you are ushered into the main area with row upon row of glittering jewelry cases or racks of fabrics for sale. The average tourist doesn’t have a clue that these staged presentations are light years removed from the reality of how the products are created.

We thank the batik workers for allowing us a peek into their world then head for the ocean. The last stop today is a fishing village where we will have lunch. The roads get narrower and narrower. Dewa reminds me that this is not a place where tourists go. This is a village of Balinese fisherman and our ‘shore lunch’ will consist of today’s catch, whatever it is.

The road ends at the beach and the black volcanic sand begins.

Dewa poses beside one of the colorful fishing boats, still smiling!

Our mystery fish is being grilled over a coconut husk fire while we watch. As it sizzles, it is basted with a mixture of garlic paste mixed in coconut oil then flipped and basted again. The skin is scored with several diagonal cuts before it goes on the grill so the garlic mixture can penetrate into the meat. The end result is yet another gastronomical delight!

Here it is, grilled fish, water spinach, and rice mixed with sweet potato. Notice the candle. We had a good laugh about our candlelight lunch on the beach!

Last but not least, fish satays. These are wickedly hot little globs of fish mixed with various chilies and spices then grilled. I ate one. Dewa polished off the rest.

The shoreline gracefully curves, embracing the incoming waves. Mountains at the horizon are hazy blue.

This one almost got me!

Time to go, but as we leave we stop to watch this woman make short work of a fish. It is round and flat, I’m guessing flounder. Squatting by the side of the road she has it gutted, the fins chopped off, flesh scored and ready for the grill in a few swift flicks of that knife. Even dressing a fish, in the skillful hands of a master, is poetry!

What an amazing day. I think I have said that about every single day for the past two months. I also think, no matter how long I might stay, there would be no end to amazing days.  I love this place, my new friends here, and the ancient ways that anchor me to something more permanent than my life.

Little Pig, Little Pig…

08 May 2012 1 Comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

I ventured out later than usual today. The morning dissolved in an amazing conversation with a new friend that lasted several hours over breakfast and multiple pots of tea. I could write a book just on the people I’ve met the past two months and it would be a page turner! So after catching up with e-mails I set out to run some errands. Somehow I ended up at the huge Ubud market about 3:00 p.m. That’s a terrible time to go to the market. The vendors are cranky, its hot and crowded, and everything looks tired. To make matters worse, I was hungry. When I’m hungry I can’t make up my mind. My stomach distracts me. So after looking at one woman’s sarongs for about half an hour I told her I had to go eat and I would come back. She told me I made her sick. Whoops! Oh well.

I shouldn’t have wasted my time with her wares. She really didn’t have what I wanted. I went a few stalls down, looked at two items, negotiated briefly, made my purchase and got the heck out of there! Now it was 4:30 and I was starving! I wanted to avoid the busy cafes on Monkey Forest Road and Hanoman so I took a little side street to see what might turn up. Just a short way up Jl. Gootama I saw a sign, Dewa’s Warung. I like places that sit high over the street and this one did. I climbed the steps and took a seat on a bamboo mat and started studying the menu. The prices were really, really low. Must be small portions, I thought, paying attention to my growling stomach. The Gado Gado sounded delicious, and I decided to order a side of Green Fern with Shaved Coconut and Rice along with my turmeric, lime, and honey drink. My order was taken and I busied myself people watching from my perch. A French couple came in and sat at the table across from me.

My drink came first. I inhaled it. Delicious. After about twenty minutes I was presented with a large plate, piled high, of tempe and vegetables with a rich brown peanut sauce and prawn chips. It was the largest serving of Gado Gado I had ever seen. I thanked my server and took a bite. I almost groaned with delight. It was absolutely divine. I wondered about the other dish I had ordered, but decided my server could easily have misunderstood. It happens and this would be plenty. I was half way through the amazing meal when suddenly the other plate with equally as much food appeared. “Oh my!” I said and out of the corner of my eye I saw the French couple look askance at my two dinners. The mistake was mine but I vowed to make the best of it. I tasted the mound of green fern with sweet fresh coconut shavings and then I did groan. How can anything be this good?

Yes. I ate them both. Unashamedly. My bill came to $2.75. I paid $3.50 and waddled home. I am so dreadfully spoiled! How is this going to work when I get back to meat-and-potatoes-Minnesota and have to pay real money for groceries and then cook them myself? I’m a dreadfully, dreadfully spoiled little piggy.

Bye-Bye Bali at the Indus

07 May 2012 7 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

A fabulous, farewell dinner seemed appropriate as my departure date looms ominously closer. I didn’t know what to expect from Indus, a legendary eating establishment outside of Ubud, but what I got far exceeded whatever I could have imagined. When our driver pulled up to the entrance I thought he’d made a mistake. I was visually blown away. It looked like we had arrived at a palace. A flight of incredibly wide buff colored steps flanked by lions lead to a spectacular door, blue highlighted in gold. Stepping through the doorway we entered a gallery space with exquisite Indonesian art adorning the walls. Passing through yet another portal we found ourselves at the top of a second broad staircase overlooking the restaurant itself. Anyone who stands there for the first time and does not feel like Cinderella entering the ball is in the wrong story!

A gracious Balinese hostess welcomed us and led Karin, my friend from Manhattan, and me through the inside dining area to the terrace. The view of the Tjampuhan River gorge plummeting hundreds of feet downward, just the other side of the railing, absolutely took my breath away.

There are layers of terraced yards stepping down to the rushing river at the bottom. I had specifically requested a “table on the edge,” and that’s what we got. From our seats we could see another of the restaurant’s terraces below us and then nothing but down, down, down!

The fragrant breeze helped maintain a perfect temperature.

The little table for two hugging the railing is our table on the edge!

This is the view looking back into the restaurant from our table.

The menu was one of those that makes you salivate just reading the descriptions of the food! It took awhile, but I finally chose the Tempe Curry with Sweet Potatoes, Shredded Bean Curd and Red Rice.

Oh! Oh! Oh! I never get tired of eating in Bali! Every dish is an adventure and they all have happy endings!

This time I yielded to temptation and ordered rice wine with lime juice and seltzer. It was remarkable.

I had dessert too of course, my favorite, coconut ice cream, but I forgot to snap a photo. It looked just like coconut ice cream!

I happened to look across the gorge just in time to see the faint outline of Mt. Agung before the clouds once again piled up around her obscuring the view.

Here’s Karin in her new silk sarong and me in my flowy, tie-dye pants!

We had stretched dinner out for 2 1/2 blissful hours, but these cliff-side tables all have reservations and our time was up. We paid the ridiculously reasonable bill and I asked the hostess if I could use their phone to call a taxi. She asked where I was staying then said, follow me please. She led us out of the restaurant and told us that their complimentary driving service would take us back to our hotel. What a lovely ending to another perfect day. But if I thought it would make me feel better about leaving…not so much.

Retail Therapy vs Sales Resistance

05 May 2012 1 Comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

I don’t shop to feel good. In fact I rarely shop at all. I’m more the ‘find it, kill it, drag it home’ type. That’s why I’ve waited until my last week in Bali to make the necessary purchases.

I’m not immune, however, to beautiful, unique things. Two days ago I saw a pair of pants. I was instantly drawn to them because they were not ordinary. The fabric was a mixture of navy, teal, taupe, and cream tie-dye. The style was wide legged and flowy. There were pockets. There were gathers. It was a beautiful study in complexity. I tried to ignore them, paging through all the other items on the racks in this little boutique type shop. Their allure was magnetic. They drew me back to look again. I soon realized there were only two pants of this style and only one in this color combination. The shop attendant had left me to my own devices but now she approached and suggested I try them on. “What size?” I said. “One size,” she replied. “They won’t fit,” I said. “Try, please,” she replied. I started to decline but, oh what the heck. “Okay,” I said.

Of course they fit like they had been made for me. Remembering the day before when I had caved at the silver shop and bought my gorgeous ring I realized this could become a habit. I mustered some latent sales resistance, handed the magnificent pants back to the attendant thanking her, and left. The next day I had plans that took me out of the village and into the countryside all day long. Once in awhile I’d find myself remembering the pants, but remotely. This morning their image was back with a vengeance. What exactly had they looked like? What mixture of colors were they again? Did they really fit as well as I thought they did? I suddenly realized I hadn’t even asked the price.

I waited patiently for 10:00 when most of retail Bali wakes up, then strode with single-minded purpose to the shop, certain that my memory had glamorized them. I walked in. The attendant was on the phone. I went to the rack where they had been. Gone. My heart started pounding and my breathing became shallow. I slowly, deliberately made my way around the four racks in the store, searching. Nothing. The other pair was there in the window, a soft, blotchy, aqua and white pattern. Was that what mine had looked like? Why had I thought they were attractive?

The attendant finally finished her call. I pointed to the blah aqua pants in the window. “Do you have more?” I asked. She turned around and reached for something on a shelf behind her. My heart stopped. There they were! Stunning! Even more beautiful than I remembered. I didn’t want to appear too eager and lose a negotiating edge but my hands were shaking. “I would like to try.” I thought surely they couldn’t have fit as well as I remembered, determined to find some fatal flaw. The attendant pointed to the aqua pair. “You try those,” she said. “No, I try these,” I replied, scooping them up and ducking behind the curtain. I pulled them on paying much closer attention this time to the way they hung, clung, and draped. At that moment I knew, come what may, I was not leaving without those pants.

I took them to the counter. “How much,” I asked. “Not sell,” she said, “You buy those.” She pointed again at the boring aqua. What was I missing here? She must know my preference. “I like these,” I said, not caring about my edge anymore. I just WANTED THOSE PANTS! “No sell,” she said again. I couldn’t believe it. “But I tried them on before and I came back to buy!” Now I was desperate. “You try before?” she asked as if somehow that made a difference. “Yes, how much?” She looked concerned and then said, “One moment,” and again picked up the phone. I was probably holding my breath as a heated Balinese conversation ensued. Then it was over. “Yes, okay for you,” and she quoted the price. The numbers with all those zeros initially took my breath away. Then I did the conversion math and color returned to my cheeks. I started to bargain but had barely gotten the words out of my mouth and she stopped me cold. “Fixed price,” she said. “Okay,” I squeaked and forked over the bills.

I left the shop on a blissful high, lightheaded with success. My feet skimmed the earth. My heart fluttered in my chest. Is this what its like for most women all the time I wondered and felt instant empathy. When I got back to my room I tried them on again, twirling, swooping, posing for myself in the mirror. Oh they are beautiful, so beautiful! For a tenth of a second I see myself, a flower child in the 60’s, young, rebellious, in billowing, bell-bottom tie-dyed pants. Was this purchase and the accompanying sensation somehow connected? Well, maybe, but so what? I’m at sort of the same place in life as I was then, just several decades later.

Photo from vermissed.blogspot.com

I read a quote awhile ago that has stuck with me. It was about spending money, and the advice was this: Spend as little as possible on what you need, even less on what you want, but never pass up something you love. I love my pants!

Poetry Slam at Bar Luna

04 May 2012 2 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

I’m afraid my friends at home will find I’ve become terribly dull. I managed to stay awake late enough to get myself out the door at 6:30 last night, just at sunset, and walk the quarter mile to Bar Luna. This popular watering hole is an expat hot spot in Ubud. The first Thursday of the month, poets gather here to read their works and be judged. I really hate to admit this, but I have never been to a poetry slam even though I love poetry and was writing verse almost before I could talk. I heeded the warning to come early if I wanted a good seat. The actual event was scheduled for 7:30.

My friends and I (Halla from Iceland, and Karin from Manhattan) arrived in plenty of time and took front row seats. We had no more settled into our cushions than in walked a face I hadn’t met but looked familiar. Steve Castley, of course! I recognized him from the photos on the jacket of the book he co-authored with Julie Silvester, A Taste of Bali. I was staring intently, trying to make sure because, frankly, the book photos don’t do him justice. After introducing myself I asked if he was reading tonight. Affirmative. Then he asked if I had a piece to share. I told him I’d brought a poem but had never been to a poetry slam. He assured me it was great fun and I should participate. Kicking myself for admitting I had come prepared, I walked to the bar and signed my name. My anxiety level surged. We know how to fix that, don’t we? Order a drink! As you might suppose, there are a great many alcoholic options at Bar Luna. The Coconut Killer was tempting, but I settled for a mixture of turmeric, lime, and honey in young coconut water. No alcohol. (I know, friends. You’re shaking your collective heads. But I had in mind the walk home in the dark where pieces of the sidewalk sometimes go missing over the sewer below. I needed my wits about me!)

Photo copyright 2011 Rudolph Helder

Did I mention the event was to start at 7:30 p.m? Yes? Well, that time came and went with much laughter and conversation but no poetry. At 8:20, Karin (who turns into a pumpkin even earlier than I do if that’s possible) inquired politely when we might expect things to get underway. She was answered by a laughing face reminding her that Bali operates on ‘rubber time.’ Then added, “We’re starting right now.” And so it began.

Photo copyright Bar Luna

The emcee with charisma and dreads,  got things going with a sort of rappish poem of his own to set the example for those of us needing guidance. He oozed talent which would become increasingly apparent as the night rolled on. I will spare gory details, but suffice it to say the skill levels varied. Men presenters outnumbered women three to one. And here’s a fascinating observation: the men almost exclusively wrote of love, sex, and lust. The women’s themes covered political activism, social injustice, spirituality, and personal growth. I didn’t expect that and was quite delightfully surprised. (The picture shows a Luna Bar audience staring in rapt attention at the presenter.)

When my name was called I approached the mic with a mixture of relief that it would soon be over and stage fright. I have an uneasy relationship with microphones. They seem to suck up the sound of my voice. I don’t know how singers stay on pitch using a mic when they can’t hear themselves sing. I didn’t win the competition, but I managed to face the crowd, smile, read, and sit down without utterly disgracing myself. Major accomplishment! The judges were volunteers from the audience so it wasn’t a test of literary genius, it was more about entertainment. The woman with a sultry jazz singer’s voice who sang her poem won by a narrow margin. In my opinion, the man who came in third was absolutely brilliant.

It was a wonderful evening. Now I can say I competed in a poetry slam in Ubud, Bali. I like that!

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