Banking in Bali – not for wimps

14 Mar 2015 6 Comments

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

I procrastinated, mind muddled with indecision, putting it off, putting it off. In the U.S. a trip to the bank is a tidy business. Everybody speaks English. People specialize. You’re questioned and funneled to the appropriate desk. There isn’t a lot of room for creativity so it either can, or it cannot be done. End of conversation, thank you very much, and you’re on your way.

Indonesian banking doesn’t ascribe to that model.

I wanted to close one account and open another. But something in the back of my brain prompted me to be sure I allotted enough time, and I should probably run through my Indonesian vocab before I ventured into something beyond deposits and withdrawals.

On Wednesday this week, stamina summoned, resolve fortified, I finally decided that the time had come.

SecurityDay 1:

A security guard opens the door to the bank, greets me, and asks my business. I tell him, in Indonesian, that I wish to speak to Putu, my personal banker. I’m invited to take a number and have a seat. When Putu sees me she motions me to her desk. I tell her what I want to do.

“Yes, of course.” She flashes a gorgeous but professional smile. “You have passport?”

“Not with me.”

Her smile turns to a most apologetic frown. “Oh, sorry Ibu, must have passport to change account.” I thank her and leave.

Twenty minutes.

Day 2:

I have a meeting in the morning so the trip to the bank will have to wait until afternoon. Ketut gets me there  around 2:00. The bank closes at 3:00. Plenty of time.

The security guard routine is always the same. I greet him and he ushers me straight to Putu’s desk.

“Hello Ibu, you have passport now?” I assure her that I do.

“And social security number?”

“Social security number?”

“Yes, new law, July 2014, U.S. citizen must have social security number on bank account.”

“Okay, I know my number, let me write it down.”

“Oh no, Ibu, must have card.” My mind does a random search of its memory banks and I see the card, tucked into the Birth Certificates and Marriage Licenses folder, in a file drawer in Minnesota.

“Not possible,” I tell her. But the brain, still grinding for solutions, remembers that I have my tax returns in a Word Document on my computer which I happen to have with me since I needed it for the meeting. “My social security number is on the computer. Maybe you can look?”

She agrees. I pull up the tax return and there they are, the nine digits that identify me to the IRS no matter where I might be in the world. Putu locates her iphone, takes a picture of the document on the computer screen and asks me to, “Wait moment.” She leaves her desk. Fifteen minutes later she re-appears. “So sorry to make you wait. I must send to main branch in Denpasar. If they approve then it’s okay. But sorry, Ibu, not possible today. Bank is closing.”

One hour.

At 9:00 p.m. that night I received a text from Putu. My unorthodox presentation of the social security number had passed muster. If I would come back tomorrow we could proceed with my request.

Day 3:

I’m on a first name basis with the security guard and he waves me though without comment. Putu introduces me to another banker who will do the paperwork. Kadek is all business. Within minutes there is a formidable stack of forms in front of her. She pulls them out at random, filling in a little here, a little there, shuffling them, stacking them, unstacking them. Settling into the chair I shove my Western brain under the rug and take out my evolving Indonesian brain. It’s the one that says, “Tidak apa-apa,” No problem, about every inconvenience that arises no matter what.

With that letting go I become aware of the spice-sweet scent of incense. A young man in a sarong is making his way through the bank with a tray of small offerings. I hadn’t noticed before, but every desk and teller booth has a footed stand. He places one of the fragrant gifts on each, sprinkles it with holy water, then with hand movements more graceful than I’ve seen on any dancer, he entices smoke from the incense to waft upward toward the deities. I love this, I tell myself, as I float a million miles away from bank accounts.

footed offering platesAnd then something else catches my attention. All the personal bankers are women. The tellers are women. And the manager who hovers in the background with a name tag indicating her superior status, is a woman. The offerings are being made by a man, often a woman’s role. Balinese reality is shifting and in this case, in a positive direction.

At that point, Kadek places the forms in front of me and I land with a thump back into banking world. As she gracefully indicates the blanks for signatures I’m reminded of my years in real estate sales: sign here, and here, and here please, then here, and I’ll need your initials on all 256 pages…

Two hours and 30 minutes.

When I leave the bank, relief lifts me like a helium balloon. It’s done, and it only took three days, three hours, and fifty minutes. Not bad. Not bad at all. Tidak apa-apa.

Women and dishes…a love affair

22 Feb 2015 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Uncategorized, Writing Tags: , , , ,

A new shop appeared on Monkey Forest Road about six months ago. In and of itself, that’s not newsworthy. Sidewalk shops and cafe’s in Ubud come and go all the time. But this one was different.

I was going along at a good clip, as good a clip as I can while being on high alert to every hillock and open chasm in the sidewalk. As I passed what had been a construction site for weeks, I did a double-take. There, sitting outside the spiffy new shop, was a white bench with a pillow on it. The pillow cover looked like it had been crocheted out of large ropes of multi-colored fabric. It was so un-Bali!

Since I was going nowhere in particular, and on no set schedule, I checked the name of the shop, BaliZen, and wandered in. It took me two and one-half seconds to know for certain that this shop was owned by an American…an American with exquisite taste. I sniffed and sucked in the delicious odor of quality.

My eyes scanned the contents. There were hand made bedcoverings, fanciful lanterns in patterned fabrics hanging from the ceiling, a daybed in seafoam green with white accents, home goods of every delicious shape and description, and…dishes.

Before I moved to Bali I sold or gave away all of my beloved  dishes.  My mother had multiple sets of china, she still does. One mother-in-law had an absolute addiction and stored boxes upon boxes of expensive table settings under her bed. But since coming here I had been operating with the leftovers from the previous occupant.

I circled the store many times that first day, imprinting the different patterns of the plates and bowls on my memory. There was a chinoiserie motif in granny-apple green. The bold red paisley dishware had darling scalloped bowls. My eyes feasted while my heart lusted, but I walked out empty handed.

In the months that followed, every time I was a little at loose ends, I’d stroll to BaliZen and spend 30 – 40 minutes surrounded by casual elegance. I don’t know when I knew, but at some point it settled into my bones that I wanted dishes, and if I was patient, the perfect pattern and color would appear here, at BaliZen.

Yesterday I told a friend about my favorite shop. “Let’s go!” she said, so we did. And there, displayed to perfection, accessorized with impeccable care, were my dishes. They were bold but tasteful and the right shade of Bali bed blue. It was love, quick and sure, as I gathered them up and presented them to the darlings behind the counter who have greeted me kindly every time I enter and leave the shop without spending a dime. We all knew my time would come.

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It feels strange to be in love with blue. It started with the bed. When that electrifying color moved into my space I knew I’d either love it or re-paint it. Whether it has to do in part with the fact that it’s Ketut’s father’s handiwork, or whether my taste buds are changing, I don’t know for sure. But I have grown irrationally fond of Bali blue. Now the plates reinforce that color.

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One post of the Bali blue bed as I shoot past it to the new dishes

The only thing that causes mild panic to flutter around my heart is the fact that I’m accumulating belongings. I’ve sworn off ‘things’ and have chosen to live a simple, uncluttered life. Oh, and by the way…did I mention my fabulous new chairs???

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Have I Married You Yet?

11 Feb 2015 24 Comments

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

I’ve learned not to take offense when people call attention to the number of marriages I’ve entered and left. I can’t fault them for being a little shocked and more than a little curious. After all, I seem so normal. And although my Capricorn sun cringes at every indication of my tarnished past, my Leo moon can more than handle the spotlight.

So the other night at a very merry un-birthday dinner with friends (remember Alice in Wonderland) the talk turned to writing as it is wont to do in these circles. My memoir was up for discussion. One of the gents and I made an identical comment in unison and he turned to me and said, “Are we married?”

“Not yet,” was my instant comeback.  Being the sharp tack that he is, he got excited.

“That should be the title of your book, Have I Married You Yet?”

After the laughter died down, I have to admit that I gave it some thought. But to me it sounds like the name of a lighthearted, comedic story. Mine is far from that. Out of curiosity I checked Amazon for the titles of best-selling memoirs. Here are a few of them:

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Naked

The Motorcycle Diaries

The Color of Water

Running With Scissors

Coming of Age in Mississippi

Not a shred of humor.

I’m torn. What do you think? I’d like to hear opinions other than my own. Anyone who cares to weigh in with a comment or suggestion, please do. Does Have I Married You Yet? sound like a full-on comedy or could it work for a story that has humor only in moderate doses?

 

 

 

Every page was once a blank page

31 Jan 2015 5 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

*

thW05OAYQLEvery page was once a blank page, just as every word that appears on it now was not always there, but instead reflects the final result of countless large and small deliberations. All the elements of good writing depend on the writer’s skill in choosing one word instead of another. And what grabs and keeps our interest has everything to do with those choices (Quote from: How to Read Like a Writer)

I’m writing an autobiography. You may consider that the ultimate in narcissistic self indulgence but let me assure you, it’s not. It’s a white-knuckle, teeth gritting, experience. And I find that in the process of constructing a narrative around the events of my life from this distance and perspective, I’m reshaping the stories I’ve been telling myself for decades.

It’s an unsettling phenomenon. Writing my life has forced me to choose words to describe characters, situations, and the emotions around them. In order to select those words, I am forced to return to that time and re-live the feelings. But I’m in a much different place now than I was then, so the information I bring to the process casts it in new light.

It’s the ultimate therapy. First I question, Did it really happen that way? and I have to honor what comes up. But when I begin searching for words things get sticky. I go deeper into the emotional memory to find clues for the framing of it. Then without warning, it takes on a different energy. Even though I’m the author…even though it’s my story…the words I choose have such power of suggestion that my understanding of the event expands and I see it with different eyes.

The transformational nature of writing continues to delight me. Turning feelings and thoughts into words changes those feelings and thoughts. Some of the impetus is transferred to the page. It can be a shocking surprise to read what comes out of my pen, or the keys of my computer. When that happens, a delicious thrill shivers through me. It’s as though a hidden part has been revealed, a secret I wouldn’t otherwise share.

I have filled this blank page with countless large and small deliberations. Words. They’re what I love about writing!

 

A Downward Dog View of Yoga

18 Jan 2015 5 Comments

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

The ex-pats in Ubud have an uneasy relationship with the yoga crowd that floods the streets with nubile bodies in leggings and sports bras. There are good reasons for this. I’m guessing that the median age of the ex-pat population here approaches 70 so maybe there’s just a speck…a smattering…of jealousy? But to give them credit, these people did not grow up in the era of self-discovery with the influx of mystical influences from the East. Even some of the younger ones roll their eyes and avoid organic and raw food restaurants known to cater to the heightened awareness  crowd.

So this morning when I opened an e-mail from my sister in Northern Minnesota, and read a poem she wrote recently, I knew I had to post it for two reasons: first, she’s a great poet and has published her work in a book, Musings of a Damsel, Reflections of a Crone (click the link to see more), and second, because it’s so true and I knew if I could relate then many others would too.

My Inner Eye
by Gwen Lee Hall (pen name: Wendolyn Lee)

My friend is into yoga; she practices faithfully.
She tells me it’s done her a world of good, and it would be good for me.

I resist, but she has an answer for every excuse I know.
Yoga can take me places I never dreamed I’d go.

It will open my breath, open my mind, teach my soul to fly.
I’ll see things I’ve never seen before when I open my inner eye.

And so I cave. I buy the mat. I learn a pose or two,
And sure enough, the part about my inner eye is true!

Downward Dog on the livingroom floor, I see popcorn under the chair,
Dust bunnies under the sofa, wads of puppy hair…

So today I’m getting my exercise with a dustpan and a broom,
Seeing things I’ve never seen, right here in my livingroom.

Thank you my friend; I now include yoga in my routine.
My inner eye gets a workout, and my livingroom is clean.

Drinking from Blackwater Pond

08 Jan 2015 5 Comments

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

black-water-pond-john-gusky

black-water-pond-john-gusky

Mornings at Blackwater
by Mary Oliver

For years, every morning, I drank
from Blackwater Pond.
It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,
the feet of ducks.
And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is
that the past is the past,
and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what that will be,
darling citizen.

So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,
and put your lips to the world.

And live
your life.

I may have said this before, Mary Oliver is my hero. She surprises me. She uses common words in uncommon ways so I have to pay attention. I can’t get lazy and just assume I know where she’s going.

This poem is particularly significant as Ms. Oliver speaks of ‘the dry bowl of the very far past,’ and ‘the river of your imagination…the harbor of your longing.’ Then she urges that you ‘put your lips to the world and live your life.’

What I love about this is that you realize from her beginning stanza that the world is Blackwater Pond. It isn’t clean or clear. Rather, the trees weep their leaves into it’s depths. Wild creatures swim and feed in it’s murkiness. It’s gritty and real, and this is what she suggests that we put to your lips and drink. 

When we do that, as she did every day, you connect with the present and move beyond the distresses of the past. You begin to see things differently, to imagine, and to dream, until finally you are capable of making different choices. You begin to live your life.

Give yourself permission to let go of whatever is holding you back. Don’t allow the past, or your perception of the present, or your mistrust of the future, to confine you.  Your life can be so much bigger than that.

 

What if….?

03 Jan 2015 9 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,

Sometimes I wonder…

What if I’d taken that job with Pan Am Airlines and had become a flight attendant at age 19? How might my life have been different?

That’s a wasted What if. It’s in the past and there’s nothing I can do to change the outcome of that decision. But there is tremendous power in a What if that imagines something different in future time. A What if is the first step toward change. Often it’s fleeting, a mere shadow puppet that dances indistinctly through the mind. But it leaves traces of itself that bring about random ideas and a niggling discomfort that perhaps there’s something I could be doing differently? Perhaps there’s something waiting for me that will manifest when I realize what it is.

What if I could do something I loved instead of this job that’s killing my soul?

What if I could be mentally, physically, emotionally healthy?

What if I could get out of debt?

What if…?

The reason why those thoughts rarely change anything is because they’re overridden by old programming that sounds very much like, it won’t work, I’m too old, too young, too tired, it’s no use, I’ve tried before, I’m too broke, it’s too late, it’s a silly thought, I’m better off than most, why can’t I just be satisfied?

That programming is solid, unyielding, and unconscious for most of us. It grew out of our first impressions of the world before we were old enough to filter information. It’s buried deep in our subconscious and it informs every single decision we make. It’s the reason we have thought patterns, and patterns of behavior that repeat, sometimes beneficial ones, too often destructive ones. It determines the kind of people we attract to us. In a nutshell that programming runs the show.

To ask the What if questions and to allow them to become dreams before the programming shuts them down, requires help. Take a look at my life and tell me about patterns!

Married and divorced five times

Pulled up stakes and moved every two years or less

Rarely stayed in a job for more than a year

Lived from paycheck to paycheck

Accumulated credit card debt

Wore a happy face that masked the emptiness inside

Then three of my closest friends died within a year, all younger than me. It shook me to the core of my being. I asked myself, If you were told that you would die tomorrow, would you have regrets? In a terrifying flash I knew that not only would I have regrets, I would feel as though I hadn’t yet lived. That my years had been spent living someone else’s life.

That was then.

The journey from there to here was taken in incremental, logical, strategic, and sometimes serendipitous steps. As discovery writing exposed old programming and uncovered my truth I knew what to do and when to do it. I entered a kind of effortless flow that exhilarated and amazed me.

And it brought me to a dream that is bigger than anything I could have imagined back when I started to rethink my life. My definition of happy now looks nothing like what I accepted as happy before. I have connected with my path, a calling, a life purpose and the joy in that is indescribable. Utterly indescribable.

My dream is only mine. It isn’t everyone’s idea of bliss to move to the other side of the world and live on a tropical island. (How cliché is that?!) But it is everyone’s dream to be happy, to live a fulfilled life in tune with your reason for being.

Yesterday my daughter e-mailed my Tantric Numerology Reading for 2015. It spoke to thoughts that have been weighing in on my consciousness for the past few months. And it affirmed my desire to pass the information I’ve learned on to others:

You cannot accept and use your gift unless you feel that you deserve it. Remember, this gift is already yours. Relax, use it and enjoy it. Your gift is the ability to teach. You will find it easy and pleasurable to teach others through your actions and words. ( http://www.3ho.org/tantric-numerology-reading)

As I read this the truth of it settled into my bones. “Yes,” I said. “Of course.” And the inevitable tears trickled down my cheeks.

 

Paris!

12 Dec 2014 11 Comments

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

The plane was boarding when I approached the gate at Ngurah Rai Airport in Denpasar. Snarly traffic stretched the drive from the usual one hour to an additional forty-five minutes. It was perfect. Engaged in Made’s gossipy prattle, I was spared the boring, clock-staring wait in the airport.

Jostling my way down the congested aisle to 28A, I saw that the seats beside mine were occupied by two women who appeared to be in their mid forties. Bridget and Lizbeth were just the right combination of reserved friendliness. A few pleasantries then they busied themselves and left me alone. Perfect.

Nine point five hours slid by with two Hindu vegetarian meals, wine, tea, four movies and a cat nap which landed us in Qatar for an eight point five hour layover. I hate long layovers. As the shuffling line of passengers departed the plane, I bid my new friends farewell, safe journey, happy life, and set out to find an internet kiosk where I could alert the world that, “Here I am in Qatar!” via Facebook. That done, I scoped out a lounge area where the barrel-shaped chairs upholstered in red faux suede were draped with sleeping bodies. As I passed, one form came to life, shook itself, and hurried off. I claimed the vacated space. It felt like a king-size bed compared to the cramp of the airplane seat and I dozed on and off through the relative quiet from one to five a.m.

But even at 5:00 it was still two hours to boarding. I walked through the glitz of fragrance laden retail surprised only by a shop selling high end hijabs. Until now I’d only seen basic black. The store was a feast for the eyes. Fabrics in bright colors, jeweled trims, embroidery and lace made it clear that the garments on display were not for the budget conscious. They fairly screamed wealth, excess, and Western values in this predominantly Muslim country.

I found my gate, not yet open, and an empty chair along the corridor. After a few minutes I kicked myself for not coming sooner. It was people-watching paradise. Arab men in white robes with billowing scarves arranged nomad fashion on their heads strode with pride and purpose, deep in conversation. Black shrouded mysteries whose eyes peered through small, rectangular slits, floated by. Petit Asian women with tight leather skirts, over-the-knee-sliver-studded boots, and swooping necklines giggled as they wobbled on stiletto heels. A granny wearing vintage Converse hightops, skin hugging violet leggings, and a bouffant, sheer blouse that ended at her waist exposing to full view the effects of time and gravity on her ancient buttocks, passed, stopped, turned, and retraced her steps. I felt terribly ordinary.

It was almost a disappointment when the boarding call tore me from the fascinating view.

For the second leg of the journey, a mere eight hours and thirty minutes, I would be on the largest passenger plane in the industry to date. With seats for 800 people on two levels and a wing span that could stretch across a small country, I settled into my seat with appropriate amounts of awe and trepidation. How does this work again? Air passing over the wings creates lift…? The laws of aerodynamics…ummm? I turned away from the window and there, sliding into the seats beside me were Bridget and Lizbeth.

“Seriously?” I said. They nodded, laughed, and just like that we bonded more intimately than best friends. “Did you choose these seats online?”

“No, we should have, but they were assigned to us at the ticket counter.”

“I selected mine online…what are the odds?!”

The rest of the journey passed in the comfortable presence of familiarity. Departing the plane at Charles DeGaulle in Paris I told my new bff’s that I expected them to meet me in five days for the flights back to Bali, that I really couldn’t bear to sit beside anyone else. They assured me that they’d be there. Liars!

As I traversed the long jetway, cleared immigration and then customs, my mind raggedly shifted gears. I mentally pulled up the map of the Paris subway system that I’d studied in great detail online: airport shuttle to terminal two, red line to Paris center, one transfer at Halle, then two stops…

“Mom!”

“Joy! You’re here!” We threw our arms around each other, squeezing and swaying in the mother/daughter hug that is so familiar and so deeply missed.

“We got in an hour ago and waited for you….Kellen’s with the luggage right over there…”

………

So it began.

……..

From the subway we trundled our bags to 36 Rue de Turbigo, an apartment in the center of Paris. Towering blue doors and wrought iron balconies dripping red geraniums, screamed charm.

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Francesca met us with keys and instructions for the state-of-the-art appliances that occupied the glossy, red kitchen. With hardwood floors, an ornate Louis XIV fireplace surround, and soaring ceilings, the two bedroom apartment held a boggling mix of sleek modernity and historic charm.

Up to that moment, Kellen had been leading the charge, way-finding in the underground tunnels and navigating the twisted streets. But when the door closed behind Francesca, Joy assumed the role she was born to: Commander in Chief. Joy plans. Joy makes lists. Joy multi-tasks and organizes. Joy delegates. But mostly, Joy leads and others willingly follow. Such was the case the moment suitcases were stowed.

“Time to buy groceries! Who’s coming?”

Kellen and I snapped to attention stopping just shy of a heel-clicking salute. Fired by a tireless energy that thrives on over commitment, Joy had invited all ten of her wedding guests to a Thanksgiving dinner in our apartment that she planned to cook that night: herbed chicken, sweet potatoes, roasted vegetables, baguettes and a cheese plate served up with bounteous bottles of wine.

“There’s a market a few blocks away, and a cheese shop, I saw them on Google Earth,” she says as we follow like obedient ducklings. And she’s right.

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An hour later, laden with produce, poultry, smelly cheeses and bread, we met Jessa, Dan, Jenny, and Kennen on the street. It was a fresh round of hugging and happiness. Then Joy lassoed her herd and ushered us into the wine shop.

“Everybody choose a bottle,” she said.

Kennen glanced at me, “I know what you want,” He pointed to a Maison Louis Jadot Pinot.

“I can’t believe you remembered…it’s my favorite!” Dimples creviced his cheeks as he gave me a knowing grin.

I don’t know how she did it, but when everyone arrived at seven p.m. a veritable feast lay steaming on the table.

P1080271 Jenny and Kennen added dessert to the mix, two tarts, one raspberry, one chocolate, so beautifully contrived that to cut into them took some measure of courage.

P1080266 P1080268Conversation hummed, animated, excited, expectant, until each one hit the jet-lag wall.  Another round of hugs and the group shrugged into their coats and left for their hotel two blocks away.

“Brunch back here in the morning…eleven o’clock…then home to dress for pictures!” Joy chirped to each one as they left. In spite of the wine, the overstimulation, the belly full of rich, unaccustomed food, I remember nothing from the moment my body found the bed.

Joy, ever the morning sprite, was mixing eggs for omelets when I peered into the kitchen the next morning, rubbing the grainy remnants of sleep from my eyes. P1080285The meaty salt smell of bacon accompanied the sizzle and pop as it rippled into crisp brown strips. The fairies, or gnomes, had come in the night and cleaned the kitchen. Joy said it was Kellen. My love for the man doubled in that moment.

The wedding party arrived, boisterous and rested, heaped their plates with buttery croissants, pancakes, omelet, bacon, yogurt, and strawberries, and ate until their eyes rolled back in their heads.

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It was a good thing that the wedding festivities were planned for today. By tomorrow I might not be able to zip my dress. My diet of fresh fruit, fresh vegetables and a little rice in Bali keeps me trim. Joy doesn’t consider that food. She made certain that we had our daily quota of bread, cheese, meat and unlimited quantities of wine. Nobody complained.

Stuffed to a fine stupor Joy issued the next set of instructions. Be dressed for photos and back at the apartment to catch taxis to the Pont Alexander Bridge at one o’clock.

There was no time to lose. My most important job was clearly ahead. I’d been entrusted with the task of lacing Joy into the corset part of her bridal ensemble and buttoning the bustle. In a flurry of frothy white she donned the gown and I commenced lacing and pulling until the perfect hourglass shape was achieved. I felt tears welling as I gazed at her. She was busy applying makeup so she didn’t notice, but memories washed over me in a churning stream of nostalgia and my throat constricted with remembering. It passed so quickly, childhood. Birth to graduation to marriage, a blur. Now, in the presence of this beautiful, accomplished woman, I felt the weight and the privilege of motherhood. All of my fumbling best intentions that fell so far short hadn’t ruined her.

“Can you bring my shoes, Mom?” Her request shook me out of the past and I hurried to do her bidding. The final result was ravishing and I caught her essence as she turned from the window and flashed one of her heart-stopping smiles.

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The afternoon took us from the bridge, to Notre Dame, to obscure Parisian alleyways. Thousands of photos were taken, but these are some of mine:

We were lucky with the weather. Paris can be nasty in November, snow, sleet, rain. We had a mild day in the high 50’s. Perfect. But there was more to come…so much more…

Good day to buy a temple…

25 Nov 2014 5 Comments

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

“What does your typical day look like?” she asks, sitting across from me shiny-eyed and expectant. And I want to tell her so she’ll have a definition of me that she can take out and look at when she’s back at home shoveling snow. But it’s impossible. There are no typical days.

For example, last night it was approaching that hour when I lower the lights, slip into my shapeless soft bedshirt, and go limp. I had gotten as far as lowering the lights when a knock came at the door.

“You beezy?” I couldn’t lie. I hadn’t been this un-beezy all day.

“No, not busy, please come in.” Pasek, all showered and slicked-back hair, asks if he can speak with me. I switch on dazzling overhead lights and lead him to the dining table. Then I notice he has the calendar with him.

The Balinese calendar is a thing of frightful significance. It governs life. From the full moon to the dark moon and everything in-between, the calendar identifies auspicious days for weddings, cremations, pouring foundations, or starting a new business. The dates of ceremonial days are listed, and when to bless the plants or the motorbikes and cars and other machines. I haven’t scratched the surface. If you flip it over to the back you can find out who you should or should not marry. There’s so much information on that calendar even the average Balinese person has to consult a higher source to get it right.

Pasek spreads it out between us. “This today,” he says pointing to the 24th of November. Then he moves his finger to the 26th. “This you go to Prances (France).” He turns his head to meet my eyes. His are serious. “Must buy temple tomorrow,” he says.

When my gaping mouth, raised eyebrows, and furrowed brow indicate that I have nothing to say, he continues. “If not make temple on 26 Nopember, no good Desember. Not until end of Januari.”

I find it ironic and sweet that a sizeable part of my life is governed by that calendar. I’m not Hindu so my personal involvement isn’t much, but the people who work for me and with me, are. For them, the temple is the security system. Without that structure to receive the daily offerings that seek blessing for the house and grounds, there is no protection. I may as well issue a personal invitation to the dark energies, “Come and party here!” Not only that, the property becomes suspect, achieves a haunted status and is considered a place to be avoided.

We’re on the road by 8:00 a.m. “You want from stone?” Pasek asks. How do I know what I want? What are the options?

“I want to look around, okay?”

“Ya, okay”

We cruise along and I watch the roadside for examples. There are many. Some are bulky, massive, scary-looking. None are appealing until my eye lights on one more delicately detailed.

“Pasek! Look! I like that one.”

“Cement? Not stone? You like cement? More cheap.”

Now I like it even better. I have no clue how much a temple will set me back. Then I have the presence of mind to ask, “Is cement okay?” I’ve already been told that the kind of temple I need cannot have a roof. The roofed variety is used beside a river. Mine should be open on top.

“Ya, okay.”

After a few more miles Pasek pulls to a stop. We’re sitting in front of the exact, massive stone structures I don’t want. But I’ve learned to hold my tongue. Then I get instructions. “You tourist. Don’t speak. I speak say temple for me. Good price.” Then he states the obvious, “These stone. You want cement, ya?”

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“Yes, please.”

But just for kicks he goes off in search of the owner and comes back with a price. I breathe again. If the cement ones are cheaper I’m in good shape.

We’re on our way until a quick swerve across oncoming traffic lands us in concrete land. I pull out my camera, put on my most inane, clueless tourist look, and follow Pasek. So far we’re alone and I already know the one I want. “This one,” I point, then fall back as a woman approaches.

Pasek is slick. He negotiates, points out defects that I can’t see, and massages the shopkeeper in the subtle, alpha male kind of way that he’s mastered.

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It will be delivered this afternoon, he tells me. It’s one-half the price of the other one and it’s pretty, not a stodgy, box-like block of stone!

Commerce completed, we slide onto the motorbike and hightail back to Ubud. Tomorrow there’ll be a small ceremony. I’ll put on my kebaya, sarong, sash, and do what I’m told. Then I’ll zip up my suitcase and catch a plane for a wedding in Paris….all in a typical day’s work!

Four days til Paris and…uh oh

22 Nov 2014 11 Comments

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

It’s a daunting task to assemble the appropriate attire for a winter wedding in Paris, the height of the fashion world, when you’re living basically barefoot in a small tropical village in Indonesia. But given enough time and a little ingenuity, it’s possible.

One essential item for the trip, however, eluded me. Socks. I no longer own a pair of socks. Socks were not even a remote speck on my radar until I googled temperature in Paris today and read 4 degrees Celsius. That’s a balmy 40 degrees Farenheit. At that moment I knew I was in trouble. I’ve acclimated to hot. Eighty feels chilly to me now. I imagined my feet without socks at 40, a sickly bluish purple color. Not acceptable.

In the mountains in Kintamani I saw people wearing socks. Ketut is from Kintamani so I asked him where I can find a pair.

“At market,” he said. “Many many.”

I confess, I’m not comfortable with the Ubud market. First of all there isn’t a breeze ruffling the tight packed stalls and repugnant odors waft through like incense. The air sits hot and still and sweat pours off me in torrents. There are hundreds of cubicles selling everything from penis bottle openers to raw chicken feet and they all have hawkers offering “good price,” some more aggressive than others. But it can’t be helped. I must have covers for my poor feet.

The Ubud market spills out into the street

Outside the Ubud market

It was probably just shy of 95 degrees as I entered the first building. “Buy sarong?” the woman asked as I approached.

“I’m looking for socks,” I said in my most confident Indonesian. “Can you tell me where to find them?” The woman jumped up gesturing and waving her arms uttering a string of sentences so fast it sounded like one, long word.

I watched the direction she was indicating and I pointed, in a comradely sort of way, in that same direction nodding my head up and down, eyebrows raised as if to say, “That way? Yes? Is that what you mean?”

“Ya, ya,” she said and gave my shoulder a little twist and shove in the right direction.

I took off the way that she’d indicated until I rounded a corner and a new vendor vied for my attention. “I’m looking for socks. Can you tell me where to find them?” It worked before and this time the response was similar. Her directions brought me to the old part of the market where everything negative about the place is intensified about 200%. But another shopkeeper was offering “morning price,” so I rolled out my question a third time. This woman didn’t waste words. She grabbed my arm and hauled me up the broad concrete steps to the second level. Then pointing down a cluttered alley she sent me off. At the end of the aisle was a pillar covered with socks.

I paged through the ankle socks, the Hungry Bird socks, the Nike sweat socks, my hope dwindling. But then, right there behind all the others was a pair of black knee-highs. A brown arm reached over me and plucked them off the rack. “These you want?” she said.

“Are they my size?”

She eyed me, “Ya, good for you.” I asked the cost and she told me.

“Local price?” The price for foreigners can be significantly more than what the Balinese pay for the same goods.

“For Bali people same,” she said.

I fished out the bills, handed them to her, and stuffed the socks into my purse. A sense of well-being drifted over me. I’ve braved the market, tracked my prey, found it, killed it, and dragged it home. It’s taken months to assemble all the pieces, but the Paris look is complete and I’m so ready to BE THERE!

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