Kindness of Strangers

Thursday, November 6, 2008

I’m not sure who’s going to do the honors, but somebody is going to have to roll me out of Australia when we leave tomorrow. Seriously. I think I’ve gained at least five pounds on our culinary tour through the country…maybe more. Today we were strolling through the St. Kilda suburb of Melbourne, a lovely, seaside borough brought to life by an old-fashioned boardwalk and amusement park, shabby chic cafes, and eastern European pastry shops. Australia is a country who, much like the United States, has been shaped by immigration, and the culinary landscape is evidence of that. St. Kilda was the domain of Russian and Polish emigres in the 1940s, and the residue is cake shops whose windows gleam with golden fruit-studded babkas and fluffy white pavlovas. I selected a boozy rum cake robed in chocolate, an all-time favorite of mine that is rarely executed well, but whose perfection was achieved today. We waddled down the road, dipping into the vintage clothing stores that dot the streets. I found Mecca at Ruby Red Dress, an exceptional shop with a great selection of vintage finds. I squeezed myself into a darling floral-print jumper from the ’80s, sucking my stomach in as I studied myself in profile in the mirror. “It will be fine by the time we get home,” I assured myself. All hope hangs on next week’s four-day, 30 kilometer hike on the Milford Track.

I threw caution to the wind four weeks ago and decided to enjoy myself as I ate my way through Australia. The wineries of Western Australia produced outstanding fare, Adelaide’s Central Market was impressive, and Melbourne’s global cuisine is unrivaled. A trip to the city’s Immigration Museum was a lesson in Australian history; Europeans poured into the country at the first part of the 1900s, opening restaurants, cafes, and bakeries that reflected their cultural heritage. We sipped lattes from Melbourne’s first espresso machine at Pellegrini’s, a cozy, Italian neighborhood restaurant whose simple menu perched above the counter. A slice of traditional almond cake, layered with airy chocolate and delicate plums, was something I couldn’t get a home. We tucked into Borscht, Vodka, and Tears one blustery evening, whose menu touted “modern Polish cuisine.” I never knew there was such a thing as modern Polish cuisine. Page upon page of vodka cocktails (I ordered one the color of blush, mixing grapefruit juice and melon vodka, a perfect balance) gave way to dressed-up classics like pierogi and Polish sausage, which we enjoyed as candles flickered all around us. We indulged on chocolate “tapas” at San Churro and real tapas at Basque, offering bite-sized portions of Spanish classics like spicy strips of chorizo and piping hot patatas bravas. I sighed in disappointment when we learned that the Fitzroy neighborhood’s Babka Bakery Cafe was closed, and laughed when I passed by a restaurant called Gluttony It’s a Sin. If that’s true, then I’m a sinner of the highest degree!

Eating my way through Melbourne was a visceral way to experience Australia’s amazing diversity. The country is proud of its multicultural make-up, but there are looming questions as to how to handle immigration into the future. It’s a vast country, comprised of only 21 million people, but most of that land is in the middle and uninhabitable. The cities that ring the country are, at least by Australian standards, packed, although even this is a point of debate. At the Immigration Museum we learned how policy has shaped the country: at one point, one in two immigrants was English. Now, Asians comprise one of the largest immigrant populations, and the city’s famed Asian cuisine is evident in this trend. It is clear that complex questions are inherent in issues of immigration. (In one particularly fun and interactive exhibit we were asked to “interview” and make decisions on different immigration cases throughout history, based on the current immigration policy of the era. The task of making decisions to accept or reject an applicant was surprisingly difficult, even in a simple museum setting. I can only imagine what it’s like to be faced with the task of ruling on people’s fates in a real-life setting.) But it’s clear that the people who have adopted Australia as their home have added a great deal to many aspects of the country, and certainly to its culinary landscape.

Friday, October 31, 2008

Today is Halloween, and I’m really bummed to be missing out. Not only is it my favorite holiday, but it falls on a Friday night this year, making it a particularly sad year to be gone: we undoubtedly would have held a big bash. Halloween isn’t a big deal in Australia which surprises me, given the fact that it’s an excuse to party (not that the Australians need one). So I won’t see any sweet kids dressed as black cats, witches, scarecrows, or devils. I can’t pass candy out at the door as the young ones shriek, “Trick or treat!” There won’t be any pumpkins winking at me as I drive through the twilight neighborhoods. And I won’t get to wear a costume, which has always been my favorite part of Halloween; an opportunity to be someone other than who you are. Since this trip has turned into a quest to (re)discover who I am, maybe it’s not a bad thing that I’m missing out on dressing up.

Since there won’t be any sweets to gnaw on tonight, I’ve discovered a new vice: iced coffee in a carton. Ben and Colleen introduced me to this saccharine, caffeine-crazy drink, which can be procured in any grocery store, restaurant, or cafe. In South Australia, iced coffee is wildly popular, outselling Coca-Cola! Rather than spending a princely sum for a dressed up concoction at Starbucks, I can enjoy the same beverage for a fraction of the price. And with summer just around the corner – at least in the Southern Hemisphere – it’s the perfect sweet treat. It’s no substitute for good old fashioned Halloween candy (why do the little packets always taste better?), but it comes pretty close!

Thursday, October 30, 2008

Adelaide is an underrated city. Most international visitors head for straight for Sydney, or maybe Melbourne, never making it this far. I swear I’m not working for the tourist bureau, but believe me when I say that Adelaide offers something for everyone. It’s a lovely city to walk around; old Victorian buildings, outfitted with frilly wrought-iron balconies, sit affably alongside their modern counterparts, creating a dynamic cityscape. The Torrens River cuts an elegant swath through the town paralleled by miles of lanes, shaded by mature, arched trees, to bike or jog down. One afternoon we sat by the river and watched groups of young men in crew teams silhouetted against the late afternoon sky, as a gigantic, snowy pelican swooped down to perch on the dock.

The city center boasts a vibrant core that seems to be buzzing at all hours of the day. The excellent public transportation system is usually packed, ferrying passengers to hip restaurants with world-class, global cuisine. Adelaide is a foody’s dream. Leafy pedestrian malls offer local shops and boutiques to browse through. One edge of town is ringed by Glenelg, a soft, white-sand beach that locals can escape to. With its breezy shops and towering palm trees, it feels like a laid-back southern California beach town.

Adelaide has a thriving arts scene, hosting the world’s second largest fringe theatre festival, second only to Edinburgh’s. A huge arts complex rests alongside the river, providing multiple performing venues in one space, hosting shows from all over the world; Adelaide has more arts festivals per year than you can shake a stick at. Add to this a number of universities which gives Adelaide an open, intellectual feel that is always exciting and fun.

Just outside of town is the award-winning Cleland Wildlife Park which houses an amazing array of Australian native species, from toothy Tasmanian devils to towering emus. Here you can hand-feed kangaroos and snuggle a koala, something I never dreamed I’d do in my lifetime.

The amazing thing to me is all of this is happening in a city of one million people, the size of Albuquerque.

My hands-down favorite activity in Adelaide was visiting the Central Market. We spent a full morning cruising through the fruit and vegetable stalls in a cool industrial building, boasting locally-grown produce from South Australia. We scavenged the market for dinner, choosing bright spring greens (a novelty in October), slender haricort verts, finger-sized asparagus, crunchy peas, and sweet little cherry tomatoes. We dipped into one of many cheese shops, selecting soft, white mounds of Barossa Valley cheese and toothsome, veined Tasmanian blue to accompany our recent wine purchases. Then we selected briny, burgundy, tear-dropped olives and heaps of dewy fruit to enjoy as an aperitif to what was amounting to a real feast. Next it was on to the pasta store for fresh fettuccine. Famished from all the shopping, we sat down at rustic tables for lunch: Maikael chose homemade Russian piergois dressed with sour cream and fronds of dill, served up by a real Babuskha who was busy dissecting massive heads of cabbage. I settled for an outstandingly fresh baguette sandwich. I was surprised, but delighted, to learn that the European style of a la carte shopping is thriving in Australia.

If I’ve learned anything on this trip it’s to share what I have, even, as is at present, it isn’t much. So we brought our bounty home to enjoy with our hosts, Ben and Colleen. They have helped us to have a great South Australia experience, and most nights have ended in shared bottles of wine, laughing, talking, and furious rounds of Guitar Hero. There has also been a fair amount of razzing about which side of the road is the proper one to drive on, and how to pronounce “basil.” Ben feigned mock horror when he discovered that Maikael hadn’t been using his turn signal to negotiate roundabouts. We’ve been given an education in Australian lexicon, which is not British English but a whole new vocabulary: it’s not just lorries and lifts and crisps. I know that bogans are holligans, tea is dinner, and that tall poppies are fierce overachievers. But clobbering, spuds, and hicksville have the same meanings for them and us, and I am reminded once again that most of us in this world are more similar than different.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Until today, I was a Verjuice virgin.

If you don’t know what Verjuice is, don’t feel bad. But if you’re an Australian who has any interest in the culinary arts, chances are good that, not only do you know what Verjuice is, you stock a bottle in your kitchen cabinet and swear to its magical properties. As far as I can tell, Verjuice is like Vegemite: a distinctly Australian concoction that makes Aussie’s hearts sing. The closest American equivalent is Rachel Ray’s ubiquitous EVOO.

One of our goals in visiting Adelaide was to make a day-trip into the Barossa Valley, recently rated as one of the top 10 wine growing regions in the world and only an hour’s drive from the city. The Valley produces many excellent wines, but is renowned for its shiraz. To prepare ourselves, we made a pre-trip stop at the National Wine Center in Adelaide, a modern building adjoining the marvelous Botanical Gardens. Here visitors can learn about the entire wine production process and gain an appreciation for just how difficult it is to create a decent bottle of wine. Through an interactive computer program, we were able to make our own vintage, based on answering a series of questions regarding what affects the wine making process, from soil type and temperature to how the grapes are picked and stored. In one section of the exhibit we could “talk” with chefs who are renowned for pairing food and wine, and I listened with interest as Maggie Beer waxed poetic about eating and drinking locally. “This is the kind of thing I should be doing,” I thought, as I chuckled to myself at the irony of her last name.

We awoke to blue glass skies and perfect temperatures and made our way to the Barossa, crossing swooping saffron hills zig-zagged with bottle-green vineyards. The environment here is hot and dry, and the arid landscape reminds me of what I think Tuscany probably looks like: lots of wheat fields growing up beautiful mounds of hills with a solemn gnarly tree perched atop. Our first stop was for Danish at the Apex Bakery in the town of Tanunda, the heart of the Valley, a safe bet given Barossa’s rich German heritage. The region’s first vintners came from Germany, escaping religious persecution: beautiful, petite Lutheran churches sit proudly in the town square of each little town you pass.

Fortified, we spent the morning tasting wines from the iconic Chateau Tanunda, Charles Melton, and Rockford, moving on in the afternoon to Langmeil, Peter Lehmann, and Yaluma, buying a few bottles along the way. As our stomachs began to grumble at mid-day, we perused the lunch suggestions from the concierge at the National Wine Center. My eye immediately fell upon Maggie Beer’s Farm Store. “Hey, isn’t that the chef who we saw talking yesterday at the Wine Center?” I asked Maikael. Beer is one of Barossa’s most famous chefs, who began the movement of eating regionally, and I felt like I needed to see her operation in action.

Maggie’s Farm Store sits alongside a lovely green lake filled with turtles bobbing there heads along the surface of the water. A sign advertising a 2 o’clock cooking demonstration greeted us at the door. “Learn how Maggie uses her signature ingredients (Verjuice!) to create her signature dishes.” “What the hell is Verjuice?” I thought. The store is a foodie’s dream, chock-full of gourmet foods labeled in pretty packages. Diners can choose a picnic lunch of their choosing to enjoy on the outside patio overlooking the little lake, and each comes with a suggested wine pairing. This is exactly what the Margaret River wine valley had been lacking; a concerted effort to pair local food and wine using the best of seasonal ingredients. We chose our lunches, which were packed in a charming woven basket: inventive vegetable pates, fresh-baked rolls, and savory tabbouleh salads, dressed with a fresh sprig of rosemary that I couldn’t help but twirl between my fingers. I was completely content, much how I imagine most people feel when they commune with nature or encounter something beautiful.

At 2 o’clock we were herded into a packed room for the cooking demonstration. I was hoping The Woman Herself would be conducting the class, but instead a vivacious blond woman, who Maikael referred to as The Minion, glided into the room. She explained that Maggie has her own cooking show on ABC, the equivalent of PBS, and that we were sitting on the set of the show, which was modeled after Maggie’s own home kitchen. Everyone nodded enthusiastically; we were clearly the only ones not in the know about Maggie Beer. It dawned on me that Maggie Beer is the Australian equivalent of our Julia Child or Jacques Pepin, and I wondered if Maggie’s kitchen would be torn down and resurrected in Australia’s version of the Smithsonian Museum, just as Julia’s had.

Soon we moved onto the elusive Verjuice. “Do you all know what Verjuice is?” quipped The Minion. Everyone nodded again, smiling, as Maikael and I exchanged befuddled looks. Verjuice, she explained for our benefit, is an acidic juice, much like lemon juice, that is derived from unfermented young Riesling grapes. Maggie created it when she had an overabundance of grapes, and then began using it as a base for drinks, and then finally as a stand-in for lemon juice in her cooking. And thus the Verjuice Revolution was born. She even has an entire cookbook dedicated to the topic, Cooking with Verjuice. Small plastic cups were passed around with the mystical juice, and everyone held it to their lips as if they were cradling holy chalices, sipping delicately. Everyone nodded in rapture.

The demonstration, which I later learned from Maggie’s website was officially called a “Verjuice Workshop,” showed every possible use of the elixir, from roasting fennel to sauteeing mushrooms. As samples were passed around, people swore it tasted better because of the Verjuice. The Minion was obviously preaching to the choir. When a bottle of green tomato pasta sauce was uncorked, a woman from the back row piped up, extolling its virtues. “It was a winner at my last dinner party. A real winner!”

After the demonstration, people stopped to snap photos of the kitchen-cum-television set; even me, who had never seen the show. I was smitten.

As we strolled out of the shop after enjoying a cup of Vanilla Bean and Elderflower Ice Cream (elderflower!), I paused at the front door to read about the history of the this space. What started as a simple retreat from city life in Sydney and a passion for local food had grown into a mini media empire. In between it had been the home of the Pheasant Farm Restaurant for over 15 years. What struck me was this woman’s ability to grow and adapt with the times, while consistently keeping good, local food as its core focus. That’s what the Barossa Wine Valley is all about.

I’ve been thinking more and more about incorporating food and writing (and travel?) into a future career. I recently had a vivid dream that an editor stumbled across my website and admonished me for not writing more about food. It seemed like a divine message from the great beyond. While I have zero training or experience in the culinary arts, when my heart sings over learning about something as simple as unfermented grape juice, I wonder if I’m not on the right track.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

When you embark on a journey of this magnitude, you quickly learn your travel preferences. What I’ve learned about myself as a traveler in three continuous months of travel would have taken me years to figure out under normal conditions. For example, I’ve learned that I’m not really into the outdoors, unless it involves flat, short walks in cool temperatures. I am fascinated by places that retain their indigenous culture in the face of the modern world, and I adore good food and wine. I hate hot and humid weather. Maikael prefers ancient sites and physically challenging conditions, enjoys natural beauty, and doesn’t mind the heat. I imagine that all of these realizations will inform our future decisions about where we travel, and what we’ll do when we get there.

Western Australia was the perfect location for us, providing experiences and sites to suit us both. We decided to travel to this largely untouristed part of Australia after reading Bill Bryon’s In a Sunburned Country, an account of his travels across this vast country. We were enchanted by his descriptions of the tall tree forests that this region is renowned for. Great stands of karri, marri, jarrah, and tingle trees dominate the landscape, the only place in the world where these trees grow (the only trees bigger than a karri are California redwoods). We based ourselves in Pemberton, a drowsy logging town whose main street boasts the requisite tearoom, butcher shop, and IGA grocery store, but not much else. The area is an arborist’s dream, with clutches of national parks hugging the perimeter of town. Rolling green hills stretch as far as the eye can see, resembling nothing of the dusty red bush that most of us associate with Australia.

On our first day we drove the Karri Explorer loop, taking us through dense forests of native trees. I was surprised that we were driving through eucalyptus trees (known here as gum trees), whose canopy looked nothing like the sage-colored wafer leafs favored by hungry koalas that I usually associate with the species. The karris shed their bark each year, leaving mounds of leathery strips at their base, revealing a smooth, silvery trunk. They are beautiful, and their spicy perfume is unmistakable as you pick your way through the undergrowth, which looks like something out of a prehistoric tableau. A lush carpet of verdant tropical plants blankets the feet of these grand trees; I kept expecting a dinosaur to come ambling out of the forest at any moment. Instead, we hear nothing but silence and the melody of brilliant birds: green cockatoos striped red and blue dash through the canopy, as electric blue wrens flutter through the undergrowth.

Admittedly, my favorite part of the Explorer loop was the interpretive information along the way. By tuning our radio to a certain station, we could listen to stories about these great forests, including a storytelling session from a phenomenal Aboriginal storyteller. While the official history goes that the Aborigines preferred the coastal areas for their abundance of food sources, the storyteller says that they avoided these forests due to a belief that evil spirits lurked in the dark depths. When I’m not listening to the radio I can read boards from the fictional diary of the fictional forest ranger, who I can only describe as a very sensitive man who enjoys long walks through the trees and tuneful bird calls.

After familiarizing ourselves with the region, we spent our second day taking walks through Warren and Bedelup National Parks. It is springtime here, and the forest is awash in a riot of wildflowers that create the most spectacular smells. Fresia grows wild, a heavily perfumed scent that hangs heavy in the air. Everything is clear and bright. Sunlight pierces the dense canopy, fingers of light combing through the silvery leaves, casting delicate shadows over the landscape. Maikael decided to climb the imposing Bicentennial Tree, chosen during the commemoration of 200 years of European influence in Australia for its incomparable views from the top of the valley below. There are a series of fire lookout trees in these deep woods, where rangers can mount a spiral “staircase” of spindly metal rods rammed into the tree’s trunk, culminating in a lookout platform, to spot potential bush fires. They are also open to tourists to climb, which Maikael bravely attempted, ascending 75 meters (about 225 feet) above the leafy canopy without the assistance of any ropes, guides, or safety helmets. A group of elderly Australian tourists from Adelaide congregated at the base, marveling at Maikael’s monkey-like prowess and making him a minor celebrity in these woods.

The coup de grace of our time in the trees was journeying to Walpole for the famous Tree Top Walk. Built in the clutches of a great tingle forest, the Walk is designed to bring visitors into the canopy through a series of walkways created to simulate life in the treetops — they even sway in the breeze. The tingles only grow in a 6,000 hectare area, and their lifespan is roughly 400 years. First they grow tall and then wide, and despite their massive size (upward of 75 meters), their roots only grow a meter long and a meter deep from their base. Walking amongst the trees on the boardwalk below, I noticed the ragged licorice bark colored by an obvious wildfire; I was surprised to learn that the wildfire had raged through the area not last year but in 1937. The spindly upper branches were also caused by the fire, which swept through the canopy at a greater rate than underfoot, wiping out the vegetation permanently.

While the trees are lovely, I am, again, most interested in the construction of the Walk. There was once a tingle tree so large that a car could be parked in the base of its trunk. (Prisoners being transported through the area also camped overnight in the shelter of these huge trunks.) Due to the constant trampling of its shallow root system, the tree eventually fell, highlighting the need for a low-impact way to enjoy the trees. The Walk was fabricated off-site and then constructed using no cranes or helicopters to avoid damage to the delicate forest.

Still, I am not much of a tree person. Lucky for me, the region is also known for its exceptional food and wine. Between Margaret River and the Pemberton area, we spent hours dipping in and out of wineries, sampling the local fare. The area is famous for its chardonnays and cabernets, and we tried sips of delicious vintages. We quickly learned that the best food and ambiance was to be had at local wineries, which is where we ate most of our meals. Local spring lamb, succulent duck, marron (a type of freshwater crayfish), trout, truffles, and cheese dominated the menu, along with farm-fresh fruits and vegetables. I nearly fainted at the chicken fettuccine, the poultry having been smoked on-site. I ate a salad so fresh that it tasted as if had marched off the fields moments earlier: crisp troops of lettuce, bright batallions of crunchy carrots, squadrons of garden-fresh sage and thyme. Many a country road ended in cideries, avocado or apple stands, and herb farms boasting lavender and rosemary scones with local cream and jam for afternoon tea. And all of this to be enjoyed in the sunny gardens and shady vineyards.

Trees or no, I was in heaven.

Monday, October 6, 2008

As some of you know, I am slightly obsessed with Eat, Pray, Love, and find myself on the Elizabeth Gilbert Pilgrimage Tour. For those of you have been hiding under a rock the past year, EPL was a publishing phenomenon that rocketed Elizabeth Gilbert to literary fame, a chronicle of one woman’s journey to find herself over one year and three countries: Italy, India, and Indonesia. As I meet other women travelers all over the world, the conversation inevitably veers at some point to EPL. “Have you read it?” we eagerly ask one another, the next question naturally being, “Did you like it?” More times than not, I find that people disliked the book. Specifically, it made them want to gag.

I freely admit that I am in Bali as a direct result of reading EPL. It’s a place that never crossed my radar screen until reading Gilbert’s enchanting descriptions of a country that seemed lost in time, maintaining its traditions even against the incursion of ever-reaching Western influence. (I am learning on this trip that these are the places that captivate me most, and I wonder why I ever gave up pursuing studies in folklore, my favorite courses in college.) Gilbert spent four months in Ubud, and I knew that when I came to Bali I had to spend a chunk of time there.

So here I am in Ubud, and it is much bigger than Gilbert’s description. What I imagined to be a Podunk town is actually a collection of villages that stretch for miles, disappearing into spring green rice paddies. After three days I still haven’t even grasped beyond central Ubud, which is bursting at the seams with more spas and spiritual centers than I have ever seen. There is even a place called The Yoga Barn, which sounds more like the Walmart of the wellness world than the chic facility that it is.

I love the whole spiritual vibe here and couldn’t wait to begin getting daily massages, most of which run between $10-15. But not forgetting my pilgrimage, my first order of business was to visit Wayan, one of the starring “characters” in Gilbert’s book. As a third generation traditional healer, she is the Balinese woman who Gilbert befriended during her stay in Ubud, and on her website Gilbert encourages readers to pay Wayan a visit at her healing center. “Her vitamin lunch is still the best deal on Bali.”

Using Gilbert’s directions, I located Wayan’s place on my Lonely Planet map and set out for lunch. My heart leapt when I saw the post office and Bali Buddha — “It’s supposed to be really close to here!” I yelled to Maikael over my shoulder as I raced ahead. Then I saw the hand-lettered sign in robin’s egg blue, “Traditional Balinese Healing. ” We had arrived at Mecca.

I’m not quite sure what I expected, but a small storefront opened onto a collection of medicinal plants: it felt more like a flower nursery than a healing center. A faded board in the front showed a picture of Wayan smiling, explaining her services, next to a menu for the vitamin lunch. There were only two tables inside, and we took a seat next to another American couple about our age. Maikael and I exchanged a knowing look. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one on the Elizabeth Gilbert Pilgrimage Tour.

I ordered lunch, and a woman brought out tiny dishes in courses. I studied her face carefully. It definitely wasn’t Wayan. At least, I didn’t think it was. A smorgasboard of healthy-looking plates were placed before us, each bearing a sign that explained the predominant vitamin found in the dish and its healing properties. A sign boasting “No MSG Fresh Organic” was wedged into a thick slice of cucumber. Maikael frowned, especially when he saw the ivory seaweed. “I think the idea is that you get all your daily vitamins, all in one lunch!” I exclaimed, cheerfully.

The Americans were playing cards and sipping amber tea, clearly biding their time until the woman herself made her grand appearance. I always imagined that Wayan ran her shop independently, and that I would find her scurrying about and mixing concoctions when we sat down for her famous lunch. Instead, a staff of three clanked around the kitchen. Suddenly, a teenage girl bounded down the stairs. “Oh my god,” I urgently whispered under my breath to Maikael, barely moving my lips, “it’s Tutti.” Wayan’s daughter. I smiled and said, “hello,” quickly returning to my steamed water spinach. The Americans pounced on this opportunity like white on rice. “Hello!!” they cried enthusiastically, pretending like they were meeting a perfect stranger. Tutti asked what game they were playing. “Would you like to play with us? Maybe you can teach us a new game. Do you know any card games?”

Maikael and I ate in silence as we listened to them butter Tutti up. “What’s your name?” they finally asked, acting completely surprised when she responded, “Tutti.” The card game continued. “So, Tutti,” they asked, nonchalantly, “when’s your mom gonna get here?” Maikael and I looked at each other, and I rolled my eyes. “Actually, maybe in like one hour?” She was engrossed in her card hand. “Oh, okay!!” They were in for the long haul.

I wasn’t going to wait an hour for Wayan, and I certainly wasn’t going to compete for an audience. What would I say to her, anyhow? “So, you’re Liz Gilbert’s friend, huh?” I had a sneaking suspicion that the Americans felt like they knew Wayan, that they would try to have a conversation like old school chums, even though they – nor I — didn’t know a thing about her.

When the bill came, we were shocked: $12 for lunch, our smallest and most expensive Balinese lunch yet. Most meals are twice as big for half the price. It was obvious what had happened; the onslaught of pilgrims had precipitously raised prices. “Best deal on Bali,” I muttered. “I’m famished.” I took a final look at the Americans, still fawning over poor little Tutti. They would go home and report what an amAzing experience they had meeting Wayan. This wasn’t a race I wanted to compete in. The whole thing made me want to gag.

As we walked down the street, a flyer stopped me in my tracks. “Do you want to meet Medicine Man from Eat Pray Love Ketut Liyer?” Some enterprising soul had started a tour that brought pilgrims like myself to meet Gilbert’s other Balinese “character,” the one who had given her spiritual guidance and direction. Suddenly, I was so over EPL. Wild horses couldn’t drag me to Ketut’s place, if for no other reason than the fact that I knew the Americans would probably be there having their amAzing experience.