I like my new Indonesian mobile phone. It’s a sleek little model made by Nokia whose sole feature is a flashlight, in case I get lost at night. (The next most expensive phone advertised an FM radio.) While the phone is devoid of standard extras like a digital camera, it is unlocked, unlike those sold in the United States. So in most countries we visit, we’ll be able to purchase a prepaid SIM card, a small chip placed inside the phone, providing us temporary local service and a number.

We hadn’t planned on buying a mobile for this trip, as it seemed like an unnecessary cost. But we’ve encountered enough frustrating situations in which we’ve sighed, “If we only had a cell phone!” that it finally seemed worth it. What finally pushed us over the edge was spending $5 on a four minute phone call.

We have met a few travelers using their mobile phones outside their countries of residence, but we figured they were paying an arm and a leg in international roaming charges. It wasn’t until our friend Paul explained this SIM card scheme to us. Whether it’s accommodation, transportation, or other areas of travel, I’m continually amazed by the creativity of our fellow travelers to better their lives. If you’d like to contact us while we’re in Australia, our number is 0432269839.

Maikael and I always take any opportunity to go on outings with other travelers. It’s more fun, it helps our budget, it opens us to new experiences and, most importantly, it keeps us sane. When Paul and Ishara began discussing a trip to Tirta Gangga and Sideman Road, we had no idea where or what these places were, but we said we were on board. Paul set about hiring a driver for the day ($30 for eight hours!), of which there is no shortage in Bali. Everyone you pass on the street calls, “Transport? Taxi?” as you pass by, some even pantomiming turning a steering wheel in case you are deaf or don’t speak English. The lazier ones half-heartedly prop up a sign on their knee as they rest on a stoop. One side reads, “Do you need transport (taxi)?”, and when you invariably say “no,” they flip the sign which reads, “Maybe tomorrow.”

We set off for Tirta Gangga; I had absentmindedly flipped through my Lonely Planet guide the night before and learned that it means “Water of the Ganges,” which I could only pray was cleaner than the real Ganges in India, and that it is a water palace. I didn’t know what a water palace was, but was excited to have two folks in our stead who had visited Bali multiple times between them and would knowledgeably create the itinerary for the day.

On our way we stopped at Goa Lawah, which Ishara kept referring to as The Bat Temple, but which I preferred to called The Bat Cave. As our van pulled into the temple’s parking lot, which was packed, we noticed a line of people, decked out in their Sunday best, snaking their way down the beach towards the sparkling water. A row of Crayola umbrellas bobbed along in the brilliant sunshine. There was obviously something special taking place today.

We wrapped colorful sarongs around our waists, mandatory temple garb, topped off with a bright yellow sash. The scene inside the temple grounds was festive and merry, not at all like the somber affairs that I usually associate with religious occasions. I stood in a shaded doorway watching groups of smiling Balinese gather for family photos. A gaping cave stood at the the front of the courtyard, where lines of people knelt and prayed before the mouth. Bats screeched and hung like coal stalagmites at the edge of the dark abyss. Incense loomed heavy in the air as parades of devotees wound their way around the courtyard, carrying baskets heaving with fruit and other offerings.

As we made our way through the scene, we noticed a woman who must have been the high priestess making blessings under a great thatched roof dais raised high above the crowds. Her scarlet hat was gilded with gold and topped off with a dazzling crystal; more crystals studded her finery, creating epaulets over her shoulder. She looked simply grand. As we admired the scene, the only non-Balinese wedged into the crowd, a woman caught my eye and placed her palms together in prayer. I did the same and nodded to her, preparing to take my leave. Suddenly the mass plopped to the ground, and the woman pulled me down with her. I realized that she had been asking me without words if I’d like to pray with the group.

We knelt on the ground, my batik sarong next to her lovely raspberry one. She smiled and led me through the prayer, the women next to us giggling as I bumbled my way through each step. First she handed me a square cup fashioned out of pale banana leaves and filled with wilting tropical flowers. She plucked a fresh one from the cup and placed it behind my ear, doing the same for Maikael who sat to her right. Spindly sticks of incense were passed through the crowd, and she instructed me to place mine over the flowers. We then grabbed bits of flower from the cup, waving them over the incense, and brought them to the tips of our fingers placed in prayer. The priestess rang a rhythmic bell as the crowd prayed in silence. I asked for peace and purpose, the same things I always do.

Between stages of the prayer she tried to talk to me, despite the language barriers. I said I was from America. I pointed towards my wedding ring, and then to Maikael, and everyone sighed a collective, “Ooooh.” Then it was the woman’s turn. She pointing towards my shirt, saying something in Bahasa that I didn’t understand, and another woman down the line leaned over. “Beautiful,” she translated. I was wearing a ratty old T-shirt, and she was wearing a lacy top that looked like delicate pink sherbet.

When the prayer ended, we were swarmed. “Where you from?” everyone wanted to know. Pictures were taken, and I shook the woman’s hand who had pulled us into the prayer. I’m not sure why she decided to include us, but I felt intensely grateful for the experience, and to her.

On the road to Tirta Gangga we encountered numerous processionals in multiple villages as people made their way to temple ceremonies. Traffic crawled to a stop to allow the parade to pass. Women expertly balanced towers of fruit of their head as they power-walked up steep hills, looking nonplussed. “This must be our lucky day,” I said.

We arrived to Tirta Gangga later that afternoon, which felt like stepping into the Garden of Eden. Huge pools of water criss-crossed the courtyard, each containing something beautiful. My favorite was the pool containing large stepping stones, where one can walk amongst ornate stone statues as gigantic koi swim underfoot. When we arrived kids were running on the stones, giggling like mad: can you imagine a water temple as your playground? At the center of the lush gardens sat a lovely emerald fountain, which spouted mist so fine that it looked as if the entire thing was swathed in soft light.

There was another ceremony occurring when we arrived, and a mass of people was crowded around the temple under the shade of an ancient banyan tree. We scurried up to the restaurant and grabbed a table to admire the ceremony from above. “Why all the ceremonies today?” we asked our waiter. “Preparations for the full moon,” he said. Within minutes the ceremony ended and the recessional snaked its way right in front of our table: we couldn’t have picked a better seat or a better time to be there.

On our way back to Ubud we ambled through Sideman Road, where terraced rice fields stretch as far as the eye can see. We traipsed through the rice paddies, forming a processional of our own, picking our way over the narrow green lanes. As the light began to fade, we came upon a field in which they were harvesting the rice. “I’ve never seen that before,” said Paul, a man who has seen his fair share of rice in traveling around the world so many times. We watched this field of workers, letting rice dance through their fingers as the day glowed amber.

The whole day – and my whole experience in Bali – was an exercise in remaining completely open to whatever may happen, and if I could take that back to my everyday life I’d be the better for it. I didn’t know anything about Goa Lawah. Tirta Gangga wasn’t on my agenda. I had no idea that we had planned our outing for such an auspicious day. In short, had I tried to craft such an experience on my own it never would have happened.

I constantly hear people talking about what a special place Bali is. Some call it “vibe.” Others call it “energy.” But whatever it is, there is something that keeps people coming back. It’s not uncommon to meet people who have been here 15 times, who come twice a year, who stay for six months. It’s just the kind of place that casts a spell over you. I’m really sad to be leaving today, to be released from Bali’s magic and all the wonderful people I’ve met here. But more than any place we’ve visited, I know I’ll be back.

The greatest benefit of our time in Bali has been starting the process of relearning what makes me feel happy. There is no agenda, and my days here are truly simple, guided by one question: what do you feel like doing today? I don’t think I realized until I arrived in Ubud how rote my life had become, how much I was doing out of obligation or mimicry, how out of touch with myself I had become. I feel like an infant who is relearning her way in the world. This trip has been a spiritual bootcamp. a slow breaking-down process that has finally bottomed out. Without any of the cues of my everyday life, I am forced to listen to myself more than I ever have before. I am beginning to see that the struggle of the first three months of this trip has been that daily process of looking to myself only to realize that I don’t know who I am: how can you rely on yourself when you don’t recognize yourself? The result was an overwhelming feeling of helplessness and pessimism. Bali has allowed me to begin filling myself up again, to remember who I am and what I enjoy about this world. I am slowly regaining confidence in myself and my choices through making simple, daily decisions based on what feels right and good.

I quickly decided that I wanted to spend my time in Ubud reconnecting with myself, and the great thing about this town is that it offers so many modalities for tapping into one’s self. Every storefront you pass advertises Balinese detox, herbal remedies, crystals, astrology, meditation, massage, yoga, baths – the possibilities are endless. Most of these treatments, which would cost an arm and a leg in the States, are so inexpensive in Bali that you’re not out much from trying something once. So Maikael and I have been running all over town trying different treatments, seeing what happens and what works best for us.

I wasn’t sure where to begin this so-called spiritual journey that I have decided to embark upon, so I started with massage, something I knew I enjoyed. Over the last week we’ve been poked, prodded, pummeled, washed, dried, fluffed, and perfumed before being sent back into the world. We’ve had a massage nearly every day while we’ve been in Ubud, ranging from $4 to $16. At Nur Salon we received treatments in small bungalows set amongst the greenery of a lovely family compound. As the cares of the world melted away I listened to, instead of a CD, nature’s soundtrack: chickens clucking outside, birds twittering on the branches above, the roll of thunder in the distance. I reclined in the stone tub, filled with tropical flowers and heavenly scents, and looked skyward through the fringe of the thatched roof and gazed on gathering storm clouds and ragged tree limbs. I was filled to the brim with pure contentment.

Maikael has always been interested in meditation, and had his first opportunity to join a class at the Yoga Barn. Of everything he tried this week, he felt this was the most effective treatment for him, and wants to continue with it when we return home. I have always been a devotee of massage, but am beginning to recognize the need for something more in my everyday life. I have visited astrologers and mediums three times in my life, and all three have stressed the importance of adopting a spiritual practice. (Two have specifically mentioned Kundalini yoga, something I would like to investigate when we return to Albuquerque.)

Shortly after we arrived, Ishara suggested a massage at Bodyworks and a session at Light Spirit with Tibetan bowls, both of which were guaranteed to get my blocked energies flowing. We were skeptical – particularly about the latter – but willing to give it a try. The massage at Bodyworks focused on triggering points down the body’s energy meridians, and when I emerged an hour later, I felt simultaneously relaxed and energized.

The next day we dipped into Light Spirit as dark descended over the slick streets, licked clean after the late afternoon downpour. Two young Balinese men lounged on great cushions, springing to action when the bells tinkled as we passed through the front door. We were placed on large divans set before a gigantic gong. A series of hand-hammered bronze bowls, looking as old as the world itself, were placed on various point on our body: hands, feet, stomach, back. A soft felt mallet struck the bowls, sending vibrations throughout our body as sound reverberated all around us. At first I didn’t feel much of anything, but I soon noticed a familiar, dull ache in my forearms. When have I felt this sensation before? I asked myself. When I used to do acupuncture, I realized, and I suddenly recognized this feeling as energy flowing through my body. As I lay quietly at the end of the session I felt a gentle tap on my forehead, and assuming it was the therapist, I flicked open my eyes. No one was there.

The next day I was sitting at Kafe, enjoying a particularly good panini, when my stomach started to toss, turn, and rumble. “Not Bali Belly,” I thought to myself. But then I remembered what Ishara had told me a few days earlier about the Tibetan bowls, that they release energy quickly and in sometimes unexpected ways. A friend of hers had been sick as a dog for three days after a session, and I couldn’t help by wonder if the same thing was happening to me. After one sick night I’m still not sure whether to blame it on suspect lettuce or those bowls, but I emerged from the whole ordeal feeling renewed and a little more in awe of the power of Bali.

I can’t remember how long I’ve been in Ubud, or when I’m leaving. I’m not even quite sure what day it is, unless I happen to glance at my watch – if I remember to wear it at all. I’ve never felt so out of touch with the ordinary patterns of life; and yet, our days here have quickly fallen into a comfortable routine.

We found Ubud Bungalows purely by chance, a miraculous feat given the sheer volume of accommodations here. We emailed seven hotels, and they were the first to respond, but it’s ended up to be the most fortuitous part of our trip to Bali. We quickly learned that the Bungalows, nestled amongst lovely tropical gardens, are home to countless longer-term guests. First we met Ishara, the dreadlocked-Australian who I am convinced is here to teach me something about my spiritual self. She’s already been to Bali twice this year, and usually stays in two-month stretches, splitting her time between multiple locations (including Hawaii and Vanuatu) as she continues on her spiritual journey, with Australia as her vague homebase. “But I’m homeless,” she says, simply and with a smile.

The three of us were lounging around the pool one day when a guy looking like Michael J. Fox approached. “American and Australian, right?” he asked. The four of us were soon in the thick of conversation, forming a circle in the pool as we debated life’s big questions. Paul has also been to Bali twice this year – Ishara and Paul missed each other by mere weeks, and began discussing all the mutual long-term guests they knew. Originally from California, Paul worked in Munich for eight years before giving it all up to travel around the world. That was 10 years and seven round-the-world trips ago. While Paul and Ishara are both “homeless,” Paul has structured his life quite differently. He travels in three-month blocks, returning to San Diego for a month before setting off again. He has been to nearly every corner of the globe, and if I ever had a question about getting to or traveling within a location, he’d be the first person I’d call. Paul is not a millionaire – through savvy travel, he lives a great standard of life abroad at what would be considered poverty-level in the US.

Our next-door neighbor is Andreas, a German man who left his engineering job behind 15 years ago to travel around the world. Before he stopped working, though, he took two months off every winter to travel. He now splits his time between India and Indonesia, his favorite places on the globe. He is a passionate supporter of India, but recommends you leave Calcutta after 10 days, lest you develop a permanent cough from the pervasive pollution.

I find it remarkable that we have met three such interesting people, who are each leading unconventional lives in three completely different ways, purely by chance (or is there such a thing?). They represent a subset of the ex-patriot community whom I had never considered: people who call nowhere in particular home. They are the ultimate global nomads. Prior to this trip I divided the world into two groups: people who live domestically and people who live abroad. I never considered the range of possibilities that existed on the spectrum between these two poles, and it has sparked all sorts of interesting possibilities as to how I might wish to structure my life.

We are a motley crew, with plenty of differences between us. Paul and Ishara could star in a new television version of The Odd Couple. “I’ve got great angels, tons of them,” said Paul to Ishara. “I just don’t believe in any of them!” And yet we all seem to be human magnets, unwittingly drawn to one another. I know there are other guests staying at Ubud Bungalows, but we all seem to miraculously converge upon one another at multiple points throughout the day. Most mornings begin over breakfast with Ishara and/or Paul, and can easily stretch into the early afternoon. The day often continues into the pool – we’re pretty sure there’s a vortex centered squarely over the water — where we trade everything from stock tips to travel advice, while debating world economies and spiritual philosophies in the next breath. If the world would bring its problems to the Ubud Bungalows Think Tank, I’m pretty sure we could bring about world peace within the week.

Despite the fact that there are dozens of restaurants in Ubud, we all somehow manage to end up in the same eateries at least once a day without planning to do so. Yesterday we lingered at Sagittarius for seven hours, as day drifted into night. Our radius of exploring Ubud grows smaller by the day: I have never been so busy doing nothing. But it’s been ages since I’ve felt so engaged, interested, stimulated, and, well, happy. The last time I remember feeling this free was when I lived in the dorms in college, where I had few obligations and nowhere in particular to be. I remember passionate, impromptu discussions springing up in the most unlikely of places, with the most unlikely of people, and I loved every minute of it. I feel a bit like I’m at Big Kids’ Summer Camp. Sometimes we’re so focused on having a local experience that we forget how much we can learn from fellow travelers; indeed, fellow humans. This is the joy of extended travel; having the luxury of time to engage with all sorts of interesting people without feeling riddled by guilt. It makes no difference that I have seen so little of Bali. I am getting exactly what I need out of each day.

I came to Bali – and to Ubud, for that matter – for all the wrong reasons.

When most people think of Bali they conjure images of expansive beaches, boozy iced beverages, swaying palm trees, and South Pacific views. While this is most people’s idea of paradise, I didn’t have much interest in this part of Bali which, while beautiful and relaxing, gets a little boring after a few days.

I was really after the cultural aspects of life here, which are rich and vibrant. Hindu-Bali temples greet visitors around every corner – even the smallest towns seem to boast multiple temples, and most family “compounds” have a personal altar in which the family can worship. Imposing statues of religious icons grin ferociously at you through gnashing, stone teeth, their bottom halves swathed in black and white gingham, looking more like something out of the Scottish Highlands than the tropics. Every household and shop readies small offerings of rice, placed on delicate banana leaves, throughout the day, a seemingly never ending task.

Spirituality is everywhere. There are temple ceremonies constantly, and we happen to be in Ubud for one of the biggest ceremonies of the year. We caught a temple procession our first evening in town; parades of women in traditional clothing balanced towering pyramids of rich fruit on their head on their way to the temple. Their ankle-length sarongs swished below their lacy off-the-shoulder tops as long, colorful sashes perched askew on their waists. Lines of men, wearing the typical gingham sarongs and breezy white tops, the cotton headdress tied neatly around their skulls, balanced large red umbrellas and banged ceremonial drums. All of this in the midst of rush-hour traffic.

I had planned to spend my time in Ubud taking all of this in, to understand the ins and outs of temple ceremonies, to visit countless religious sites, but upon arriving here I felt my interest diverted to the numerous spas and healing centers that line Ubud’s narrow avenues. I found myself pouring over lists of spa menus, wondering where I should go, what I should do, and how much I could cram into 10 days. Where was this coming from, I asked myself?

This trip has caused me to spend a lot of time with myself, and I’m sad to say that I don’t often like what I see. The Indian astrologer hit the nail on the head when he said, “You feel empty inside. People think you are fulfilled, but you are empty.” He kept saying it over and over again, empty, and the word reverberated and hung in the air like a loud bell that wouldn’t stop ringing. I am empty, and I’m not quite sure how to fill the hole.

I have tried for years to improve myself and my life in any way I knew how – from career changes to geographical moves – and still I feel empty. I can’t even remember what makes me happy anymore, and I am far enough into this trip and out of my everyday routines to see that most of what I do is out of habit, not choice. But not quite sure what I should do differently now, I find myself beset by a certain sense of helplessness. What’s the point of being here? What’s the point of going home? How will my life be any different then?

Maikael and I sat down yesterday on the lovely veranda at Ubud Bungalows where breakfast is served each morning. A few wooden tables were scattered under a great portico, lending a view down the tumbling hillside. Birds chirped happily, and small vases of tropical flowers, which would cost a fortune at your local florist, lounged casually in simple glass jars atop each table. We were surrounded my mossy stone walls and lush tropical plants, and yet I found myself slumped at the table.

A woman approached, dreadlocks piled atop her head, some of which were streaked electric blue, shocking pink, glaring lime, and bright purple. She was barefoot and beaming, and immediately began talking with us. I felt an instant connection to her. We learned that, after having worked in corporate Australia for most of her adult life, she decided to leave it all behind when she had a spiritual awakening. It took her five years to leave her job, but she eventually became a Reiki master and has been traveling on a spiritual journey the past three years.

We spent the next two hours talking about all manner of things, spiritual and otherwise, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I needed to hear what she had to say, that I had met her for a reason. Her message boiled down to this: you can keep striving towards discovering your true self, or you can give up and go back to the way things were. I suddenly realized that I had all but given up on myself and my life, given up any promise or hope that things could be different. I asked her what she was doing in Ubud for two months, which essentially amounted to spiritual healing. She suggested a number of different spas and treatments which she felt were beneficial for quickly becoming unblocked, and I immediately felt a surge of energy and excitement race through me.

It was then that I realized why I had come to Ubud. It had nothing to do with temples and everything to do with beginning my own healing process. I know I won’t be able to accomplish everything in the week I have left here, but I feel that it’s going to set me on the right path to at least begin the journey. For years I’ve followed someone else’s successful path in the hopes that I would garner the same results for myself, and growing defeated when it didn’t. I’m ready to make my own roadmap and embark on my own journey.

For those of you who are reading this and rolling your eyes and wondering if I’ve gone completely mad, New Age, or Santa Fe, don’t worry – deep down, I’ll always the slightly neurotic Elizabeth you know and love.

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.

Like most people, I hate being accosted by vendors. An aggressive vendor has an ability to set your jaw wrong for a place, tainting what could have otherwise been a lovely experience. But the vendors on Bali are the most gracious I’ve met on this trip. In fact, you almost want to go out of your way to talk to them. In Lovina, the sleepy beach town we’ve visited the past three days, I’ve watched them study me from a distance as I linger at the water’s edge. It doesn’t take long before a woman in a faded T-shirt, steadying a plastic laundry bin of tropical fruits atop her head, approaches. But rather than running as fast as I can in the other direction, I wait patiently for her as she smiles and waves at me.

“Hello, you want fruit? Special price.”

Everything is always a special price.

“Special honeymoon price, special sunset price, special rainy day price.”

When I ask for a special end-of-Ramadan price, the vendor giggles; the Balinese love to laugh. Then the introductions begin.

“What’s your name? Where you from? You married? How many children you have? When you arrive? Where you going next?”

These questions aren’t intrusive but are born out of genuine curiosity. The Balinese locate themselves – and us — on social maps through this information.

We always politely turn down whatever the vendor is selling – usually fresh fruit, beachside massages, or sarongs.

“Maybe later?”

Maybe. In’shallah. God only knows.

“You Muslim?”
We laugh again.

“Next time, you remember me. Much competition.”

We went through this routine multiple times a day as we meandered on Lovina’s boardwalk; it’s low season, and there are three times more vendors than tourists on the secluded beachfront. Yesterday we went on a snorkeling tour, and as the small skiff was prepared for our outing, we were ensnared by a group of vendors. We passed through the familiar round of questions and introductions, but had nowhere to escape to when the script had ended. The boat captain was still making preparations. I shifted my weight a little uncomfortably, not quite sure what to say next. I was afraid we would start over from page one, and that I would have to go through another round of “no thank yous.” But instead we began to talk like everyday people, not vendor and customer.

Minnie, who sold massages, introduced me to her daughter, who tugged as the hem of her orange T-shirt that was patched at the chest with black thread. Her khaki baseball cap shielded her creased face from the sun; she still looked too young to have three children. We got to talking about politics – she didn’t know who the US president was, and had no awareness of the upcoming election, which was rather refreshing. I asked her if Bali had a president, and she talked about the same problems that everyone mentions when they talk about their politicians: some things are universal.

Education is too costly. There are problems with low employment. Bali is dependent upon tourism, but during low season work dries up. Bombings in recent years have also hit the tourist industry hard. “I want to work like you, in good job in office. But this is the best I know how to do. I don’t want to do this,” she says, cupping her palms together in a pantomime of begging. She would rather try to make an honest living, even if it is not entirely successful, than beg. I found the words, “I appreciate that,” caught in my throat, but it sounded patronizing as I heard the sentence float through my head. I simply nodded, recognizing the futility of this very difficult situation.

“Maybe when you return snorkeling, you get massage?”

“In’shallah,” I said.

“It’s not up to Him,” Minnie said, pointing skyward, smiling. “He make us born to decide yes or no. You want or you don’t want.”

It was so simple that I was caught speechless. I had been trying to pass the buck to a celestial being, but the decision rested solely with me. She wasn’t trying to persuade me to buy something, or make me feel guilty for not purchasing her massage. She was simply stating the facts, pure and honest, with a smile on her face.

I nodded again, feeling a catch in my throat; I swallowed hard. As we waded into the water towards our snorkeling tour, my eyes squeezed out hot tears, forming a shallow pool at the bottom of my midnight sunglasses that shaded me from the world.

I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve grown jaded to poverty on this trip. In India it was so pervasive that it lacked an identity, and was easy to turn one’s head to. One night in a train station a disheveled man begged at our feet and feigned a high-pitched sob, his lower lip protruding in a deep pout. It had no effect on me. And when it became obvious that we weren’t going to give him something, he immediately turned off the waterworks on command, like he had just given an Academy Award-winning performance, and quickly found another group of tourists. It wasn’t just me; we were all deadened to it.

This was the first time on the trip that poverty had been so personal. I choked back tears as the narrow little boat leaped over the waves, not quite sure what the answer was. Should I buy a massage from Minnie? Would that make it better? But what about the fruit lady? And the sarong seller? And every other vendor on that beach? Is it better to buy from one or none?

In the end I didn’t do a damned thing. When our boat returned from the snorkeling trip Minnie and her friends greeted us on the smoky sand, smiling and waving. I cast my eyes downward and fumbled through my bag as I was offered fruit at a special price. When I turned down Minnie’s massage for the last time I looked her in the eyes and said, “I’m so sorry,” really meaning it, for so many reasons.

When I was in kindergarten, my mother registered my cousins and I for a spring break class at the Seattle Aquarium. The point, I think, was to introduce children to the delicate aquatic ecosystem of the Pacific Ocean and Puget Sound. Specimens were taken from the local waters for class observation, and what I remember from that week was looking at a lot of flimsy plankton, bruise-pallete mollusks, and ashen fish. There is a photo of me taken that week, cradling a sandy starfish on a gray beach, against a gray sky, my pink windbreaker the only dash of color in the scene. In other words, the whole affair was a rather dull and ugly sight, and when I think of sea life, this is the image I conjure.

So when Maikael suggested we go snorkeling in Lovina, I was less than thrilled. I knew there were beautiful fish in the ocean. I knew we were in the tropics. I knew there was a coral reef only meters from the beach. But I didn’t put these elements together in a cohesive picture.

When our slim boat anchored within sight of the shore, I was surprised to peer down and see coral just below the surface of the glassy water. I shrugged on my snorkel gear and flipped over the side of the boat. As I placed my goggles onto the surface of the water, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was within arm’s reach of the expansive field of coral, giant underwater brains teeming with life. Within the maze-like structures swam fish in every color of the rainbow. Tiny electric-blue tetras made circles around the frilly edges of the coral. Canary angel fish made kissy faces at me. I’m pretty sure I saw Nemo down there, too, a gigantic flounder with goofy teeth that gnawed on ragged pieces of coral.

There were fish I had never seen before. A translucent white fish with a graceful bottle-nose, looking like an eel on a diet, skimmed through the water, winking demurely at me. An obese jet black fish with tiny white dots puffed through the water, round as a balloon. One fish looked like a dog. Another was a bright amethyst ring glimmering in the sea. We fed bits of bread to schools of fish, who whizzed around us in a great flurry of activity.

It wasn’t just fish. There were conch shells bigger than my head, their delicate pink spires reaching out towards me. Spiny sea urchins, like underwater porcupines, played hide-and-seek in the coral. Brilliant sea anemones flowered in crevasses. Jellyfish, cradling bright green balls, danced slowly through the tide. The slower I went the more I saw. Just like traveling.

Maikael had to remind me that we were snorkeling around one of the world’s few coral reefs. Sometimes I forget how far away from home we are, how exotic our day-to-day surroundings can be. Bali seemed impossibly foreign as I was sitting in my living room in Albuquerque, New Mexico, dreaming of this trip, but now that I am here everything feels like it’s next door. It’s a strange feeling: when a coral reef is just minutes away, you begin to wonder if something so accessible could possibly be worth the $12 boat ride. But then I look at the map and calculate the time change and remember how far I had to travel to have a coral reef in my backyard.

The Balinese are just about the happiest people I have ever seen in my life. And it’s not just a few people, it’s everyone. I have seen grown men sauntering down the street with gigantic smiles plastered on their faces for no apparent reason. Women constantly flash their toothy grins at us. And everyone is always laughing. It’s hard to be a curmudgeon here, and I admit that at first I was a little cynical. “What are they so happy about?” But I think I discovered the secret: there are more handmade fruit juices here than you can shake a stick at.

I am a real beverage warden. Through most of this trip I have put the kaboch on ordering drinks in restaurants, as it’s a well-known fact that, not only do they dramatically inflate the cost of the bill, they are empty calories. We nearly always order bottled water in restaurants, which, admittedly, gets really boring. But the gloves are off in Bali! The array of fruit drinks is dizzying: lemon, orange, lime, banana, papaya, watermelon, avocado, ginger, honeydew melon, mango. And when you consider that you can blend flavors together, the possibilities are endless.  Plus, they cost, like, 50 cents each!!

I am consuming at least two fruit juices per meal, conveniently forgetting the fact that they are blended together with simply syrup. “But it’s fresh fruit,” I cry. “How bad can they be?” Watermelon is hands down my favorite (Maikael is a feign for banana), and I wonder if I am going to reach a saturation point before I leave Bali. But until that day comes know that, as you read this, I am probably drinking watermelon juice with a giant smile on my face.

That mesmerizing song from South Pacific has been running through my head the past three days:

“Bali Ha’i will whisper
In the wind of the sea:
‘Here am I, your special island,
Come to me, come to me.’”

I keep looking around and thinking to myself, “I can’t believe I’m in Bali!” We’ve done nothing but rest and relax the last 72 hours, and our colds have high-tailed it out of our weakened immune systems. We stumbled into our hotel on Friday night after 26 hours of travel and, despite our extreme exhaustion, were immediately enchanted. Our thatched-roof bungalow is tucked away in a lush garden of tropical plants. Unreal palm trees sway in the breeze, as lilac and snowy orchids drip from earthen pots perched in the trees. An inviting pool takes centerstage, surrounded by a stone fountain of stacked frogs spouting water. Delicate cloth parasols, looking vaguely like something out of New Orleans, are pitched every which way throughout the property. Small altars, lined with banana-leaf cups offering incense and grains, are everywhere. (Much like Bhutan, religion plays a huge part in the life of the Balinese; in this case their own brand of Hinduism. When Balinese aren’t at work they are usually participating in some sort of ceremony.) The soundtrack to this whole affair are tiny, tuneful birds, the likes of which I’ve never laid eyes on in my entire life.

We are sleeping 10 hours a night under our gauzy mosquito netting, napping during the days by the glassy pool, and are finally beginning to feel human again. Each morning we are treated to breakfast under an open thatched-roof building. Airy ocean breezes float through as we dine on typical Indonesian far: mie goreng, fried noodles with minced chicken and vegetables. Plates of artistically carved tropical fruits. Fresh-squeezed juices in every flavor imaginable, including watermelon, papaya, pineapple, banana. (I even enjoyed honeydew melon juice at dinner one night!)

The price to stay at this fabulous resort? Sixty-five US dollars a night which, while a splurge on our backpackers’ budget, would score me a night in the Hotel 6 back home.

To top it off, I was able to meet up with my old-time pal from high school, Amanda, who will be traveling with us through Bali for the next week. We reconnected a few years ago through MySpace (still the best replacement for actually attending your high school reunion), and she currently makes her home in Singapore, so it was a snap for her to meet up with us. We have been able to catch up on Auburn High School gossip, reminisce about our years in Drama Club, and bemoan Mrs. Billings’ chemistry class. Amanda also lived in India for a year and is able to commiserate with us about our recent experiences there. She reminded us of the country’s slogan for their new ad campaign, “Incredible India.” (“It’s ‘incredible’ alright,” we laughed.) And, it’s always nice to have a third party to break up the constant string of “Maikael and Me” time.

For the first leg of our time in Bali we are staying in Seminyak, the supposedly flashy part of the island, but even then there is still an island charm. True, the beach is packed with bronzed bodies, umbrellas for rent, and women and men hocking everything imaginable, from bracelets to foot massages. I watched one woman balance a giant tub of fruits on her head, slicing fresh pineapple on her haunches for willing customers. But there are no high-rise mega resorts, and men still skit around on scooters as they munch on satay from smoky roadside stands. The Balinese are famous for their genuinely friendly and laid-back attitude, and even in this highly touristed area, which usually brings out the worst in people, we are constantly greeted by smiling faces and a barrage of “hellos” as we amble down the poky avenue.

I can safely say this is the closest I’ve ever been to paradise.