Bali, Hi

December 23, 2013

Right now, I’m sitting under a huge canopy without walls that shelters the living area and kitchenette of Villa 3 at the Kunja Villas and Spa resort in Seminyak, Bali.

We started the day easy and then went for a walk in the neighborhood of the hotel after we checked out. The hotel kept our bags and lent us an umbrella.

One of the distinguishing features of Chinatown in Singapore is the shophouse. They’re low to the ground and line many of the streets. They have been refurbished and gentrified, but still have some character.

They are mostly two or three stories. The first floor is commercial space, the “shop” part. I guess traditionally the merchant’s family would live on the second and third floors.  Probably extended families.

The walls are tropical colors—maybe coral, tan, white, blue—with elaborate window frames and shutters usually in a darker color. They are fronted with colonnades to protect passersby from the sun or the rain.

We have enjoyed both kinds of weather in Singapore.

We went back to Gyoza King because Joanna wanted more of the fried tofu. This was probably one or so in the afternoon, but we had only eaten a yogurt drink so far, so it was breakfast for us. We ordered scrambled eggs with chives, besides the tofu. Both dishes were very tasty, but being Japanese, the flavors were exotic for us.

Breakfast or no, I had a Sapporo. I am coming off a three-week bout with my gout. I was dragging into the office on a cane and getting home around seven, so tired that I just went straight to bed several nights a week. Some days I didn’t make it into New York and worked from home instead.

That seriously cut into my drinking time. Larry told me he read a news brief in the Times about my enforced temperance. I understand that the stock prices of several breweries and wine merchants actually fell during the last Wall Street rally.

They say we should drink responsibly, and I agree. I am not back to capacity even now, but I am doing my best to help this sector of the economy prosper. Now, if that isn’t responsibility, what is?

We got a cab to the airport, arrived a little after three for a 5:30 flight. We went to the wrong desk. Even though the sign said KLM, the lady said she was with Jetstar and KLM was around the corner.

No problem.

We went to passport control. Joanna had lost the piece of paper she was supposed to hand in when she leaves the country. That, too, presented little trouble. She went to the immigration desk to be cleared. I was wondering if maybe this counted as really being deported from a country.

It was a long hike to a bar, but we found one tucked in a corner of the terminal. Harry’s bar. No kidding. I have spent so much on alcohol that they named a bar for me in Singapore. There are Harry’s bars in other cities, too, but I didn’t know my questionable influence had spread this far. I had a house brand lager. Not much flavor, but it had a nice bite from the carbonation.

I told Joanna it was light—meaning in flavor. An Australian next to me assured me that it was indeed 5 percent alcohol by volume.

We got chatting back and forth about forgettable stuff, and then he remarked on my accent. I found out later that he is from Brisbane. He pegged me very well as coming from “somewhere east of Ohio.” My accent is from the southern Delaware Valley, and is common in southern New Jersey and up the Pennsylvania bank.

When we arrived in Bali, we were to be met by a man holding a sign with Joanna’s name on it. Before we got to immigration, we saw men holding signs, but none with Joanna’s name on it.

We must have looked suitably puzzled. We didn’t want to miss the guy if he was in this part of the airport, but also weren’t sure if this is was the right place. Like sharks, guys wearing ID tags came up to offer help.

We gave up on our guy with the sign and headed for the “Visa on Arrival” line. One of the guys with an ID had attached himself to me by that time. “Who are you and what is your role?”

He offers to buy the visa for us so we don’t have to stand in the line. All we have to do is give him our passports. That’s easy. I am to hand my passport and Joanna’s to a stranger in an airport in outheast Asia.

No, no, no.

 I think the line took us all of five minutes.

We went straight through immigration next. The wait was a little longer here than for the visa, but nothing like the lines in Newark.

The customs form asked if I had anything sharp. Just in case somebody saw it on an x-ray, I declared my pocket knife, which was in my checked luggage. That apparently was not considered contraband, so I was admitted to the country.

When we got out to the meeting point in the terminal, there were guys everywhere holding signs, so we walked up and down reading them all. That’s how we found Frad from Kunja Villas, who drove us to the hotel.

The whole building is very open. We walked through a door. It was dark, and I expected to step into a foyer. Instead, it was a courtyard. If you’re as careless as I am, you can damn near step into the pool going in.

There is an apartment, more Western-conventional and air-conditioned, behind a second locked door. The bathroom floor consists of large slate slabs interspersed with loose river stone. There is no wall or window by the tub, just an open space covered by a bamboo curtain. You don’t need a lot of walls here, I guess. Just a roof. Also mosquito netting. Very nice.

I think Joanna’s son Gregory owns the place. For all I know, he owns the whole resort. I’m not asking. It’s too strange.

When we got here, the first thing Frad did after lugging in our bags was to serve us cool moist towels and beautiful tea containing cinnamon and a stick of lemongrass.

We had a problem with the bathroom plumbing. A man showed up to fix it this morning. I asked him to have a seat while I made sure Joanna would know he was on his way.

The man thought I was directing him to climb through that open wall instead of going through the door. I felt so bad. What’s worse, the language barrier prevented me from explaining or even apologizing.

We ordered the continental breakfast. It isn’t delivered to the door on a tray. A man brings a picnic basket. He makes the toast and brews the coffee, and then serves us.

Could I get used to this? I don’t think so. But it’s gong to be an interesting few days.

More later.