Travel buddy Eric's left me a business card scrawled with "I will be here waiting for you!"
So I dip into our room for a looksie, this room that Eric has, via email, assured me is much superior to the one we'd previously reserved.
It's dank and dreary, and sports a depressingly dim light, a fan, a burnt plate cum ashtray, and a slightly frightening looking bathroom.
I change out of my days-old outfit, into a bikini, tank, and shorts, switch the glasses for contacts, don my stunna shades, and make my way out to the main road, where I ask a European-looking man with family in tow whether there's a good place to hail a cab, since it's all single lane roads and it seems to me that one would not want to stop a taxi in the middle of this traffic; surely there's an area for stopping.
Oh, no. Not a problem. He tells me I can get a cab "anywhere," so, disconcerted, I raise my arm and quick as a wink, a taxi (along with all the cars and scooters behind him) rolls to a halt.
I tell the (new and nicer) cabbie to take me to Callego Massage and Warung on Petitenget Beach, Jl. Taman Ganesha/9, Kerobokan Kelod, Kuta.
The card informs me that they offer "Intensife Relaxing" and "Reflexologi," which is good, because I, funnily enough, am looking for some intensife relaxing.
The cabbie's name is Third, per Balinese naming practices, marking an affirmation of info found in both LP and that stupid book by that stupid woman, what is it called? Eat, Pray, Masturbate: One Woman's Inflated Sense of Entitlement Leading to a Book and Inevitably a Movie Starring Diane Lane?
Something like that.
He tells me, and this is more in keeping with the aforementioned cultural norm of openness I'd arrived in Indonesia expecting, that he lives far from his "bang" (which I can only infer means something along the lines of family home/complex), that he used to work in furniture with a Swedish guy, that he thought I was Jakartan until he heard me speak. Right on.
The ride totals 16,300 RP. Less than 2 bucks.
Arrive at Callego (hard "g" sound, not, as I keep attempting to say it, with a Spanish-y "h"), and, as I scan the area for Eric, I realize that Callego is a gay beach.
Of course.
You don't just share a flight with Elton John for no reason.
I bop Eric upside the head as he lies there in all his suntanned glory, and betwixt our gasps and gurgles, he's ordered me a Mai Thai and a massage.
I meet two locals, Ismael and Ryan (a 19 year old stripper, go go dancer, and McDonald's employee), Francois and Carlos, a couple from Sydney, and a random creepy guy who I'm pretty sure is a PLU, and yet has his hands all over me. I submit to his groping because 1) I presume here's merely being friendly and 2) I'm monstrously jetlagged and on my way to drunk.
The Mai Thai's followed by two Bali Sunrises, the last of which I inhale in one long draw, and which prevents me, as Eric recounts, from rising from the beach chair to gaze at my first Bali sunset (this, I do not recall until he reminds me the next day).
The last thing I remember of the evening is strapping on a helmut (Eric's very considerately brought two in anticipation of my arrival), clinging carelessly to Eric as he maneuvers us back to Seminyak, and loopily wondering at the palm-leaf trays of flower blossoms, rice, and incense placed on the roads.
Offerings placed on the ground are for the demons.
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