Indonesia: Bali (Day 4, Thursday, 073009)

I wake up with the bed to myself, as E's off getting his swerve on. This is fortunate, because I feel like shit. It's about 3 a.m., having gone to bed at an unearthly early hour, and the room's spinning despite the fact that my eyes are closed.

Finally, I've had enough, totter to the bathroom, and projectile vomit clear liquid from my stomach, a fact that I communicate to my boss in an email later that morning, along with the famous last words "never drinking again." I largely keep to this vow, except for a sip to taste once or twice, and half a large bottle of Bintang, the most widely sold Indonesian beer (and a subsidiary of Heineken), some days later in an attempt to be convivial at a beachfront dinner.

An hour later, the roosters outside start crowing. Partly because I am still drunk (My notepad reads: "I may still be drunk at this time."), partly because I am a city-girl by upbringing, I'm having a hard time distinguishing between rooster crows and dog howls. It's such an alien sound, half gurgle and half squawk.

I fall back asleep, finally, the regurgitation having done its job, and then 8 a.m. pulls me back up again, to look for an internet cafe and a beverage for my Advil, with which I have a tender moment just prior to leaving the room, shaking the bottle and murmuring, "soon we shall become one, my darlings."

Walking through the small alleys to the main road, I pass an older woman balancing on her head an offering of incense and food in a flat-bottomed basket. I think about asking her to take a photo, but dismiss the thought as presumptuous and...culturally appropriating. Then regret not asking.

Traffic is debilitating; ditto the ubiquitous dogs, particularly the ones who sense my fear of unloved animals. There are no stop signs, no traffic lights, no crosswalks, and it takes ages to cross the road. And it is, however you want to look at it, a shopaholic's dream/nightmare. The entire strip is simply store after store of clothing, sinks embellished with mother of pearl, woven furniture, surfboards.

Already I sense my resolve wavering, particularly with regards to a white, off the shoulder, v-neck Audrey Hepburnian sheath, which is in stark contrast with the email conversation I continue with Kim about the paradox of "too much choice" and its connection with consumerism.

There's an open-front "corner store," really more of a counter, selling beverages, and I cross (after many abortive attempts) the street and purchase a Nu (with an umlaut) Honey Green Tea for 5,000 RP (50 cents).

Meandering onwards, I find an internet cafe, where I spend half an hour and 60 cents.

The walk back is a pleasure, punctuated by the honking of horns, not the aggressive blasts of angry American drivers, but friendly I'm-behind-you-or-right-next-to-you-don't-make-sudden-move beeps.

I'm grinning like Miss America, partially because I feel my hangover leaving me, but mostly because this seems to be the Indonesia I came to see, the old woman earlier, everyone beaming, offering their hellos, the two men sitting at the bus stop greeting me and asking me how I am. Normally, I'm a suspicious lady, but I'm led to believe that folks are just genuinely friendly here, that there aren't ulterior motives.

I watch a man step out his storefront and place an offering at an alter, wafting the smoke towards the pinnacle, glimpse the palm-leaf trays everywhere, the sidewalks, tucked into nooks, on structures the size of grown men. They consist primarily of rice and flowers, but I notice one on the sidewalk with two goldfish crackers balanced on top. This seems to me...sweetly anachronistic. The reach and regularity of this ritual is like balm to the soul, even my heathen, non-existent one.