Indonesia: Ubud (Day 7 Cont'd, Sunday, 080209)

More shopping (unsuccessful on my part), and then a two hour spa treatment--massage, body rub, flower bath (sounds more exotic than it actually was)--for less than 30 bucks at the Wibawa Spa.

The whole shebang is named the "Royal Lulur" and described as a 17th century Javanese royal treatment. Right.

What it is though is a massage with essential oils, then an exfoliating rub of turmeric and jasmine, finished with a coating of--brrr--yogurt. It is just straight up dairy product, and for the first time in several hours, the sharp smell of yogurt whets my appetite. This is significant because I am never a) not hungry or b) not ready to eat, hungry or no, and my lack of appetite has been bothering me inordinately.

It's okay. Nothing to write home about--in a blog, yes--but not home. Much of the essential pleasure of a massage having been dimmed by the single gamelan song played ad nauseum. Every time the closing bars would sound, my body'd clench in trepidation of the song beginning again.

Finally, I'm told to wash off in an outdoor tub filled with multi-colored petals of bougainvillea--fuschia and coral and white. I soak for a few nervous minutes, as I'm unsure as to whether I was supposed to take off the paper-cloth panties I'd been told to don earlier, and I'd gotten in the tub with 'em on. And it's funny sitting in a bath with wet paper cupping your ass-cheeks. And 'cause it's quickly getting chilly. And I need to pee.

I feel considerably less guilty about my patronage of this particular hospitality industry outstation, probably because I'm cranky from my newfound distaste for food, and the endless trudging nature that is our stay in Ubud. Or maybe I'm just succumbing to my role as an inevitable financial lord and master...my measly American salary having risen in worth far above its original state in its country of provenance.

Alas, the yogurt-lust is but a red herring. My next meal is an attempt at a gastronomic security blanket: I order a margherita pizza and a soda water. But the pizza turns out to be an insane concoction of garlic, onion, and shallot on a tortilla crust, and despite my reputation as Garbage Disposal of no small renown, I'm only able to choke down a slice or two before pushing the plate over to Eric. FAIL.



This concludes tonight's installment of the third, but no less consequential, element of this blog's eponymous triumvirate: bitching.