Despite all my principled stands about participating in local food culture, I've had enough. And lunch, when I wake, is the following American institution:
There goes my gastronomic integrity, feeble as it already is.
It is a'ight. Crust is same, but the sauce and toppings are not quite as flavorful. The drink, a mixture of lychee, orange juice, and soda water, however, is a delight.
And dessert?
I'm notified that "no photos" are allowed in Mickey D's, but manage to take this blurry shot of a heinous "Salsa Gourmet Wrap," which goes to show, there's no accounting for taste:
The day, at this point, is oppressively hot, so I go seeking internet while the boys change some money. Then, nap time in our room until we're interrupted by a mid-day snack: fried dumplings with indeterminate meat and vegetable filling.
We decide to make the most of our time in this far-flung land by going to see G.I. Joe at the local cineplex. This is my first movie in a foreign country, and thus, is actually relatively exciting. There is assigned seating and massive, feels-like-first-class seats, and I wonder why we don't do thangs this way in the States. There are no previews, and, per usual, I laugh at inopportune moments.
Fun times.
Dinner's at the Via Via Cafe, where I consume something dubiously identified as "Indonesian fish," and a Diet Coke.
Noordin Top, the terrorist who masterminded the Marriot and Ritz-Carlton bombings this past July, has allegedly been killed in a raid somewhere in central Java, where we are, today. This is later proved false.
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