The thing with tequila is, deciding that it’s the proper course of action is always preceded by consuming copious amounts of other, less rambunctious spirits. And the other thing with tequila is, it’s never, actually, the proper course of action. But leave it to 18-year-old guys from California to convince you otherwise.
Thus, I find myself at Anomali with the biggest and most delicious iced coffee that they’ve probably ever served, feeling like a criminal in a town full of temple bodies. And actual temples.
This story really begins with clean eating. And “detoxifying.” A loosely laid plan that was swiftly abandoned at the utterance of “balcony with pillows.” Or maybe it was “wine.” It was Sunday, after all. And I reasoned that the most enlightened humans in history surely reached that state under the watch of some Bacchus variant. No?
“Yoga shmoga,” Tara said, as we received our first round of happy hour cocktails–mine a “Mingle,” the cafe’s namesake, hers a Gin Fizz.
By the time we met Tully, Koby, and Greg, we’d had no dinner and several more rounds. A number of drinks sufficient to draw out my Aussie accent. You know how when most people drink, their native accents become stronger? Well, when I drink, I start dropping Oi-bombs and reckoning all sorts of things. I swear that this is completely subconscious, which, in my opinion, is further proof that I belong on that side of the world. But I digress…
I woke up in my sanctuary of a bedroom with a hazy recollection of swaying homeward, a renewed distaste for Snapchat’s useless message log, and the empirical knowledge that food was a necessary evil.
I rolled over the edge of my bed, staggered downstairs, and lurked for about five minutes before facing the fact that I was not getting breakfast today. Moments after I ordered a delivery of health food (duh), my hostess appeared with a tray of fresh fruit and some miraculous ginger tea brew.
“I think it’s Chai-ish,” I told Tara. “But it tastes like it’s healing me from the inside. /Heavenly.”
I ate both of my breakfasts and proceeded to watch three back-to-back episodes of Suits.
The guy who let me this room, Wayan, appeared in my window no fewer than three times yesterday morning as I was trying to get dressed. Always announcing himself with a cheerful “Keh-see.” Upwardly intoned “Keh,” downswinging “see.” This makes it impossible to be perturbed by anything he does, even repeatedly interrupting the daily ritual that is clothing myself. This morning, he showed up with an impressionable, young child in tow. I tried to say hello, but I think my tarnished aura freaked him out. That, or, the mojito aroma emanating from my pores.
I really feel like people in Bali know things. Before I got here, I thought all of that baloney about this place being magical was just that, but now, I get it. And on top of that, it’s like things don’t really make sense here. But it’s okay. Small-statured men in skirts never looked so good. Cigarettes never smelled so good. Chocolate never tasted so bad. Birds pooing on you was never less infuriating. It’s all just part of something bigger. But there’s no need to fixate on what, exactly, that is. Just absorb. And enjoy. It’s Bali.