Ubud, Days 1-2 (April 2nd-3rd)

Who knows how long I might have stayed in Padang Bai if the Lemon House hadn't been fully booked on what would have been my sixth night there? But since I couldn't begin my dive training for a few days anyway, a trip to Ubud seemed in order. Thinking that I would return within the week, I left half of my things in the Lemon House storage area, and hopped a bus inland.

As we cruised past innumerable temples and rice paddies, it occurred to me that Bali made for a perfect introduction to SEAsia: not too rough, not too gentle. The roads were largely smooth, but the buses so old as still to render one's butt numb by ride's end. Most people speak English, but with accents so thick and so many misused words that confusion still arises often. The landscape is a tangle of lush jungle greenery, but the population is booming and along every major road dirty, congested, litter-filled hamlets bump up against one another, teeming with motorbikes, dogs, rats, and stalls appealing to tourists.

I arrived in quaint but bustling Ubud amid a torrent of motorbike traffic and-- as there are no hostels there-- went directly to the guesthouse Ben had recommended: Agung Trisna. Down a small driveway, behind an unassuming restaurant, lay a small garden paradise. As nearly all of the rooms were vacant, Nyoman, the incredibly friendly and accomodating owner, gave me my pick and I quickly chose the one with this view:


You could have fit most of the dorm rooms I'd slept in inside my bathroom, let alone the room, which had huge French windows that I threw open to let in the sun.

Bag unpacked, I took to the street and was immediately accosted by entreaties from moto drivers and spa technicians, but five days in Asia and I was already deaf to hawkers. I simply shook my head and repeated "No, terima kasih (No, thanks.)" The town positively teemed with noveau riche energy, thanks in no small part to the publicity it had received from "Eat, Pray, Love" or as the locals half-jokingly refer to as "that damn book (or movie)." Yet somehow, it had maintained its charm.


Desperate for a healthy meal and spoilt for choice in this hippie haven, I stopped for a real salad at Juice Ja. And I mean a REAL salad: chicken over cucumber, tomato, lettuce, basil, olives and feta with a carrot, apple, ginger, spirulina juice. Afterward, I checked out the town some more and stopped for a mani/pedi at a lovely little spa called Milano. Proud of myself for remembering to remove my shoes at the door, which is good manners in Asia, I then ruined the first impression by nearly falling out of my chair only moments later. Typical. But the spa was divine. They offered me cookies as they completed both services at once, used top-drawer polish, bathed my feet in water laden with rose petals, and hand-fanned the polish dry. And all for $18. I left feeling odiously indulgent but blissfully relaxed.

I returned to Agung Trisna for a dinner of nasi goreng, and then to my room where I read Emerson and Whitman until my brain got fuzzy and I fell asleep.

The next day I woke to a gentle knock at my door from Nyoman, letting me know that the banana pancakes I had ordered for my breakfast waited on my porch table, along with tea. I threw on a bathing suit, took a quick dip, wrapped my sarong on, and sat down to my breakfast, overlooking the pool.


Afterward I headed to the beautifully bizarre Antonio Blanco Museum, the late expat artist's self-built showcase of his own Bali-centric art and that of his son, sitting beside his villa and studio on his hilltop compound on the edge of town. In this fabulously ostentatious setting, everything was over-the-top, from the stairway railings...


... to the gold statues perched on the roof...


... to the floral garnish in the complimentary lemon tea...


... to the exotic birds kept in the main yard.


Ironically, the only subtle space on the entire complex was the artist's own studio, and, as much as I enjoyed the camp factor of the rest of the complex, I preferred this room to any other there.


I walked back to town and lunched at Lotus Cafe. They served miserly portions, but I had expected as much, since I had chosen the restaurant for the sake of its view of Dalem Temple.


Besides, they had a great mixed juice of banana, papaya, and pineapple, and I had a lovely time talking with two older Irishmen who gave me lots of advice for my travels.

After lunch, I had a somewhat frustrating afternoon. I'd been itching to try a class at the revered Yoga Barn and caught a motorbike ride with Nyoman in an effort to make the next one, only to arrive and find that all of the day's classes had been canceled. But, I thought, at least the studio was next to the supermarket. Of course, this supermarket had none of the toiletries I needed. All I really wanted was a good sunblock, but every one in stock had whitening cream in it, and if there's anything I DON'T need, it's whitening cream. I left the store with nothing but a bag of peanuts and a banana, which were promptly snatched by a simian. I was passing the entrance to the Monkey Forest, but didn't even think about it, since I was a good 200 feet away from it and didn't know that the monkeys simply ran wild inside and around the park. Just as I turned the corner, a monkey came out of nowhere, jumped up, and swiped my snacks out of my hands. I've rarely been so taken aback.


That evening I got chatting with Kevin, the man in the room beside mine, and he invited me to dinner. We ate at Beni, a tiny, locally-priced, open-walled, second-floor restaurant with delightfully obscene artwork drawn by the local owner's son. I had my first gado gado and washed it down with sweet Indonesian rice wine. Kevin, who had run a real estate firm and a zip-lining company in Canada for the past 20 years but who spent most of his time traveling, made for an excellent dinner companion. We returned to the guesthouse for a late-night swim, after which I said goodnight and settled in to a new book: the renowned-for-good-reason "Bleak House."

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Location:Ubud, Bali, Indonesia