Slam, Puke, Strip

Putting police-enforced silence and the demonic effigies out of our minds for the time being, Michelle and I set out to explore Ubud. The best way I can describe this little city is a mixture of tropical island culture and the Northern California spa scene with a twist of East Village glamour. And by scene, I mean scene.

Michelle was instantly annoyed by the conversations we couldn’t help but overhear as we made our way around town….about “spiritual path exploration” and “feeding the light within.” For those of you who have been to Café Gratitude in SF, just imagine what their staff members would have to say about life in an island paradise. (Other than “I am…tan.”)

Now imagine it’s crazy hot out and you’re in a long smoothie line behind said people and you’re trrrrrrrying to talk about Michelle’s impromptu NYC photo shoot starring herself as Mary in a real manger scene. Meanwhile dozens of 20- and 30-something X-pats wearing fitted Michael Franti T-shirts are trading REALLY LOUD updates on their inner work/trust funds.

OK, maybe we were just overheating and unfairly losing our patience, but Michelle was annoyed, and I felt it was my duty to help her. She was headed for a melt down.

Background: On the plane ride over, we had talked about how our trip to Bali was not going to be like the experience that Elizabeth Gilbert wrote about in Eat, Pray, Love. Nope--too boring. Not that I wasn’t dying to meet with Wayan (the Ubud medicine woman with an uncanny knack for developing flawless herbal remedies), but we were going to approach our introspection and various healing procedures with some flare.

I thought that now might be the time to figure out what that meant. After some discussion regarding possible titles for our Indonesian adventure, we settled on Slam, Puke, Strip*. Suddenly, Michelle felt a lot better.

*We thought this title would be likely to draw in our target audience, the charmingly irreverent, fun people...once we found them.

Wait, What Demons?

Our hotel choice in Ubud felt like a big decision. It was important to set ourselves up somewhere we liked—not only because we’d be there for a while, but also because we’d be trapped INSIDE this particular hotel for a complete 24-hour period. Yep! This year, the Balinese New year, called Nyepi, fell on March 26th which meant that we would have to spend that day in sequestered silence.

It was interesting to see the way different tourists handled this situation. We met one couple from Sydney who were completely panicked about finding a nice hotel room with a DVD player. They couldn’t imagine entertaining themselves quite that long and had purchased at least 15 pirated movies in Kuta to get them through the holiday. Clearly, they were underestimating the entertainment value of a group of trapped, bored tourists with access to alcohol…and a shared swimming pool. Or so we hoped.

Trying not to get caught up in the hysteria that seemed to be taking hold of our fellow tourists, we settled on a cute little place near The Monkey Forest. It didn’t have DVD players, but it did have a really pretty garden. With Lilly pads!

Anyway, we had bigger fish to fry, like the papier-mâché demonic effigies (called ogoh-ogohs) that, according to the accounts we read, would soon be paraded through our village accompanied by “a cacophony of gongs and cymbals.” The ogoh-ogohs would be set on fire so that the combination of noise, music and flames would “chase away the demons for another year.”

Holy shit.

Earnin' Our Street Cred

Known as a tropical sanctuary for those committed to healthy living and “spiritual enlightenment,” the town of Ubud was the next stop on our tour de Bali (click on the above map to see where we were). Rather than hire a driver (which is pretty much how visitors get around the island), we thought we’d save our hard-earned Rupiah for eco/organic/vegan/cruelty-free/fair trade cocktails at our destination and try out the public transpo.

Right after Michelle shipped home the wool sweaters and ski jacket I forced her to bring (ok, fine, I know), we hopped a Northbound Bemo. Note: That’s what the kids call “getting on an overcrowded public van that’s only $5 but sweltering hot where people are smushed against you and you’re scared you might get some kind of sweat-transmitted skin infection from them.”

Over the next few hours, we tried hard not to contract MRSA while looking out the window. As we headed away from Bali’s Jersey Shore (Kuta and Legion really reminded me of the Wildwood boardwalk) to the land of enlightenment, the scenery gradually changed from rugged Aussies carrying surfboards on their shoulders to sleek Europeans carrying yoga mats in designer hemp bags.

We pulled into the station, peeled ourselves off our van mates, and set off to find a hotel. Our street cred having increased exponentially, Michelle and I were ready to take on the Yogis.

Mythical Chariots Meet SPF 40

On the plane ride over, we decided to stay somewhere “sort of nice” on our first night. That way, we’d have hot water and a place to regroup before setting off on our counterclockwise travel course through Bali.

It turned out that, for $25 each, we could stay one of Legion’s (pronounced “leg-ee-an”) fanciest hotels! And by fancy, I mean that the floors were marble, our personal veranda overlooked a spectacular garden and the hotel swimming pool cozied up to a 50-foot by 20-foot statue of a mythical chariot (see above pic, noting size of swimmers). Oh, and there were life-sized cement horses scattered around, casually.

Our few days in the South of Bali (known as the Kuta area) treated us well. While we were planning out our trip and adjusting to the heat and the time change, we palled around with a very sweet Australian, named Xavier, who was on holiday with a crew of 12 in celebration of his mother’s 60th birthday. Between his ongoing obligatory family dinners, each complete with Indonesian birthday cake, he was eager to meet some friends with whom he could take off and explore the island. Enter the two American girls. And their eye masks. Little did he know what he was getting himself into.

Xavier? If you read this you can speak for yourself, but you LOVED us, right? Sorry about dragging you through the 95 degree night, on foot, for hours, along that sketchy road, to find the Legion Night Market...that no one had heard of. But that fish dinner was worth it, no? :) Hopefully, we made up for it with the golden chariot.

So Long, Smartwools

Michelle and I made it through SFO security (despite our leaking quart of take-out from Osha Thai that somehow sailed through the baggage screening machine)...and settled into our bargain seats on China Airlines. As we fished through our carry-on bags for our eye masks, we marveled at the flight attendants who, without question, could have easily landed higher paying jobs as fashion models.

For the next 13 hours, we drifted in and out of consciousness, awakening to find a curious selection of movies on the big shared screen in the main cabin. First, my fellow SFO to TPE passengers and I watched a strangely unsettling dance musical that I can only describe as Vaudeville meets the circus meets Fred Rogers. Immediately following this were a few episodes of “Living Lohan.” Assuming China Air knows how to play to their target audience, I was intrigued to know who else was on this flight.

Our layover in Taiwan was mostly uneventful, although the Hello Kitty airport temple managed to keep our interest for as long as it took us to consume our bubble tea. Everything from key chains to dish sets to jungle gym equipment to actual furniture--all in the Hello Kitty vein--was nothing short of...very pink.

Our next 5 hours in the air went quickly. Just as we polished off our quart of green curry (now likely radioactive), we found ourselves in the Indonesian customs queue. “Drugs are illegal in Indonesia. Carrying them into the country may result in Death Penalty” read a foreboding sign. “Xanax doesn’t count,” I assured myself.

After a quick stop at the Despansar airport ATM, we hopped in a taxi, our wallets full of cheerfully colored Rupiah (see above). The air blowing in the window was oppressively hot and humid, a welcome change from San Francisco. In the back seat of the taxi I switched my sneakers and Smartwool socks for a pair of strappy sandals. We had arrived.

Out Came the Headlamps

With a few solid weeks of regrouping under my belt and enough knowledge about inner-city Baltimore to last a lifetime, I felt ready to take on a new endeavor. It was time for a trip.

For the last two years my friend Molly had been begging for her buddies to come visit her in Shanghai, but I just couldn’t bring myself to brave the cold and deal with the kind of rain that hits Northern China in March. Not on a vacation, anyway. Visions of me shivering while struggling with a wet, deactivated subway ticket were more than I could handle...even with my superlative blood pressure. Sorry, Mollz—I’ll make it up to you (here in SF).

For lots of reasons that would require an entirely separate blog to adequately explain (trust me), Bali won out as the destination of choice and my friend Michelle earned the coveted position of Travel Partner, 2009. After living for 15 months in a dysfunctional group house on Fell St. back in 2003, we knew we could handle 3 weeks together in Indonesia. Hell, after that, err, experience, we could handle 3 weeks in an alternate dimension...where there's no sun.

Ten days later, she boarded a plane from NYC to meet me in San Francisco. Kind of like a scene from an 80s movie where the endearing protagonist is forced to change her look in order to overcome some challenge (a transformation that usually takes the form of a montage set to an inspirational song perhaps by Cindi Lauper), I stripped Michelle of all things fancy and literally rolled up her sleeves. Off came her diamond necklace, away went the fabulous leather hand bag, on went a sports bra and out came the headlamps.

In the final scene of our montage, Michelle effortlessly slugged a pack onto her back, casually tossed her blackberry on my dresser with a shrug and flagged us a taxi to the airport.

Dear Blog

Dear Blog,

I still love you--I swear. I’ve had a whirlwind of a time as of late and, before I knew it, 6 months had passed. Are you mad?

Let me do my best to catch you up:

I had a tourist-themed birthday where all my pals dressed up like SF tourists and rode around on double decker sightseeing buses all day (see above pic). From fanny packs to Hawaiian print visors to an abusive consumption of our local Anchor Steam offering, it was everything you’d dream for a Friscotastic experience.

I went to a Roseanne Rosanna Danna wedding reception on Halloween (title: The Night of 1,000 Roseanna Rosanna Dannas!). The way it worked was that guests dressed in a Halloween costume that (kind of) rhymed with “Danna” and then added a big black wig to their costume to create a hybrid of awesomeness between their character and that of Roseanne Rosanna Danna from SNL (Gilda Radner).

For example: “Peter Panna Roseanne Rosanna Danna” “Daryl Hannah Roseanne Rosanna Danna” and “Joe Montanna Roseanne Rosanna Danna.” I could go on (and on) about the resulting magnificence, but I’ll let your mind run wild. Needless to say, the boys who had gotten married that day are pretty much my new heroes (if they weren’t already).

I learned how to Double Dutch!

Heather D. got engaged! This is exciting for many reasons, not least of which is getting to write and deliver the bachelorette roast speech that I have been planning for since the Great Mystery-Puke Caper of 1992. And that’s all I’ll say.

I visited Heb, James and the baby again in the O.C. Good God, this child is prescious, although his taste in music remains questionable as the ONLY song that keeps the little guy calm while confined to his car seat is Bing Crosby's "Chesnuts Roasting on an Open Fire." It's true. I learned this one morning while we were all driving to LA to have brunch at Heb's brother's new restaurant and she played the song a few times in a row. At first I thought she and James were just playin' things safe to avoid any remote chance of a mid-highway meltdown but learned not to doubt them the second the next song came on (by mistake) and screaming immediately ensued. So guess what we listened to the entire 1-hour drive...on repeat? Yep. "And sooooo I'm offering this simple phrase:" do not question sleep deprived parents.

My company closed down. Well, not MY company, but the one I had been working at for the past 2 years. True story: we came into the office one Thursday and were told to huddle up in the conference room. The unfortunate news of mass demise was delivered, orange juice and vodka were set up in the kitchen (in lieu of severance) and packing boxes were made available to facilitate an organized group exit. Next thing I knew, my coworker Ashley and I were drinking gin fizzes at Citizen Cake at high noon, earnestly calculating whether or not our EDD checks would cover biweekly pedicures. Post script: Um, they don’t.

Note: one thing that's kind of funny about this situation is that, not 2 months prior, we had a Depression Era themed holiday party where we gambled for "buttamilk." Hubris? I think...yes.

I became a de facto expert on city of Balt’mo. My new unemployed status afforded me ample opportunity to watch all five seasons of The Wire. Back to back. With great attention to detail…often involving in-depth wikipedia study and cross reference following a particularly rich episode. So if you have any questions about my peeps (you know, Omar, Brother Mouzone, Snoop, Bodie), hit me up with a clock face SMS and I’ll know just where to meet you.

I learned I have the same blood pressure as Lance Armstrong. Which is apparently so low that it's noteworthy. Not sure what to make of this other than I’m pretty much poised for athletic domination, hopefully in the double dutch arena.

And there you have it.

xoxoxo.

ps. You still mad?