Home Again, Home Again...

Our last days in Bali were good ones. After leaving central Java, we landed at a guesthouse late in the evening in a tourist enclave called Legion, near the Denpasar airport. The recent and tragic events in Japan forced us to cancel our final week of travel in Tokyo. Hence, we settled for a Japanese meal on our first night back in Bali. Once seated on the floor at a long and low wooden table we went a little wild. As we looked at the menu we smiled at each other, ordered some beer and decided to splurge. The fresh oysters were delicious and the beer tasted mighty fine! Considering all that we ate, one might think we had previously been stranded on a desert island or had been castaways at sea for some time without access to food or water. Admittedly, Jogjakarta was not the gourmet capital of the world. A couple of nights toward the end of our stay, I decided that given the choice of eating cold oily fried food and overly sweetened dishes that lacked character, going a little hungry was just fine by me. I know, hard to imagine, but true.

On the last day in Legion, check out time was 12noon. Once again, we packed and stored our luggage. The first leg of our flight out was a seven hour red-eye to Seoul, scheduled to depart at 1:30AM. With time to kill, we easily infiltrated a nearby beachfront hotel with two swimming pools that we had sussed out the previous day. We made ourselves comfortable and spent a long afternoon swimming and sunbathing.

Next, we received our final spa treatment. Two cute, young Balinese girls who could have used a little more training and some deodorant gave us our treatments. It was a cool place to hang out for 3 hours. We were lightly rubbed, scrubbed and had our faces lathered with about ten different kinds of cream. Then we shared a scented flower bath, rinsed off and changed clothes. All fresh and clean, we headed off for another Japanese meal which was even better than the previous night's splurge. We saw the coolest Jazz band in Indonesia whose members flawlessly played difficult compositions by John Coltrane, Miles Davis and George Benson. They were smoking hot! At about 11PM we retrieved our bags and headed off to the airport.

Now it's decompression time. It was a long haul back to this side of the world--twenty plus hours on two different Korean Air flights. When we finally landed, we were met at O'Hare by our lovely niece Courtney. She graciously offered to give us airport transport to Amtrak's Union station in downtown Chicago. We stopped by Greektown for a tasty lunch, made a quick stop at Whole Foods, were dropped at the station and soon after boarded the southbound train.

About 3 hours later and a long nap on the train, our cab pulled into our drive. As I looked at the house, I felt happy. I thought...that's my house...that's my yard...those are my flowers. The blooming blue bells waited for my return, the sun was shining and the air was warm. Spring is a wonderful time to come home.

I believe Dorothy's character from the "Wizard of Oz" said it best,
"There is no place like home."

Sightseeing Anyone?

Well, I never thought I would say this but I do believe my wanderlust has been satiated. Our breakfast conversation went something like this, "Well what should we do today, more sightseeing? Take in that highly recommended Hindu temple -- it's only 12 kilometers away. Partake in an evening of traditional Javanese dance with Gamelan music, see a shadow puppet show? We could visit the local mall (the fancy one) for some souvenirs -- they probably have a food court."

My smart alecky response was, "The only sight I want to see right now is O'Hare International Airport."

Surely, once I am home, I will remember the delights of traveling. I will have more appreciation for the different cultures I have experienced. Somehow I will be enriched by the struggles, the inconveniences and the unknown circumstances encountered.

However, right now I'm tired; tired of the tourist price -- even if it is a pittance to our norm, relatively speaking. I'm tired of the repetitive and familiar line of questions: “What country you from? First time here in...(Fill in the blank)? How long you stay? Tomorrow you have program?”

Later on, we venture out to do a little shopping. On our first day out in Jogja, central Java, the plot thickens. Since I have lost all love for the endless haggling on prices, we decide to visit a shop where all the shop items are marked--no bargaining. That day I was in one of my moods -- it's hot, humid and I'm worn down -- I’m finding it difficult to put on a happy face and doing my best to avoid all unsolicited conversation. Inevitably a local strikes up a conversation with Paul which I conveniently try to ignore. In retrospect, I'm not even sure he worked in the store where we were shopping. Once the local discovers that Paul is an "artist," the game is on. He chats up “Mr. Paul” for some time, gathering information as I browse the contents of the store without finding anything I really fancy. We mill about for awhile. I choose a wooden cane for Mom with some flowers carved into it and Paul finds a shirt. We pay for the items and the Javanese man reappears. He smiles, extends his hand. Hello… Mrs. Paul?

The conversation goes something like this. I have friend, an artist. Today last day of group show, tomorrow leaving for Sumatra, benefit for Mount Merapi victims. Come, have look. I take you there. Hmm... I think, aren't all the victims of the recent volcanic eruption dead?

As we exit the store, Paul is led away by yet another tout on a mission. Reluctantly, I follow along. We’re off, on our wild goose chase. Paul, constantly curious, always willing to play the game, is always perceived as a rich Japanese tourist. “Oh, you from America.” Even better or at least just as moneyed, I imagine they surmise. I think, Here we go again even though I have vowed to never be led down this road that I have walked so many times before. The tout leads the way down a hidden pedestrian alley. The route is just off a main street in a prime shopping area called Malioboro (sounds and looks like Marlboro). The way was interesting and off-the-beaten-path. Nevertheless, for some reason, I felt like a chump, expected the worse and prepared to be taken advantage of once again. But to be fair, this was my experience. Paul was delighted, always up for some entertainment, eager to meet the locals and interested in the art-making process.

When we reached the store the tout left us and we were greeted by two of the artists. Again, the familiar meet and greet questioning began. Once the introductions were complete, the process of batik was explained verbally and with a visual guide. Tea was served. My mood began to soften. We were invited to look through the stacks of framed work which admittedly were well done. Paul went first as I sat drinking my tea. The two men attentively gauged our interests and pulled out the batiks that our eyes hesitated upon, even if for a brief moment. Paul had his picks. I had mine. Both Paul and I liked the work of one artist whose work portrayed two women dancing in a very fluid and colorful way. A lot of reds and oranges were used as were unique and decorative details. It was very expressive. They were the dancers. The next piece was similar with the same two female figures, but with less color and these women carried baskets of fish on top of their heads. We were told this one had less hope and hence less color because of the hardships the women endured. I also chose a more traditional scene of a landscape where individuals worked in a rice paddy. We were told it was created by a female artist. We listened to the artist’s stories and interpretations behind the work. In the end, after some gentle price negotiating, we came away with two beautiful batiks and $200 less in our bank account.

Maybe our smooth-talking and very convincing salesperson was the artist. Maybe he told the truth about 75 percent of the proceeds benefiting people hurt by the Mount Merapi eruption. Maybe this was the last day to buy before the show left for Sumatra. Maybe he was married to a Canadian for six years and decided to part as friends because of the huge cultural disparities and maybe he had a son living in Vancouver, BC. And, maybe not. We will probably never know.

Goodbye Beautiful Bali...

Thank you for all you have given. See you next time.

Today we leave for Yogyakarta (Jogya) in central Java--four hours to Denpasar by car, followed by a one hour flight, next another car for the remaining 25 kilometers--time depending on the condition of the road. Our destination: Borobudur, an ancient Buddhist stupa and temple complex and a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Or rather, just a pile of rocks, according to Danny, as we chatted online while I was still in Tamil Nadu in rural India. After we ended our chat and I signed off, I looked at the link he had just sent with his invitation to meet in Java and all the images of Borobudur. I thought, OMG! That Danny and his sense of humor. The images of the site were fantastic!

Danny Kristiyanto, is the young Indonesian Fulbright scholar who lived in the United States for one year to study Information Technology at Parkland College in Champaign, IL. During his first semester, Danny lived with Paul and I at 504. He was the most gracious house guest I have ever known.

I will always remember the first time I saw him on that hot and humid August afternoon, wearing flip flops, a white tank top and white shorts that extremely contrasted his smooth dark skin. There he sat at our dining room table reading a magazine looking as cool as a cucumber. As I walked in, he greeted me with the warmest smile and just radiated happiness and a sincerity that is rare among young men of his age. I immediately liked him. During the coming months, Danny and I shared long talks over cups of Earl Grey at the kitchen counter. We talked about our families, school, the differences between Western and Eastern culture, foreign languages. I was learning Spanish at the time. He taught me a little Bahasa Indonesian. Later, we talked about the cold frigid weather and how to dress for it, how to deal with the seemingly endless and dark days of winter and being cooped up inside and the magic he felt upon seeing his first snowflakes. All this happened of course, when he wasn't running late to catch an MTD bus, or at Parkland in one of the computer labs, studying, or at one of the endless international student meetings he was required to attend, or doing homework for his 21-hour course load. Did I mention he was driven? I've not come across many young students with the wherewithal to take on a 21-hour course load? Needless to say, it will be good to see my friend again.

Paul and I will spend two nights inside the park before moving south to Jogja. After our first mornings guided tour that begins at 5am to see the sunrise, we will be introduced by a hired guide to the grounds and some of its history. At around noon we will meet Danny and one or two of his chums for lunch.

Also, did I mention that Mount Merapi, the most active volcano in Indonesia is close by? It erupted from October to December just last year. But hey, what are the chances of it happening again so soon, right?

More on that to come...