The right path was obvious, not from the road, but obvious once I turned down it. It had paved cobblestones and a bizarre bazaar courtyard feeling. The kids inside watched me and the woman said I could park my scooter there and continue on foot. Obeying, I emerged from the courtyard into this rice field world at the base of the mountainous jungle on foot. 

Three dogs made their way, stopping and waiting for each other across the raised grass boundaries within the rice. One lone dog, an older puppy from the looks of its soft fur, bounded up and down like a bunny in a patch of long grass and flowers. Dragonflies whirred about. The blue meanies were kicking in. Would dragonflies eat me if I died here? One landed on my shoulder with such force it felt as if it was a large bird. I calmly reached into my bag for a selfie. 

The jungle drew closer as I walked towards it on the narrow path. A house appeared next to two large blue posts that turned out to be a suspension bridge across a river. The house was secured by a fence of living trees and a moat of wet rice paddies. An inordinate amount of papayas ladened a small tree about as tall as me in a large intersection of the rice paddies. A woman came around the house, if you could call it a house. Yes surely it was a house, by all dreams and definitions, with a front yard and a mountain backdrop. The walls were thin planks overlapping each other and so much lichen aged the exterior it appeared light green. The woman seemed cool. Some kids hung around the blue suspension bridge entrance, as kids do. They held some red berries in blue plastic bags. “From the mountain?” I asked. They nodded. “Where do you want to go?” they asked. “To the waterfall,” I said. They nodded, knowingly. I had passed, and walked by them. 

The bridge was made up of the same wooden planks that built the house. There were big gaps and the bridge bounced up and down as I walked, even though I thought of myself as small and nimble. I looked back to see if the kids were bouncing one end as a joke. What is this Western skepticism we have? Where is the trust? Of course they weren’t, they had long since disappeared. I glanced around. The up-the-river, down-the-river views of clear water tumbling over smooth rocks filled all my senses. I breathed in deeply. Straight ahead and above lay the jungle. I dismounted from the bridge and began up the steep path, putting my hands down a couple times since it was slippery. Lichen, they say in Indonesian. What a good word for it. As I left the rice fields and entered the jungle, I put my hands together and bowed my head. The great trees greeted me, taller than I could have imagined. Big tribal eyes were carved into their bark, getting smaller as they went up, up, up. Before, I thought the trees here just looked like that, mystical and significant. Later I learned that people bore the holes for the sap. Someone said it is to make glass, and it looks like glass, seeping out, but I wasn’t sure if they were for real.

The entrance to the jungle is always like that—the urge to keep a hush of respect for the tall trees and the small trees. It’s darker as you enter. You also feel the wetness on your body, instantly. It’s like entering a new room, or rather happening upon a massive hotel banquet hall with the lights off. 

I waved at the two guys sitting in a makeshift wooden outpost and one guy waved back. “Halo," I said. “You speak Indonesian?” he asked. I nodded and he launched into some directions that I did not understand. He signaled to go back down. He started walking toward me and I walked towards him too, as you would a shark or a bear. “It’s that way,” he indicated. I was Western skeptical that he didn’t want me to enter and see something, and I peered over his shoulder into the dark jungle. But he sent the other guy over so I reluctantly followed him back down. He had a large bundle of kindling on his shoulder and wore rubber slippers that looked like Vans slip-ons. He had reached the bottom and I expected him to point me in the right direction once he reached his scooter. Instead, he kept walking, leading me further. Exhausted from the day in the jungle he had just come from, he still tried to walk more steps than he needed to in order to help me, me in my blue dolphin sarong and tank top, eat pray loving my way to a waterfall in Sumatra. I was grateful when he accepted my refusal of him to walk a step further, and I continued on my own. 

The grass rice field borders wound at right angles, and at each intersection I followed the sound of rushing water. At one point, a water wheel stood in the way, implanted in the earth. I turned to go the other way. Sometimes life guides you and shows you which way is wrong. I think I could walk through those rice fields on a new path every day, for the rest of my life. My roommate used to take 48th down from the T streets all the way to turn up Ortega, when we lived in the Outer Sunset. I preferred zigzagging right, left, straight, depending on what the universe threw at me. My ex-boyfriend would do the same in his manual Tacoma, gliding into each four-way intersection without stopping.

Anyways, I reached the waterfall, with a little stream to bathe in at the bottom. It was beautiful. I looked up and wondered what magic world lay at the top. I decided to check and then come back and dip in the little pool. Placing my bag on a flat rock, I started climbing with feet and hands up the strangely square and diamond rock face. As I started, I spotted a boy walking along the stream towards my bag. I stared, mid-cliff face. He stopped a ways down and entered the stream to his knees. I realized he was just pausing for a bathroom break. Western skepticism. I continued up. 

My jaw dropped in glee. I had emerged over the top into the most enchanting, bewitching lagoon I could ever imagine. Apparently I had to leave my phone behind to enter this place. I looked around and realized that I was hidden in this magical spot, raised and inset in some dark stone world before time. I had left my bikini in my bag as well, so I dropped my sarong and pulled off my tank top. I pulled off my plastic flower hair clip, and plunged into the cool water. I kicked across to the rock half-submerged in the cavern. My heart was pounding as I pulled myself up. Could there be crocodiles in here? My friend had just told me a story about a girl in a lagoon who almost got eaten by a crocodile. She had the scars to prove it. I had left without telling anyone that I was headed here today. I didn’t mind the idea of dying up here in this world but I didn’t want to be missing for days. I counted to twenty and didn’t see any sign of a croc. They can’t hold their breath for that long, I presumed. Okay. I dove gingerly back in and swam to the original spot at the entrance. I looked back. Fuck that is beautiful. I started to put my clothes back on. 

My mom had instilled in me an instinct—this feeling that as the sun moves past its zenith that I had to start thinking about going home. She always rushes from place to place, power-walking through the grocery store and across the parking lot. I looked up and sucked in some lagoon air. I had plenty of time, even though the clouds looked like they were building up grey color and moving from the edge of the sky towards the center. I plopped back down on the rock, still naked. I crossed my legs and quickly fell into a meditative mushroomie existence. Meditating was easier high. Or maybe that’s not that point.

I opened my eyes, five minutes or two years later. Fuck the lagoon looked beautiful. There can’t be any crocs in there, I reasoned, and I was warm from sunning myself on the rock, feeling ready to slither back into the cool water. It was a milky aquamarine and I could only see the bottom if I unfocused my eyes, and only then in some parts. Something about freshwater pools, lakes, ponds made me shudder. I edged my way boobs deep to the rock I’d conquered before and craned my neck up towards the falls on the opposite side of the lagoon. I sighed a big breath out. If something happened to me here, it’d be okay. Everyone would get on with their life. My parents’ suffering didn’t cross my mind, just my ex-boyfriend’s. I dove headfirst into the water and calmly stroked to the other side. I tried to reach my feet down and didn’t touch the soft silky sand. It was deep. I gracefully shifted into pure panic mode, splashing and kicking towards the black rock shelf across the deep cave lagoon. When I got there, the closest thing to me was a knobby brownish rock, half submerged and more long than wide. OMG was that a massive crocodile? Massive crocodile head or a rock? Bumpy lumpy rock or a four-meter crocodile, with its gleeful teeth clacking underwater? As I swam against the waterfall current, my only option was to grab onto it. My heart was pounding out of my chest. 

As I stood on top of it, I was pretty sure it was a rock, but I knew it could turn into the crocodile again at any second. A meaty spiderweb was strung just above my head so I couldn’t stand up all the way. 

Well, Katie, you did it. I was deep in the lagoon-cave in the jungle, alone and free. I gave a little call to the wild, “Yeeeehuuuu!” I dove back in gleefully and doggie-paddled, head out of the water, letting myself be swept all the way back to the other side. I’d have to come back again with my ex-boyfriend and have him take me, upstream further. If the croc attacked he’d come save me, for sure, and at least we’d be in it together. I wrapped my sarong back on and pulled on the tank top. I emerged and clambered back down. My bag was still down at the bottom on the stream bank. The clouds above looked heavier with grey weight at their bottom edge and the waterfall was flowing faster. Yes it was time to go. 

On my walk back, I waved at the dogs again, who seemed to have followed me at a distance. At the end of the path, just before the courtyard where I parked my scooter, I noticed the most vibrant wall of rainbow color I had ever seen. Then I saw a man, white-blonde, tan, and old, burning the dead leaves from the rainbow hedge. I smiled a big smile and told him the colors of the plant were beautiful. He was stoked that someone had noticed. He smiled back with genuine joy, and I think I happened upon God. I walked back to my scooter, which the courtyard people had moved to be more protected under the tree. The woman said, “Good, right?” “Yes," I said. “I will come back here.” She smiled and I waved goodbye to the kids, entering back onto the main road and shaking out my hair, letting the lagoon water dry in the breeze. 

(Not that she needs it but I’m sure she appreciates it)

I live across from a man who makes sculptures. Deities and demons, beings and creatures of all kinds. One at a time, just him. I imagine he works off commissions, and has an endless line of work ahead of him. Next to him is a big field, with a huge banyan tree in the middle, and a wooden bench wrapped around it. A massive sarong is draped around the waist of the tree to signify that there is an entity inside. I sit and lean my back against that god and look up at his branches. 

The birds still sing their heart out in the mornings, if I am outside to listen. The stars are out most nights, if I am outside to look. The frogs, or something makes the weird electric zing sound at night, still. Even the yelp of the water trucks as they frantically charge up the hills brings me that unique Bali feeling. And sometimes as I am driving, I hear a snippet of that iconic Balinese gamelan that used to be the only music played in massage parlors and restaurants. Magnum bars. The same amount of sugar as a Pocari. Let that one sink in. 

My friend Dani tells me “drive slow” on the scooter “why not.” I appreciate the old time people who just cruise along at a snail pace, as far left as they can go. Sometimes I feel like driving fast, though, not too fast, but just fast enough to feel free. Glance to the left over the bridge and look at the ocean. I like to think I'm checking the waves but I’m really just seeing and making sure that the ocean is still blue. I’ve never been to Jeffrys Coffee Shop. No offense, but my heart’s at Lands End. There is one constellation of stars to the East that will always look like a jellyfish to me. I’ve never seen it anywhere else. There’s a lalapan spot next to Bulgari Hotel that is only open from 7 until 8 or maybe 9. And often not even then. Sometimes I’m in bed by 7 so it’s hard for me to eat there even though I always want to. I got bitten by a big gecko last month as I picked it up to help it cross the street. I had two trapezoid angled fang marks on my index finger in the shape of its mouth and showed my friends at dinner. 

Ibu Ketut comes down from her house to my house every morning carrying her special knife with her daughters face on it, and cuts leaves in the garden alongside flowers for offerings. How pure is that morning routine? The flowers are all blossoming right now, hibiscus and plumeria. A little rain and then a whole lot of sunshine. I better go check the cow fields. My healer will heal me any time I need her and her son softly talks to her while I’m lying on the floor. Her little new kitten Lara jumps up and meows in my lap. Tonight she massaged me for two hours because I was sad, drenching my face and hair in oil, doused me in coconut water and holy water (3x), somehow knew I was on my period and wouldn’t let me into her temple, then put rice on my forehead. 

I’m more superstitious than ever. Three means a lot to me. When I put my stuff in the cabinet in the warungs before I surf, I try to find a good number. I notice that all the good numbers are taken when the surf is big and I’m the last one out. I surfed a couple days ago when it was big and everyone was on a strike mission to somewhere, so there was only 4 of us out. A rogue set came through from the west, the water pushing against itself to form a peak that was building to the right of me instead of to the left. I paddled slowly but strongly and broke out in a grin. For the first time, I felt absolutely at ease, my heart beating with joy. This is where I’m meant to be. 

Bali, I’ll always love you. 

KT

, webbing between my fingers contrast white with the tops of my hands. Skin and hair brown. Bottoms of my feet hard and impenetrable to white sand heat. And all the joy of the islands in my smile

When did our love become MONETIZED? I think it was the day you finished my freshly opened bag of dry-sealed Macadamia Nuts from Healthy Hut, Kauai. Fresh, raw, crunchy. You felt guilty, I know. You tried to make up for it with a heavy paper lunch bag of bulk section Mac Nuts from Other Avenues, San Francisco. Those inland nuts were chewy, and we both knew it. Before that, we had walnuts, some cashews. I had browsed your cabinets for walnuts for months. Then we went to Kauai and our relationship deepened. We experienced Healthy Hut Macadamia Nuts together. We went through at least a couple of big branches worth.

I know that because I cracked about 20 whole nuts, once you left. My parents cut down a tree in the pasture and left 3 big boxes of nuts in the garage for someone to open. I used to crack open Mac Nuts when I was little, padding over soft cushioned grass to my uncle’s house across from my grandma’s in Wailua Houselots. I don’t know how cracked them then, a tiny 10-year-old!


Macadamia nuts are not expensive because of their scarceness, they are expensive because of their toughness. At least that’s what my mom told me.

I sat in the garage after you left, picked up a smooth brown nut from the box and put it on a block of wood. Brought down the hammer. Nothing! Not a crack in that round protective shell. Tried another. Smack! Nothing. Went back up the stairs to my mom. She said the wood is too soft, it absorbs the blow, (island knowledge), you need to crack it on something harder. And take a wire hanger to hold it in place.

Couldn’t find one (didn’t look) and I was back at it on the garage floor. Placed the nut in a crack on the green painted cement. Hammer. Nothing.

Hammer. A hairline crack.

Again. Nothing.

Again, nothing.

Again, with all my might, nut flying through the air, chickens running after it. They see what it is. They stop. They know they can’t get into the sweet meat either, they don’t even try. A bigger crack! One more time. Smush. Smushed the nut, but still delicious. A couple nuts later and I still don’t have the perfect hammer arc. I lose a couple nuts underneath the cars, smush a couple more for the chickens, and come out with about 12 raw nut meats. They are huge and soft, but crunchy, and sweet. Fruit of my labors.

Anyways—maybe that’s when they became currency.

I bought a couple Healthy Hut bags and brought them back to California. You ate one of them. I gave one to Riley because they were his favorite nut and it was his birthday. You shared Mavz with me. We surfed and you tore your PCL and something else in your knee so I brought you flowers and a tub of Whole Foods unsalted, roasted Mac Nuts. The best I could find this side of the Pacific and that side of Santa Cruz. Crunchy and not bad, a couple rancid in the tub. You liked them, and I have to say, if love must be monetized, let the currency be Macadamias.

June 12

Fresh thoughts—————

Bali Pearls offshore and hidden. Makeshift floating guard huts protecting purity itself. To be sold in Seminyak, from black sand beach to black sand beach, one populated by palm trees and the other by people. “Try and burn it,” they say, “test if it’s real.” I don’t want to burn my pearls. They’re real. Who cares. 

Bali Friends transient. When you find one you love, do you drop everything to be in the same place and to do the same thing? Or do you exchange instagram handles and go your separate ways. Swapping comments and likes and slowly fading a w a y until next time. 

Who’s to say there isn’t another universe—parallel, perpendicular, wavy. Is it straight, over time, or branching? Or maybe, right now, we’re poised over an abyss - nothing in front of us but blackness. Or bright white. And in the next instant everything becomes filled with color and noise or silence or music only to be white or black again. An empty frame, expectant to be filled. Or not expectant. Maybe content to sit empty for as long as it takes.

I pause as I write this, and a few frames fill with a stagnant photo: pen above paper and eyes pointed into the distance. Thorough silence, and then pen back on paper.  I’d like to get a photo printer for my iPhone to capture all these frames.

Or it could be the opposite and we’re streaming full speed ahead on the tracks, like the trains here at 4 AM, destination not in mind, but still waiting at the end. But I prefer the first version. 

What if June were the start of the new year? It kind of seems like it should be—starting the year with Summer and nice breezes and sunshine, drifting into Fall and then quickly into Winter. The end of the year would be Spring, a celebration of flowers and rain and hope for the next year. Holidays would be in the middle of the year, a welcome rest amid busy schedules.

What if time didn't exist except for each individual person? It is, in my mind, elastic already. For instance, my grandma has been in her 90s for ages, maybe equivalent to 15 years of my life. I was in college for the blink of an eye, a brief spark in the timeline of my life. I could spend 40 years out on the water surfing, and wouldn't get bored. I wouldn't have to eat, but I'd probably get cold.

a day

Do you ever have moments of intense joy? When all the things that aren’t cells in your body–the in-betweens, the sparks–converge in your heart, making it beat faster before rising up to your throat and even further, releasing in an open-mouth grin as you walk down the street?

Do your creative petals wither with each season? Each winter, words fail you and the creativity stem shrinks. A new year and a new outlook, a new year and a birthday. What are your hobbies? Dumb news cycles and tech stress. Surfing and the ocean. All these apps. Buy a camera and a notebook and a flip phone. How will I get to class? How do we feel something?? Prisoner of Azkaban is my favorite hp book how hipster. Some technology is like a lightbulb.

Scooters. 

Bali

Fresh concrete steps,

2 beach dogs,

Stairway (down) to Heaven. 

Bingin

Poorly placed cow poo, 

pink skies and pink glassy ocean, 

planes to anywhere, 

Balinese showers. 

Serangan

Offerings and bureaucracy,

happiness in babies,

island time. 

Bali

July 2, 2018

Dear Gung-Gung,

It breaks my heart that I never told you how important, influential, and inspirational you are to me. But, I guess even if we were both back in Lincoln, we wouldn’t bring up the topic anyway. And, I guess you know that you are inspirational—you had enough of a life to write an autobiography—and a page-turner at that!

I wish I had come to say goodbye to you and to Lau Lau. I wish I had played you back faster on Words with Friends, I wish I hadn’t kept pressing Remind me tomorrow when my 'call gg’ reminder popped up. But enough about wishes. I know you understand completely.

Gung Gung, you were the roots from which our family tree grew and flourished. Every one of us: children, grandchildren, cousins, in-laws, know we owe everything to you and your siblings—9 of you in total! As the last one left it must have been lonely. 

These photos say it all. You and Lau Lau gave us a center around which to base family summers, fabulous dinners, and joyful, warm holidays. I was so lucky to grow up across the driveway from you–it seems cruel that I only really knew you from age 80+, and by the time I was old enough to be in awe of you and your accomplishments, you were already 95. It should be the opposite: you getting younger while I get older! I know you don’t believe in this sort of thing, but I hope you’re watching over all of us while we continue to grow up and create something of our own. 

All my memories of you are recent, not when you were entrepreneurial and grand, just helping my dad with projects, talking with friends on the phone, heading to the Apple store for the newest gadget. Pouring out pistachios into the paper bowls you always used, eating them and silently pushing them towards me in offering. Doing laps around the living room, counting your laps by moving one coin from a full stack to an empty space until the positions had switched. Buying a premium exercise bike at age 98. Eating well past the rest of us at dinner and then moving to the study for a nap on the couch. You telling us non-Chinese speakers 10 years late that ‘grandfather’ is actually spelled Gung-Gung, not Kung-Kung.

It’s crazy, I’ve never beat you at anything: tennis (EVEN WHEN YOU WERE 92 AND I WAS 16), Scrabble, Words with Friends, university prestige… I guess, yes, I did beat you at Wii tennis once, but that is only because it’s just my generation. And to this day, I think you will know more about the iPhone than I will ever.

I can only hope that I will be as generous, fair, loving, wise, and lively as you were your entire life. And I hope that I will create something as amazing as you did. But I know that you’ll be proud of me either way. I hope you’re resting in peace, I guess 100 years will do that for you. Love you, GG+LL.

Your granddaughter,
Katie

We take so much from the ocean and it doesn’t ask for much back. Sure, sometimes it takes from us–a shark attack, a lone sailing boat, a deep-water movement that shifts into a tsunami. But how could it not, in its nature? The ocean is untamed and all-encompassing, by definition. It is our living planet and we are just floating atop its islands. 

Somehow though, it doesn’t demand respect. It lets fishing boats drag massive nets across its floor, lets surfers WAPOW! off of the faces of its waves, lets developers erect breakwaters so tourists can swim in a flat, textureless ocean. 

This, the ocean could ignore. This was us doing what we can to eat, have fun, and be safe. This was us taking and taking while the ocean gave and gave because we needed it.

But now something different is happening, across the entire ocean. Its water is warming, forcing sharks and orcas and whales far out of their normal paths, into strange beaches, scaring us humans. The warmer water brews strong storms of disruption onto our land, destroying our cities. Its water soaks up the carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, as it has always done, filtering out the poison in our air. But now it is taking up so much that the ocean's very essence - its water - is becoming acid. Acidic and toxic to everything that lives within it–starting with the coral and mangroves and seagrass and kelp–the base that sea creatures need to keep up their health. Plastic is covering its surface, breaking down into smaller and smaller pieces, eventually becoming a part of its very water.

This, is not just taking. This is destroying the ocean without reason. And how could it survive as its soul, its water, deteriorates, from our continuing mistakes and endless consumption? This magnificent being, capable of the wildest storms, fiercest beauty, and most delicious fruits, is dying from our doing, and we have not let up our attack.

SO

Today, June 12, Instagram a nice photo of you on the beach and change some habits. 

Stop using plastic! Buy a water bottle. If you live in a developed country, you can (most likely) drink the tap water. Stop being a snob. If you live in Bali, your gym, your hotel, probably has a water dispenser. Stop being lazy and wait 10 seconds to fill a bottle. Maybe you use that time to meditate and come up with new ideas. Tell the cashier you don’t need a plastic bag. Stop putting an apple in a plastic bag in your tote bag and coming home to take the apple out of the plastic bag out of the tote bag and then to throw that 20-minute-use plastic bag straight into the trash. We’ve all done it, but it’s time to stop being ridiculous. Drink from a glass. Stop giving yourself mouth wrinkles sucking plastic straws. Read these Buy/Stop statements again. None of these things are hard. 

Stop emitting so much CO2! Stop breathing so much, only inhale. Just kidding. Stop blasting your AC while you huddle underneath a thick duvet, blanket, and sheet, just because you feel more cozy. Stop opening windows in the dead of winter, and tell your landlord it is too hot in the building. Stop buying an electric heater to keep warm in the dead of summer, and tell your building manager it is too cold in the office. Tell them they can save an extraordinary amount of money and/or save the ocean. Most of all, stop leaving your AC on full blast when you leave the house. Stop being an asshole. 

If everyone did these things, it would make a difference. These things don’t require anything. These things save you money, energy, time, and have the side effect of rescuing a dying planet. And its not even everyone who has to do these things - most of the world doesn’t have AC, most people boil their water. 

It’s just us, those who can access my highly data-draining Squarespace from my Instagram using some fast wifi. Us who have the ability to stop destroying the planet for those who don’t have a say.

how could we love each other?

From 3 PM until 7 PM, I have all the time in The World to myself. My parents are getting in bed in Hawaii, my loving boyfriend has fallen asleep in New York, and my sleepy friends in California are deep in dreams by midnight. No one in Europe will try to contact me.

I discovered this wonderful vacuum of time today. As I hung up the phone with Jazz, I pressed a young coconut to my lips, draining the rest, and then set myself to gutting it open. I tore off 3 chunks of chewy farmers’ market bread, and popped them in the oven. I grabbed a mango from the counter and sliced two halves, leaving the thin seed in the center, ripping off the green skin around the oval. Mangoes in Indonesia are green, with a seed so slender you leave almost nothing behind. 

First to the mango - teeth sinking into sweet flesh and juice dripping on my allergic lips - natural botox. By then I could smell crumbs burning and spun the oven timer off, hot potato-ing the pieces onto a fresh plate. MMMM. 

The bread chunks needed something else, so looking into the fridge I found some old Indonesian butter that smelled sweet. Considered the peanut butter instead. But I like my bread salty. Sprinkled rosemary salt and a tiny spoon of brown dirt-looking pepper onto my plate. Added a teaspoon of olive oil and pressed the soft side of a hunk of warm bread into the ceramic, hearing the crackle and grinning. 

Lastly the coconut. Pushing a spoon into the small hole I had hacked, I scraped sweet white slivers into my mouth. Still haven’t learned how to cut a coconut in half like the boys. 

What a feast. 

Started reading an article about God and reincarnation in a skate/surf/lifestyle mag and got inspired. And now I’m here. 

everyone is so practical here

CAN I PLEASE JUST SIT ON BART AND STARE OUT THE WINDOW AND NOT LISTEN TO A PODCAST ON THE INVISIBLE THINGS IN LIFE

I’ve only stayed here for 4 days, and I won’t fool myself (or you, my fellow traveler) into believing that I know the city, even just a little bit. But from my extensive research and 30+ GoJek rides, I’ve managed to stumble upon some pretty cool places.

If you’re looking for your basic “Top 10 Sites to See in Jakarta” guide, I suggest you look elsewhere–my driver from the airport told me that JKT is known for shopping–so that’s exactly what I did. 

Interspersed with good eats, of course.

Jet-lagged, I slept until 6 AM Jakarta time. Rolled around for an hour, trying to sleep longer, but to no avail. I had breakfast at 0700, and while consuming  more or less than 2 chocolate croissants, nasi goreng, and fresh kiwi juice, I researched where to go. So let’s just pretend you woke up at 0900. 

0900 Breakfast at ArtOtel. Cool boutique hotel that I’m staying at. I’d give it a 4.5/5 for budget travel, and it was about $40/night. It has an interesting theme of different art on every floor, but the art in my room was honestly a little bit unsettling (won’t name any names/floor numbers here). There was also a mosquito in my room that bit me 4 times, and when I decided to sleep with the covers all the way up to my chin, it bit me on my forehead in the night. Anyway, breakfast was delicious - had a nice spread of Indonesian breakfast food and made-to-order eggs, as well as some delicious chocolate croissants and fresh cappuccinos. 

If you’re not staying at ArtOtel, I recommend Convivium Bakery & Cafe in Panglima Polim for breakfast. They have a cute sign as well as menu on their door, so you can decide whether you want to eat there before you even step in! [image @conviviumdeli]. I actually happened to step in around lunchtime, so I had a pizza, but their breakfast menu looked amazing.

If you're just looking for coffee and a croissant, Jakarta has a THRIVING cafe culture, so most coffee places in Kemang would do just as well.

1000 Most shops open around 10 or 11 AM, so don’t bother starting off on your day before 10. Maybe you could stop by some tourist attractions like Jakarta History Museum in Fatahillah Square (looked beautiful). 

Now here’s where I did some excellent planning for you. Jakarta is not a pedestrian city. People tell you that and you ignore it because you see sidewalks and because Google Maps says walking distance is 10 min. But you’ll be the only one walking on the street amidst a 9 scooter-wide traffic jam in 95ºF weather. However, if you’re a tourist who’s looking to uncover interesting places and diverse shops, it’s oftentimes more practical to walk. So I split the difference. I tried to group shops into areas where the walking time was <10 minutes, and the rest of the time I would take a GoJek or GrabBike. Feel free to take more scooter rides if you are prone to sweat, laziness, or self-consciousness. A short 1 mile ride should only be about 10.000 IDR ($0.75). 

Two more tips before I begin, I highly recommend: 

Getting a SIM card with data to call the scooter rides (and downloading the GrabCar or GoJek app)

Downloading Jakarta as an offline map on Google Maps just in case you don’t have data. Then you can save the places you want to visit on Google Maps, so you can easily see where they are. As you can see, I saved a lot in South Jakarta. Since I was staying in Central Jakarta, I decided to take a car for the 30 minute ride to Kemang. 

1030 Ak.sa.ra: carefully curated books, music, gifts, homewares shop. I swear, every other book they had was on my must-read list! If you walk into the back courtyard, there’s some other cool unexpected things like a microcinema called Kinosaurus, a cafe, and a skatepark where JKT’s coolest kids can show off their moves. 

1100 If you don’t decide to watch a movie, you can walk to ARA, a well-known multi-label concept store that showcases up and coming Indonesian labels. The store is beautiful, and well-priced. Bought some nice airy pants here. Explore some of the other shops within Colony like Tulisan, and when you’re back on the ground floor, Libertine is a nice place to have coffee. 

1145 Take a moto ride further south to dia.lo.gue, an amazing art space, cafe, and gift shop. If you haven’t noticed already, most of these cool shops tend to be combined with other cool things like coffee. Take a pic on the stairs, and definitely take the time to peruse the gift shop. The clothes and books are quite unique. If you’re craving the most exquisite desserts and chocolate you could ever have in your life, stop off at The Papilion for an expensive snack. Or just take a look at the modern glass facade that somehow fits right in with its location.

1215 Walk to Footurama, located in the COMO park building. It’s hard to find, and I’m very tempted to let you work out how to find it yourself. I think I will let you actually. It’s a small store, with vintage t-shirts so special, they’re covered by individual plastic garment bags. 

By now, you must be worn out, and in need of a nap or a pick me up. Opt for the latter and stop by the coffee shop or pizza place on the ground floor (where you probably asked for directions earlier). 

1300 Make your way back to air conditioning and take a Go-Jek to the Grand Indonesia mall. Word of warning - this place is HUGE. It’s incredibly easy to get lost within this shopping mall within shopping mall set up. The map directories within are interactive and beautiful, and don’t help you find your way any easier. I walked around the empty, lit-up halls, filled with Dior, Louis Vuitton, Valentino and got a little spooked. Past the designer shops are cuter boutiques, with local designs, and one of my favorites was Art & Science. 

1430 Stay and eat or somehow make your way outside into daylight. Find a local warung or Padang restaurant. I ate at a place called Garuda Padang near ArtOtel. I just asked the concierge where I could find some good Indonesian food and she directed me here. I sat down by myself and observed all the local families and couples eating lunch. Feeling a little lonesome I thought to myself I’d just get some noodles and leave. The waiter then asked if I wanted a drink, I said orange juice, no ice. Then he brought me 4 plates - vegetables, fried wonton looking things, beef, and curry. Actually he did not bring me 4 plates, he placed 4 plates at the edge of the opposite side of the table from me. I observed them. Next, he brought me my orange juice with lots of ice cubes. I said “sorry, no ice” again and proceeded to observe the chef shake his head and take the ice cubes out with a spoon before returning with the ice-free(?) drink. The waiter then came back with some pink jello-looking substance in a chalice. I sat gingerly sipping on my orange juice, fully regretting my decision to sit down. Then came 6 more plates. And then 6 more after that. I called another waiter over. Please, I said, I cannot eat all of this! Finally, they explained the concept of a ‘Padang Restaurant’: the waiters pile up 20+ platters and you take whichever plates you want, and only pay for them. Sort of like a buffet where you don’t have to stand up. Probably better for the non-solo traveler though. 

1530 At this point, I have to be honest. Overwhelmed by this new food experience, I headed back to ArtOtel for a long nap until dinner. 

1900 Woke up for a nice room service pasta and then headed to the roof of the hotel for a drink set to live music, kind bartenders, and city lights. 

Jakarta is a busy, overwhelming, and crowded city. But aren't they all?! If you take the time and look between the old concrete buildings and shiny air-conditioned malls, you’ll find a burgeoning cafe culture, cool in its underground-ness and supported by stylish youth who know what’s coming before its even ‘upcoming’. 

The first thing I noticed was the scooters. I wasn’t startled, as most people are, by the way the three traffic lanes mingle into one, with the scooters and cars and trucks meshing across the pavement through my blurry eyes. I was startled by how crowded it was, and unimpressed by the 45 minute drive from Denpasar, through Kuta, to Canggu at 8 PM. Massive discount shops and dirty signs, the smell of petrol and thickness of the air. 

The last time I had exited the international terminal was in June 2016. I remembered the massive room, like an old hotel lobby, that visitors must walk across to get their 30-day Visa on Arrival. 

This time, though, it’s different. I march to the Indonesian passport and KITAS line and they ask me how long I’m staying. I tell them I’m here until August, and confused, they double check my passport. Last time, I walked nervously through to baggage claim, unsure how I was going to find Jazz in the airport. He surprised me right next to me, just as I was getting my phone out to text him. We waited for my bag and then walked out to meet the hotel driver together, both excited and a little bit apprehensive for our first adventure together. 

This time, I spoke fluently in Bahasa to the passport control, saying I am a researcher working here for a year, and thank you, have a nice night, and then walked on to collect my bag. I texted Pak Ketut, my teman and driver who was already waiting for me outside. He gave me a big smile from amidst all the hotel staff waving name cards, and I returned it, tired from my long journey.

We got back to my villa around 9:30 PM. I unlocked the door to find the lights weren’t working because the electricity had run out. Sweet Ketut said he would drive me to the market to pay for more. On the third IndoMaret, they allowed me to buy electricity–I gave them the code for each electric meter, top floor and bottom, and paid them for credit, receiving in return, two 16-number long codes to type into the meters. We got back to the house, I took the hidden key from behind the temple, unlocked the little security room, and typed in the codes. Said goodbye to Ketut and terima kasih, and then went to my room. Showered, but the hot water hadn’t kicked in from the electricity yet, so I didn’t wash my hair. Started to unpack because it was only about 4 PM in The Hague so I wasn’t sleepy, but then I got weary of moving around and went to bed. I tossed and turned until 3 and then finally fell asleep. 

I knew it wasn’t going to be good even before it hit me. I was back in my home–and whether that be in paradise or Boston, it was time to adjust to normal life. And this home didn’t have the perks of family coziness or familiarity. 

It wasn’t even that I had to adjust to the responsibility of work and bills. It was that I knew in my heart that nothing would feel the same as when I first got here. I knew exactly what I was coming back to: I had groups of friends, a solid home with a small pool, and I knew which restaurants had the best smoothie bowls, which yoga studios had my favorite teachers. And this dreaded stability is inevitable–either move around forever or get used to it. 

The first scooter ride

The first morning scooter ride under the warm Bali winter sun was enough. Enough to confirm why I was here, that I wanted to be here, and that I was meant to be here. The wind in my hair didn’t uplift my mood as high as when I began here (after all, I was wearing a helmet) but it did enough to remind me:

Don’t forget how badly you once wanted what you have now. 

There was a time when I was praying, visualizing, hoping, manifesting, dreaming and wishing with all my might to be where I am currently. I will never stop dreaming about all that I want to accomplish, hoping for success, and creating it, more and more, each month, but in the present, I will acknowledge that I am exactly in the position that I had once lusted after. 

x

January 14, 2018

As happy as a dog in the back of a pickup truck. Two dogs, actually, in the back of two pickup trucks. First, a young curly-haired teenager, tongue as far out as it could go, its mouth a wide, bug-catching receptacle. This utter encapsulation of joy was followed by another dark green pickup truck, this one hauling a thoughtful old golden retriever. With light white furry circles around both her glinting eyes, a soft smile of utter contentment was evident in her very posture.

Highly recommend

Sometimes life gives you PRICKLES

and sometimes it doesn't.

mmm, fresh cut fruit.

I hate the idea of getting older. Hate almost every part of it. Except, perhaps, the concrete experiences of raising a child, having a house with my love and a dog and a cat. But I hate the increase of inhibition, the increase of a slight fear of the unknown because we have more to lose. I don't even know if we actually have more to lose, or if this fear just arises from news and loss and getting old.

I look at high schoolers and middle schoolers and am so amazingly jealous. To have the whole world ahead of you. To be naturally so present and care so deeply about things you know nothing of, to dream of doing, being something so possible in that moment. 

To be young is to be the purest form of being. The opposite of omnipresence but also the same.

WARNING: it’s not all fun and games.

BUT IT’S WORTH IT

SOME BIG ARTS

Lau-Lau's greenhouse, June 8, 2017.

Me, trying.

It’s hard to write about Kauai because its not exotic. After all, it’s one of the United States of America. It’s easier to write about the intense smells of Marrakesh, Istanbul’s lush textiles, or Bora Bora—so exotic you say it twice. Kauai has a lot of roosters and deep red dirt and the most beautiful views of steep green cliffs rejoining the ocean that you ever could see. 

With this baseline of beauty comes the people who live here, people who have grown up surrounded by this landscape that doesn’t exist anywhere else on Earth. They are at the same time constantly appreciating it, with #livelikepan or #kauaiizwhy hashtags peppered throughout Instagram, and also so deeply accustomed to it, that its lush beauty is as everyday as what a sense of thirst must be in the desert. People visit for a glimpse of one of Earth’s wonders, people move here for the deep vibration of nature’s serenity, and people work here to support their families. 

But there’s one thing that remains constant. When you stay here, it’s easy to begin caring about the environment.

The way to really get into it is hiking. One shoe in front of the other, often one shoe a steep step above the other, sometimes one shoe slipping to rejoin the other. At first, it’s exercise. I leap up the cliffside, hopping from one rock to another. Then up the wooden steps—planks pushed into the red dirt for stability—and feel the burning sensation in my thighs and calves. The climb leads to a jaw-dropping, indescribable view of layers and layers of cliffs stacked behind one another, leading out to an endless expanse of ocean. There’s some people lining up to take pictures, and a nice system of one couple taking it for the next family and so on. Onward. It feels like I’ve hiked 5 miles, at least. And then there’s something that happens, after a never-ending descent over burnt orange dirt. Your body is aching, and you know you have more than 6 miles to go. The ground, the lush jungle, and the glimmering ocean become constants. You are painstakingly making your way over and across and down Earth’s very surface. From Ke’e beach to Kalalau Valley, cutting a path around the side of a mountain, climbing up rocks, slick with rain, while grabbing countless lauhala trees for stability. And what a long, meandering way you’ve walked! 

2 miles in, there’s a beach. You can choose to walk over more rocks, doing your best to avoid the wobbly ones, and set foot on the sand. I did it, and reached the sand. Then you have to traverse a small lap pool, filled with freezing cold straight from the rain water mixed with ocean, formed by a sand hump between itself and the ocean. Waist deep, I started to regret it. But I had bruised my ankle getting caught between 2 rocks earlier, so it felt nice. Then finally, I reached the purely salty ocean. A quick dip, watching a girl and boy running around in the lap pool, splashing each other with joy, before running back to their dad. 

And then I was back on the trail. Heading up to the waterfall inland. The hike begins with your first stream crossing. You must leapt from rock to boulder and boulder to rock, keeping momentum or you might lose your nerve and wade across like the old people. But I’ve done it before. You walk through jungle, passing a bamboo forest before heading into the really deep jungle. This hike feels even longer than the first, because there’s no horizon or ocean in sight. I finally get my palms dirty from using my hands to climb up more rocks. 

What happens is a realization that you are walking and living on an amazing planet. The feeling comes from, quite literally, connecting with the earth. You realize more fully that you’re a part of it all when you’re stepping on slightly squishy red earth instead of a hard wooden floor or concrete sidewalk. At first you just notice the views—stunning, jaw-dropping, one-of-a-kind beautiful. But it takes the 10 hours of plodding along, scrambling, and hopping to really notice what it is you’re walking on. 

And now you’re at the waterfall. There’s no words for the feeling so I won’t even try.