DAY ONE: Bali

This all happened in one day.

We had to catch a taxi at 6 to get to the airport in time, so we set our alarms for 5. It wasn't until we were all up and stirring the next morning that we realized our phones were still on Japan time, which meant we had actually woken up at 4. We caught a cab with no problem and napped on the way to the airport. After checking in, we had enough time for breakfast, so we scouted out the airport Burger King. They offered some of the same stuff you can get back home, like a croissamich and tater tots. They had a grilled chicken sandwich, though they specified "grilled chicken thigh." I couldn't resist getting one, and it reminded me a lot of Chicken McNuggets back before they switched to all white meat: yummy, but definitely awful for you.

Anyway. We caught our flight with no problem, though because the girls checked in separately from me, we weren't seated together. There weren't any on-demand movies (they played The Golden Compass on the big screen for everyone), and I had an aisle seat, so I sort of dozed for a while. I also started reading Brave New World for the first time.

The flight to Denpasar took about six hours. As soon as we stepped off the plane, the humidity hit us in a wave. Zoe and Rachel were immediately uncomfortable, but Mutia didn't mind--she was home. I also didn't mind, because a) it beat the heck out of the cold weather we left behind in Japan, and b) it reminded me a lot of home. We got through customs with no difficulty--Americans get to pay for visas on arrival. I saw a sign detailing Indonesia's drug policy, too.

As we entered baggage claim, I saw several men in airport uniforms walking around helping people. I had gotten ahead of the girls, so two of the guys asked me where I was arriving from. When I told them, they ran off to help me get my bags. As she caught up to me, I told Mutia what was going on, and she got a surprised look on her face. Apparently these are only technically airport employees--they don't get hourly pay, and make their living off of tips from travelers. Sure enough, I saw a sign on each baggage carousel explaining that. The suggested tip was 2,000 rupiah. I hadn't learned the conversion yet, so I didn't find out until later that $1 = 10,000 IDR, which means the suggested tip is twenty cents. I didn't have any rupiah on me, though, so I had to catch up with the two guys and politely decline.

We exchanged some money (three different money exchangers were hollering at us, trying to win our business away from their competitor), instantly becoming multimillionaires, and headed out to get a taxi for the hotel. The ride from the airport to Sanur took about half an hour.

On the ride, Mutia busted out her Indonesian, which (as per usual outside of the Germanic and Romance language-speaking part of the world) sounded completely unfamiliar to me. It's nontonal, thank goodness (at least, no more tonal than English is), so I was immediately eager to learn some. Mutia later taught me the basic numbers: satu, dua, tiga, empat, lima, enam, tujuh, delapan, sembilan, and sepulu. The vowels are basically the same as in Spanish and Japanese, though "e" in the first syllable tends to be closer to a schwa sound. But that's enough randomness about the language for now.

The driver was very talkative, even showing off his impressive English. Whether it's because it's such a tourist hotspot, or because of its history as a European (Dutch) colony, or because of differences between cultures, I could tell after just ten minutes in the country that Indonesian people are a lot less shy than Japanese when it comes to speaking English.

The roads on the drive in were very well-developed. There were lots of stores, but no huge metropolitan development. We passed by an airline named after me, and also a few McDonald's. The signs advertised packets of Indonesian spice to shake up with the fries. I had to look twice to make sure I wasn't imagining the second sign: McDonald's offered delivery service 24/7. I half-joked that we should get some McNuggets delivered to the beach, just to say we did.

We saw quite a few houses that would be called slummy by most western standards. As we got nearer to the hotel, the bigger stores gave way to smaller-scale markets and souvenir stands. At the entrance to the Hyatt, our taxi had to stop so security could scan the car for explosives (Indonesia's had trouble with terrorism recently). After thankfully finding nothing, we pulled on in to the hotel entrance and tipped the driver, which was a novel concept to us all over again, having spent the past year in a country where tipping doesn't exist.

The Bali Hyatt's lobby consists of a massive open-air wood-floored thatch-roofed hut. Several girls met us at the curb and gave us each a lei. (At least, I know they're called leis in Hawaii, and these looked exactly the same.) After letting them scan our bags, someone sounded a full gong, which summoned a bellboy to get our bags. We checked in at the desk, once again shocked at how well the receptionist spoke English. There was a little silly awkwardness as he tried figuring out whether we were family, such as assuming Rachel and I were married. We got it straightened out, and while we filled out the paperwork, they brought us complimentary juice in cute little glasses with umbrellas and garnished with fruit slices.

As the bellboy led us to the room, he explained the hotel's layout: three floors of rooms, souvenir shops below the lobby, a computer lab, tennis courts, and a "golf course" (more on that later). Oh, and the beach. You can see the beach directly from the lobby. It's a 3-minute walk from the lobby to the Java Sea, which is technically the Indo-Pacific Ocean. I had been merely ecstatic before this; I was literally bouncing with excitement as we took this all in.

Our rooms were plenty nice by my standards, and downright regal by the local standards. The rooms seemed a little old--maybe 20-30 years--but the age didn't hurt the atmosphere; rather, it made it fit in more with the surroundings. Tile floors, TV, full beds (again, a luxury coming from a futon culture), and French doors to a balcony overlooking a courtyard full of palm trees and singing birds. Oh, and air conditioning, though I didn't much care about that. All of this would've cost us a fortune, but thanks to Rachel's mom (who is amazing), we didn't have to pay a dime. She had accumulated some points, and let Rachel use them for the trip.

We broke for showers and naps, agreeing to rendezvous in the lobby in time to get dinner. We took a short stroll on the beach

As the sun was getting ready to set, we called a taxi to take us to Jimbaran, a beach that faces due west. All along the beach there are seafood restaurants, with plenty of tables right out in the sand. We arrived just in time to see the sun set over the Indian Ocean. We sat down at a table and met our waiter. Mutia started off talking to him in Indonesian, but he talked to us in English whenever he could. When she told him where we'd come from, he even broke out with some Japanese. I was struck again by how fundamentally different these folks seemed to handle foreigners, compared to the people I see back on Tsushima.

At any rate, we went to the kitchen to pick what fish we wanted. We ordered some crab, fish, and shrimp, went back to the table and ordered rice and drinks, and then just relished the feel of Balinese twilight. Zoe and I walked to a beach vendor and bought a bag of boiled peanuts for fifty cents. Neither of us really had a craving for peanuts; we just wanted to be able to say we bought something from a beach vendor at dusk in Bali.

The food looked amazing, and it was of course delicious, though I've never actually ordered a whole crab before. I love crab legs and crab claws, and have no problem cracking those suckers open, but that's relatively straightforward, and you get nice little nuggets of meat for your efforts. With a whole crab, it's a lot different. I'm sure most of my frustration is simply because I'm awful at cracking open a crab, but none of us did a very good job of prying open the shell without it splintering into the meat. Candlelight, though romantic and appropriate for beach dining, isn't very conducive to sorting white shell shards from white bits of crab meat. I was sufficiently hungry to forego sorting with my fingers, and tried separating it in my mouth, though a few painful bites stopped that fast. Oh, and separating fish meat from fish bones with the help of one candle, with greasy fingers and while very hungry, is another adventure I don't recommend. We were all too giddy to care much about all this, however.

As dusk gave way to night, we noticed a group of musicians was walking from table to table, apparently taking requests. We distinctly heard them sing songs by U2, Kansas, and even Credence Clearwater Revival. When they got to us, after much deliberation, we requested Stand By Me. The group consisted of four or five guys: three guitars, one drum, and an upright bass. One of the guitarists handled main vocals, with the others harmonizing. They'd done an amazing job with all the other songs we heard, and did just as well with ours. Afterwards, Mutia requested an Indonesian song she remembered from when she was little, and they went right into it.

After this, we caught a taxi to Kuta to check out the nightlife a little. We found out later we were close to but not quite at the proper pubs/bars/restaurants distrinct of the town, and were instead on a strip of decent shops. We picked up some essentials, like sunscreen and mosquito repellent, and did some extra shopping too. Mutia had been encouraging us since we got to Taiwan that you're supposed to haggle with Indonesian shopkeepers. I've never been very good at it, and even felt bad about undercutting somebody, but she insisted that wouldn't happen. She explained that all the shopkeepers are expecting to be haggled with, so they start out with an absurdly inflated price, in the hopes that your first counteroffer, while lower than what they're asking, is closer to what they really want. Plus, she says her mom usually spends time haggling, only to wind up paying the vendor more than what they settle for anyway.

In an effort to build up my nonexistent haggling skills, I tried to buy some flip-flops and swimming trunks. The guy started at $30 for the flip-flops, and I got him down to $8; $5 for the trunks, and I got him down to $1. That may sound straightforward, but I spent a good half-hour comparison-shopping all along the street, and purposefully went to the guy who was charging the most so I'd know he could afford to haggle. Anyway, I got "Balibong" flip-flops and swimming trunks--whee!

After this, we took a cab back to the hotel, noticing on our way out that we were about two blocks over from a pretty lively street. Too tired to go back, we opted instead for sleep.

Again, this all happened in one day.