From the journal of a Singleton....A mere 447 days later! (you'll forgive me won't you chickadee)
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Dear Chickadees,
I am still on a 'travel plus food high' from my recent jaunt to Southeast Asia. Ofcourse I missed you terribly.
The Destination - Bali.
The Mandate - indulge in as much local food as humanly possible in one week.
The 'other' mandate - sink one's toes into the beautiful sandy beaches in Bali.
For weeks I'd been staring at a beautiful photo of a lush beach in Bali.The palm trees, that emerald hue of the ocean and the thought of sandals (aaaallllll the gorgeous sandals) made me wantonly weak and impatient. August couldn't come soon enough.
Embark we did but it was a long journey over the Pacific. Three days and two nights later we arrived (in retrospect I should have closely perused Kayak's offering of this very inexpensive itinerary which was too good to be true). Many, many planes and automobiles later we'd arrived and the same was true for the journey back home.
And it was a lovely holiday, indeed (a unanimously shared sentiment between us single gals).
Return we did with our souls refreshed and our bellies satisfied (you'll know what I mean, momentarily) accompanied by burgeoning suitcases filled with exotic teas, authentic Balinese cooking spices, one too many sarongs (I have yet to figure out how to wear these) and a few pairs of adorned and bejeweled sandals (don't give me that look sweet-pea; you already know of my love affair with footwear).
There were many firsts on this trip and I shall proceed to tell you about my two favourites - firstly, The Ocean Walk. In laymen's terms, imagine this (or for some of us, let's relive this) - You have friends who ski, surf, snow-board (you get the gist right, basically the athletic type) and some of these include scuba divers. These scuba diving friends of ours talk about their underwater excursions from time to time, all the lovely sea creatures they saw, that school of yellow fish they followed, the iridescent light that was aglow, that beautiful reef, rumors of buried antiquities and the expeditions to retrieve them and how much longer they can now breathe underwater. Now imagine,you, the non-athletic friend to these athlete friends, trying to emulate their excitement, head-bobbing all the while like you can relate to the "swimming with fish that look like Nemo", trying to stretch that smile (until your jaw hurts) as they regale you with their emphatic tales (and all the while secretly telling yourself "I can't swim and outside of a glass aquarium at SeaWorld, I'll never be close enough to touch God's magnificent underwater creation). Well chickadee that's me. And perhaps that's you too.
Until....I went Ocean-Walking. Now imagine, you're still the same friend who can't swim or scuba dive but this time you are strapped close to a diver (who does) and who'll take you all the way to the bottom of the ocean and land you gently on an old moss-ridden bridge where you can stand straight (hopefully finding your balance and holding the railings with one hand) and gaze in utter amazement at that school of yellow, blue and speckled fish coming your way. You can see the iridescent light from the mid-afternoon sun coquettishly making its way into the water, while those beautiful reeds are slowly dancing in perfect rhythm to the silent beat of a drum you cannot hear and those brilliant hues of blue and green are unlike any palette of paint you've ever seen.
I WAS UNDERWATER, CHICKADEE! I was enjoying front-row seats to my very own acquatic movie. I was inside that life-size version of an aquarium at SeaWorld. CAN YOU HEAR THE EXCITEMENT IN MY VOICE? For those ten minutes, the world was still. All was calm. We were detached from everything above us and out there as I stood in a mesmeric trance, a guest in their world. This beautiful ocean-world. My soul felt refreshed.
Ten minutes was all the time a novice like me could spend underwater sans-oxygen tank so the blissful, reverie was cut short. But the memory remains. The smile stayed while I alighted from the car and made my way back to the hotel room. This one will go with me for a very, long, time.
And I beseech you. If you can, my non-scuba diving friend, - Go.....Please.Go.Ocean.Walking.Soon.
The second-favourite highlight from the trip was gastronomic. Now imagine walking the local market in the morning, eye-locked with rows and rows of fresh produce, inhaling a stock of lemon-grass, that vivid red from sambal paste, feeling the skin of snake-fruit and the heady aroma from kaffir-lime leaves. That was me.
Shortly thereafter, we found ourselves in an aged, yet authentic Balinese kitchen. Rows and rows of wood panelling, spice jars filled with cumin and cloves, round (but heavy) mortar and pestles, and wide-brimmed woks. Our workspace was an old wooden table laden with fresh galangal, bright green beans, garlic, red chillies, long stalk of lemon grass, little jars of turmeric, aniseed and other glorious spices. Although it was a hot kitchen and the work was hard, it was the most blissful afternoon of chopping and grinding that I could recall in recent times. A mere three hours later, our table was graced with grilled fish skewers, a bowl of fried rice and noodles resonating in oil and herbs, beef in a rich brown sauce, tofu fritters (let me preface that by saying, the most amazing conjugation of tofu I have ever eaten in my life) and green beans laced with many a coconut shaving.
You know that a meal has the makings of greatness when all of its participants are unperturbed by their neighbours and are shamelessly slurping, twirling and spooning the various offerings from their plate.
Take a peek at the photograph to follow and you'll see what I mean. My belly was satisfied.
-------
Dear Chickadees,
I am still on a 'travel plus food high' from my recent jaunt to Southeast Asia. Ofcourse I missed you terribly.
The Destination - Bali.
The Mandate - indulge in as much local food as humanly possible in one week.
The 'other' mandate - sink one's toes into the beautiful sandy beaches in Bali.
For weeks I'd been staring at a beautiful photo of a lush beach in Bali.The palm trees, that emerald hue of the ocean and the thought of sandals (aaaallllll the gorgeous sandals) made me wantonly weak and impatient. August couldn't come soon enough.
Embark we did but it was a long journey over the Pacific. Three days and two nights later we arrived (in retrospect I should have closely perused Kayak's offering of this very inexpensive itinerary which was too good to be true). Many, many planes and automobiles later we'd arrived and the same was true for the journey back home.
And it was a lovely holiday, indeed (a unanimously shared sentiment between us single gals).
Return we did with our souls refreshed and our bellies satisfied (you'll know what I mean, momentarily) accompanied by burgeoning suitcases filled with exotic teas, authentic Balinese cooking spices, one too many sarongs (I have yet to figure out how to wear these) and a few pairs of adorned and bejeweled sandals (don't give me that look sweet-pea; you already know of my love affair with footwear).
There were many firsts on this trip and I shall proceed to tell you about my two favourites - firstly, The Ocean Walk. In laymen's terms, imagine this (or for some of us, let's relive this) - You have friends who ski, surf, snow-board (you get the gist right, basically the athletic type) and some of these include scuba divers. These scuba diving friends of ours talk about their underwater excursions from time to time, all the lovely sea creatures they saw, that school of yellow fish they followed, the iridescent light that was aglow, that beautiful reef, rumors of buried antiquities and the expeditions to retrieve them and how much longer they can now breathe underwater. Now imagine,you, the non-athletic friend to these athlete friends, trying to emulate their excitement, head-bobbing all the while like you can relate to the "swimming with fish that look like Nemo", trying to stretch that smile (until your jaw hurts) as they regale you with their emphatic tales (and all the while secretly telling yourself "I can't swim and outside of a glass aquarium at SeaWorld, I'll never be close enough to touch God's magnificent underwater creation). Well chickadee that's me. And perhaps that's you too.
Until....I went Ocean-Walking. Now imagine, you're still the same friend who can't swim or scuba dive but this time you are strapped close to a diver (who does) and who'll take you all the way to the bottom of the ocean and land you gently on an old moss-ridden bridge where you can stand straight (hopefully finding your balance and holding the railings with one hand) and gaze in utter amazement at that school of yellow, blue and speckled fish coming your way. You can see the iridescent light from the mid-afternoon sun coquettishly making its way into the water, while those beautiful reeds are slowly dancing in perfect rhythm to the silent beat of a drum you cannot hear and those brilliant hues of blue and green are unlike any palette of paint you've ever seen.
I WAS UNDERWATER, CHICKADEE! I was enjoying front-row seats to my very own acquatic movie. I was inside that life-size version of an aquarium at SeaWorld. CAN YOU HEAR THE EXCITEMENT IN MY VOICE? For those ten minutes, the world was still. All was calm. We were detached from everything above us and out there as I stood in a mesmeric trance, a guest in their world. This beautiful ocean-world. My soul felt refreshed.
Ten minutes was all the time a novice like me could spend underwater sans-oxygen tank so the blissful, reverie was cut short. But the memory remains. The smile stayed while I alighted from the car and made my way back to the hotel room. This one will go with me for a very, long, time.
And I beseech you. If you can, my non-scuba diving friend, - Go.....Please.Go.Ocean.Walking.Soon.
The second-favourite highlight from the trip was gastronomic. Now imagine walking the local market in the morning, eye-locked with rows and rows of fresh produce, inhaling a stock of lemon-grass, that vivid red from sambal paste, feeling the skin of snake-fruit and the heady aroma from kaffir-lime leaves. That was me.
Shortly thereafter, we found ourselves in an aged, yet authentic Balinese kitchen. Rows and rows of wood panelling, spice jars filled with cumin and cloves, round (but heavy) mortar and pestles, and wide-brimmed woks. Our workspace was an old wooden table laden with fresh galangal, bright green beans, garlic, red chillies, long stalk of lemon grass, little jars of turmeric, aniseed and other glorious spices. Although it was a hot kitchen and the work was hard, it was the most blissful afternoon of chopping and grinding that I could recall in recent times. A mere three hours later, our table was graced with grilled fish skewers, a bowl of fried rice and noodles resonating in oil and herbs, beef in a rich brown sauce, tofu fritters (let me preface that by saying, the most amazing conjugation of tofu I have ever eaten in my life) and green beans laced with many a coconut shaving.
You know that a meal has the makings of greatness when all of its participants are unperturbed by their neighbours and are shamelessly slurping, twirling and spooning the various offerings from their plate.
Take a peek at the photograph to follow and you'll see what I mean. My belly was satisfied.
I have now returned to my life of chasing trains, mulling over the take-out menu and folding high-rise laundry. But every now and then I stop to linger and remind this singleton of her adventures in Bali.
And then, she smiles.
