Bali: On seeing 'Tut after three year absence

I've told 'Tut to come by the next morning. I've been traveling 27 hours, and I know I'll look it. I also know I'll just want to fall into a dreamless sleep as soon as I get to my room in Ubud. Wayan drives me to a hotel where I know I won't stay more than a few nights, and we go through the de rigeur price negotiation. I almost fall asleep in the middle of it. I end up with a room at the end of south Jesus Land, down and up and up and up so many steps. My knee hurts after so many hours on the plane, and these steps will do it no good. But it’s too late and I’m too tired to look elsewhere. I know I'm paying too much for the room because it's in the middle of Monkey Forest Rd.

Tomorrow I'll see Putuh to rent a motorbike and get the hell out of Dodge - I want to ride through the rice fields, past grandmothers in sarongs on their way to bathe, past temples and family compounds. I go into Ubud for entertainment or the occasional dinner. I can't stand living there even for a few days. But here I am at this smug, dingy hotel.

The next morning I'm sitting on the porch in front of my room reading a book about some journalist’s adventures in India when I see 'Tut mounting the steps, his lanky gait, his familiar laugh. He looks good. We hug and it feels right. He is as I remember. Years of talking on the phone. Why does it seem a week? Bali has always left me feeling a bit confused. And so has 'Tut.