Friends at the Bali Airport

I walk out of the airport, into the hot, wet, early evening darkness lit by the tall lamps of the Ngurah Rai parking lot. As I walk past the railing dividing me from those who are waiting for arrivals, only one taxi driver jumps up at me - he backs off quickly at my dismissive look. Usually five of them pull at me. Even they can tell it's different this time. I'm looking for Luhde and her husband Wayan. They are, I guess, my oldest friends in Bali. I spot Luhde, and we greet each other with smiles, squeals, hugs. She looks younger than ever; she looks fabulous. She cut her bangs and straightened her hair, she says, She wears light colored, trendy jeans and low, pointy, high-heeled shoes.

We look around for Wayan, who is looking for me in another spot. I've known Wayan forever, longer than I’ve known Luhde. Even though opposite sex friends really don't hug in Bali, we do anyway. Wayan knows all the skeletons in my closet, even more so than Luhde. Wayan looks the same. The kids aren't with them. When I see the kids, of course they won't remember me after three years. They will be bigger and more knowing; when I see them, the feeling I have of it having been only a few months since I've been away will be shown to be a lie.