Kuta Beach

Despite, my misgivings about solo travel I arrived in Bali yesterday afternoon where I will stay until tonight sans copilot. I did this for two reasons. One, my flight from Samarinda was on the local Lion Air which is notoriously undependable and much delayed. I wanted to make sure there was absolutely no chance that I could miss my non-refundable and non-changeable flight to the land down under [Indonesia is interesting and exotic and everything, but it is also exhausting and smells bad and I could really use a little break that includes wine, a best friend from LA, and at least looking at gentleman I could not comfortably fit in my back pocket]. Secondly, I actually don't mind my new nightlife that consists of Pizza Hut and bootleg DVDs, but I was too dazzled by the prospect of eating at a different chain restaurant and doing some yoga to pass up an extra day away from the dusty mining town in Borneo I call home for now.

I decided to book a hotel in Kuta even though it is a lot like the Jersey Shore of Bali, except for the fact that it is filed with Germans and Australians instead of Italian Americans. I figured if people are constantly talking about how tacky and awful it is, I should see for myself. It is also where The Bikram Yoga Studio is [which in one of only two in the entire archipelago]. Besides, I didn't really feel like going to see any breathtaking temples on my own. That would go on my What I Don't Like To Do While Traveling Alone List. On the other hand, I figured that I would have no problem doing yoga, enjoying some lunch at the Hard Rock cafe, and stocking up on bootleg DVDs without a partner in crime.

Things got off to a bumpy start. I was reminded of why it is not really a good idea to book the cheapest hotel on Orbitz. Oddly, Orbitz had forgotten to mention that there was no cable, no WiFi, and that The Champlung Hotel was sandwiched in between two very active construction sights. The place was real dingy, the man at the front desk had crossed eyes, and the bathroom was about as nice as the one I refuse to use for showering in my little house in Borneo. The number of hotel guests in the restaurant? Zero. The number of hotel guests by the pool? Zero. The number of hotel guests at the pool bar? Zero. The Champlung Hotel sorta made me wish that I had packed a rape whistle and a body bag to avoid possibly contracting scabies.

Forget it, I thought. I am only here to do some yoga before my trip. So I walked to the studio which was pleasantly located in an under construction shopping center where most of the stores seemed to be closed and there were almost no other people. However, I went in and found three very nice and helpful people at the front desk. I went upstairs to change thinking that things had begun to turn around. However, I, of course, realized I had forgotten my yoga pants. There was one pair for sale by the front desk, but they were $120 USD. This was a little bit more than I was looking to spend. They gave me directions to a nearby surf shop. On the way, I passed a big, dead cat. Shit, I thought. I'm not an animal person, but that just can't be a good omen. My mellow was really starting to get pretty harshed.

The first shop had only children's clothes. The second shop showed my 3 pairs of shorts they claimed were for a full grown person but looked as though they would have fit one of my thighs, and not that comfortably. Even though the shop girl assured me they had nothing else, I spied a pair in another section that looked like they might fit. I scooped them up, paid, and ran to the yoga studio.

Luckily, I made it in time and begun the standing series. Usually, after a long hiatus from Bikram you feel like you understand how people feel in the desert just before they give up and die during the 90 minute class in 110 degree heat. Apparently, however, after pretty much giving up drinking, quitting smoking, and loosing a few pounds [literally, just a few], and living on the Equator for 4 months the heat and the yoga combination become a little easier. The teacher was a handsome Chilean who told me after he used to teach at my favorite Bikram studio on The Lower East Side. I was relaxed. My day was saved. I then went back to the hotel, drank a diet coke [which had the hotel initials written on the top, I'm guessing as proof it came from the mini fridge in case I tried to deny drinking anything at check out time], and watched the only channel with something in English. It was some sort of Viking movie that made me think of Johnny Drama from Entourage.

Yes, the hotel was still gross. Yes, there was the mysterious sound of hammering and sawing outside my room at 9pm. Yes, there was an unidentifiable animal scratching somewhere in the walls. But the door was locked and I knew the chances of someone coming to try to and human traffic me were very slim [one of the benefits of being on the wrong side of 30]. Besides, one time during a road trip of the Pacific Northwest with a frugal friend I stayed here:

The Hometel Inn in Tacoma, Washington was a truck stop. It was by far the scariest place in the world. There appeared to be a party of 5 ex-cons spending the night in the room next to us, not sleeping. There also seemed to be holes in the wall and other signs of a recent struggle. Most disturbingly, there seemed to be a booming business for lot lizards since several rooms had the door wide open with truckers standing in the doorway looking like we had come to sell ourselves to them as we made our way to our room after checking in very late. Since I made it through the night at the Hometel Inn unscathed, I don't scare so easily at less than luxurious accommodations anymore. [However, when my same friend tried the same shenanigans on a road trip to Baltimore he was overruled by me and the rest of the group. We were all avid fans of The Wire and had no intentions of waking up in the vacants with Chris and Snoop.]

As for the rest of Kuta... Well, my feelings could be the result of two possibilities. The first possibility is that going to prep school [which mainly taught me I'm not actually that preppy] and a fancy European university for my Junior Year Abroad, failed to give me a sense of economic ambition or a love for men in Polo shirts and boat shoes [the kind really for boats, not the ironic hipster kind], but did in fact leave me a little bit of a cultural elitist. The second possibility, is that Kuta actually is just as gross as everybody says. These are some of the tourist items for sale down the block from my hotel. I'll let you decide for yourself.

I would like to point out that I am not even sure what all of those stickers even mean.