My yoga class is tough but wonderful. It is nearly as warm outside in KL as it is in the 105 degree studio. The class is intimate, five students, with a sprightly traditional Bikram teacher. The only guy in the class asks me a few questions following the ninety minute session, he is also a yoga teacher but in California and is shocked that I am attending class on a less than 24 hour layover. There is always time for yoga as long as one knows what time zone one is in.
Back to collect my bags where I am greeted by a French guy who shares that there is a group of Swedish girls also heading to Bali. I jump on the swift monorail, one reminding me of Disney land without Mickey, followed by another clean bus ride from the main monorail station that lands me at the Air Asia airport. Free luggage carts, free wifi, delicious options for cheap nourishment…the Kuala Lumpur airport presents it all. This is no JFK.
I snooze briefly before landing in a new country. Hello Indonesia!
I do briefly wonder what time it is here. Does it matter? Probably not unless one cares to attend yoga.
At the airport I am questioned thoroughly at customs/immigration. I do not have an outbound flight and perhaps the officer can smell that I will love it here and overextend my 30 day tourist visa. I show him my yoga mat and interior contents of my bag, assuring him that I have no intention to make money or become an illegal resident. But who knows how I will feel tomorrow…
I share a taxi to Ubud with none other than the Swedish girls, taking myself for a long and rainy ride to the home of a friend of a friend that I met in Laos. At the main road I embark and sit on the back of a motorbike, backpack and all, covered by a rain poncho and balancing on the shoulders of a chubby local Bali man as we scoot along an unpaved path through what it seems like a jungle. In a compound of what seems like a resort, I enter a home and am greeted by a sleepy homeowner who crawls down his spiral staircase to quickly say hi and welcome me into his palace. I am forewarned that someone will be preparing breakfast quite early and that it may be a bit smelly, I think I can handle it.
It is after midnight before I crash on the nicest couch in the main room where floor length glass windows reveal the lush forest of tropical trees that surround. The bathroom is twice the size of my bedroom in Brooklyn, made of all natural materials and lined with smooth rocks; I want to sleep in the tub. The house is a work of art, a place featured in design magazines. Wow.
I have seen the Balinese motorbike driver before in my dreams, the home present as well. The dejavu is immense; I am present where I am intended to be.