Red Paper Crane.

The journey started in the departure lounge at Singapore Airport. I had grown used to the friendly Singaporians around me and fine with having no idea what most of them were saying, enjoying my little tourist bubble. Then I find myself in room full of Australians and Americans – surrounded by English and accents and things I understand and this makes me a little sad. I kind of liked not being in Kansas any more.

I spent the majority flight drawing bear diagrams and listening to Yo La Tengo. I was apprehensive. My desision to go to Bali was made on the spur of the moment which is so many ways is not me. I like my travel at the very least sketched in with a base coat. I had bought a ticket on this flight merely the day before yesterday.

The original plan was to terrorise* Europe with some friends. Their flight hadn’t even left Sydney but they had a plan B. You see, they may not consider themselves so but my friends are really very well connected. They happen to be friends with a lass who manages a resort spa in Bali.

And this lovely lass heard about their plight and offered them a cheap semi-holiday. And having never met me in her life, she also offered it to me as well. Internet, this chick is awesome.

So when we found out that no, we would not be meeting on Paris. We decided to meet in Bali. We would drown our sorrows with sunshine, then figgure out where to go next. Which is how I found myself nervously perched in an uncomfrtable budget airline prepairing to land at Denpasaar airport.

Nothing makes you feel more like a terrorist than landing in Bali. The queues you must wait in, the money you must pay. The adreniline of getting though customs without being mistakingly arrested for drug smuggling had made me giddy so I was caught off guard by the official looking young fellow in a shirt asking me if thist was my first time in Bali. Just so you all know (because I didn’t) these guys are porters who carry your bag for a small fee. I totally got suckered. I could carry my own bag and he wouldn’t let me, I had to pay him to give me my bag back and leave me alone. Apparently this is just the way Bali is and once you get over the fact that you’re being ripped off and and relax a little things become more pleasant.

After that it was a nervous cab ride to the resort, and then a nervous discussion with a bell man about how no, I was not a guest at the hotel, yes I was staying with a friend who worked at the hotel. His eyes lit up “Ah you are Miss Tess! Wait one moment please thank you!” And he ran away from me as if I had told him I had ebola. So, I waited, getting more and more nervous. The other hotel staff had started giving me curious looks. Im just standing there In the lobby of this amazing hotel and I can see they’re just itching to run over to help.

But as fast as he had disappeared he returned with a two very familiar faces and one not so familiar.

There was relieved hugging and happy introductions and many “thankyous!” and “good to see yous!” and I was whisked though a maze of shops, hotel rooms, pools of Koi, flowerbeds, and sculptures to the suites. Damn, I was staying in Bali, in an awesome hotel, in the suites, for basically nothing. During the walk to the room I’m pretty sure I was internally high fiving myself all the way.

Thus commenced six days of eating amazing food, dipping in and out of amazing pools, drinking waaaaay too much and generally having an awesome time. I’m a little embarrassed to say that we didn’t venture out far from the resort. There was a night out were we drank even more and visited hilariously dodgy night clubs in Kuta. And a day or two where we ventured out to Nusa Dua to take advantage of a very favourable exchange rate.

Speaking of shopping and embarrassing, I struggled profoundly with using the local currency – the Rupea. It could have been due to my being slightly tipsy a lot of the time. Or maybe the amount of zeros on the end of everything (usually three, sometimes four). Or possibly because of my being slightly tipsy a lot of the time.

This confusion cumulated in me waving a 20 000 Rupea note and telling my friends a bit too loudly “I’ll pay, I’ll pay!” only being told that “That’s worth about $2 dumbass” (the word dumbass was not actually used, but it definitely a synonym). I spent the rest of my time asking sheepishly “is this enough?”.

My stay in Bali tragically cumulated in the loss of my Credit card. A call to my bank and a flight home. Yes, this particular holiday of mine was 100% Egyptian tomb, witch doctor, African American hoodoo cursed.

Listing the various and many ways that things went awry would just make me sad and that would be doing a great disservice to my stay in Bali. So instead I’ll finish with a list of things that one should do if one manages to get their ass to Bali.

• Put on that one fancy dress that you’ve got smooshed at the bottom of your bag, go to Ku De Ta and drink as many cocktails as your personal constitution will allow.
• Parasailing. Seriously. And while you’re up there make sure you take in the view.
• Spend an entire day poolside, get to know your local pool boy. Accept any complements he throws your day as genuine, because even if you know better – it’ll make you feel great.
• Wake up early for a yoga class on the roof of your hotel. Enjoy the reflection of your bum at various ridiculous angles. Afterwards enjoy the tiny-humming-birds-in-the-muscles feeling.
• Make a habit out of attending cocktails at 5. Get to know your waiter there too.

* Just to be clear – because I’ve read a few stories of wacko police forces arresting folk for using the T word in jest, Im gonna be real clear here – by terrorise I mean eating lots of local food, drinking lots of local booze, maybe doing some really bad dancing then passing out not quite in my hotel bed. There may be some beltching, but no bombs.

I think it was when the elevator arrived on the Emirates floor that I knew I wouldn’t be going. There was a man in a suit and a name tag surrounded by people, he was talking to an Indian fellow who was complaining that his family got free accommodation in Dubai so why did he have to pay here?

There was a family nearby sitting on the floor, mum was leaning on dads shoulder, little brother and little sister were asleep in their parents laps drooping like dolls. A teenager complained to to her father that the battery to her iPod had just like gone flat and that this was lame and could they please just go back to the hotel because they were playing Sex in the City soon on tv and she’d only seen that episode ‘like-once’.

^{( ↑ This dude had the very worst job in the world that day)}

I approached a man that had a funny lopsided sad smile and asked where the back of the queue, he pointed at a little machine and told me I could get a number.

The counter was up to 62, I got 183. I sat down on the floor next to a woman reading a guide book.

After about 40 minutes I tried talking to the man in the suit with the name tag who was still surrounded by people. He took one look at my itinerary and smiled a grimace at me.

“I don’t think your connection from Dubai to Paris will fly. There is a possiblity that we won’t even be allowed to put you on the flight TO Dubai. ”

Heart, meet my shoes.

“Can I get a different flight?”
“No”

“I’m going to have to wait in this queue for a refund?”
“Yes.”

I went to take my spot back on the floor when the lady who had been sitting next to me with the guide book handed me her number.

“I don’t need to wait” she said. Her accent was French.

“Are you sure?”

She handed the peice of paper to me, it was 103. I thanked her profusely and she turned and headed for the elevator. I just want to say in case that lovely lady by chance reads this. Thank you again.

At this stage it was up to 72 or similar. Phil and I whiled away the time playing monopoly on my iPhone. And I occasionally would call out the number on the screen, fufilling an vauge urge to help this tired mass of people around me.

When my number was called I jumped up like I had won bingo.

The lady at the counter’s name was Margret. She had a gold nametag and had already dealt with many bingo winners today and clearly the excitement had worn off. She squinted at my itinerary.

“I can send this to the Melbourne office, they will give you a refund” she then stamped and stuck and wrote stuff all over my itnarary. Told me thankyou and motioned for me to leave.

My bingo prize didn’t seem as exciting as when my number was called – what kind of idiot gets excited about NOT going to Europe.

That night in the hotel in Singapore just after I had gotten into bed I felt sad, then annoyed then I totally paniced. What if my flight flew? What if the Emirates man was wrong? I had been waiting for this for 5 months. What if I had just given away my only chance to see Paris? What if the volcano never goes away and the only way to travel in the future is on curise liners stuffed with old folk?

Im pretty sure that volcano-stunted-holidays are very much a first world issue and that really I should have been ok with being in Singapore in the first place. But I wasn’t ok with it, so I had a bit of a moment. I know there are starving kids out there and some Americans dont know where it is on a map but I really really wanted to go to Europe. And I wasn’t going to Europe. And that sucked, so I cried.

The train from Valencia to Barcelona had a hostess. She handed out headphones and sweets. I was more than a little bit ratty when we got there, nothing to do with the train hostess though. The overnight train from Granada to Valencia had resulted in my brain leaving me for someone younger, prettier and more awake. So I arrived in Barcelona with a little black storm cloud over my head.

Intrepid make the city orientation tour mandatory so after dumping my pack and surveying my hotel room (a triple with views of a classic Spanish construction site complete with grunty apes posing as construction workers) I grudgingly continued being a social animal.

We were wandering down one of the many little alley ways that make up Bari Gothic when I realised that I was smiling. First there was bar with finger food skewered with assorted sticks of different length, that denoting their price. The food was good too, I love tiny food, and it was all so fresh and interesting.

Then the shopping district that featured store after store that seemed specifically stocked as to send me completely broke. These were punctuated with boutique chocolate, lolly, tea and ice cream stores at a frequency found only in an obese 12 year old’s dreams.

Next, just past las Ramblas was the fruit market, furnished with fruit so colourful Im sure I’ve since gone blind. No colour will ever be as bright to me again. And next to the fruit; juice, candied nuts and little pink faced children(and I) staring at the potential banquet in awe.

I was more than happy to walk miles in that city. So we trekked up Las Ramblas, past Casa Batlló and La Pedrera to the Sagrada Familia. And while the apartments and the cathedral were beautiful, awe inspiring, everything the tourists describe them as. I didn’t get really excited until I saw his drawings in the museum, which released that wonderful burst of creativity you get from being inspired.

On then to the Fundacio Joan Miro, Park Güell, Museu Picasso de Barcelona then back to Las Ramblas, always back to Las Ramblas. It didn’t matter where I went that day, I always ended up back there. It was like the city’s spine.

It was an amazing place; all fun, interesting, odd and alive. I drank from the Fountain of Canaletas so I’m going back one day. I’m even glad for the dark little cloud I arrived with because the sudden juxtaposition made it all seem so bright.

On my last day it rained, I caught a train to the airport and stared out windows until my flight boarded.

Getting off the plane was a bit rough too, my poor little body is protesting loudly. My feet were swollen to the point where my shoes ceased to fit and I had to take them off and go lay down. And I’m extremely unsteady on my feet and all hot and cold, like motion sickness without the nausea, which actually makes sense because I took anti nausea medication at the start of the flight.

I’ve just treated myself to a proper coffee (I may have neglected to mention that coffee in Spain is awful and/or odd) and a Mrs. Fields chock chip cookie of doom which has cheered me up almost completely. I also spent 15 min in my favorite Changi bathroom washing and preening.

Some other technical glitches I’m currently experiencing are:

1. I have 3 types of currency in my wallet right now; Euro, Singaporean Dollars and Australian dollars. And in my present state I can;t tell the difference between them.
2. The flight freaked the skin on my face out and made me all spotty. Looking in the mirror gave me a fright.
3. Changi is HOT.
4. The Koi ponds here are distracting, Can I get a pet Koi fish?
5. Didn’t buy Absinthe in Amsterdam and now wish I did, silly me

All this aside, I’m glad its all uncomfortable like on the way back, and not on the way there. Else conquering Madrid would have been a complete pain. I realise I haven’t done a write up on Barcelona yet either, its a beautiful wonderful city and I want to do it justice and sit down and write about it properly (I’m standing right now, using the internet and sitting down are mutually exclusive and Changi airport apparently).

A few days ago I uploaded Photos of my adventures;
http://flickr.com/photos/tessfrench/sets/72157605412224239/

Home in 11 hours and counting.