Let Them Eat Omakase!

May 25th, 2024

Canggu, Bali, Indonesia

Yesterday was my first full-moon night in Bali.  Its totality burnt in a round white hole that perforated the night sky, illuminating the earth’s surface with a cool glow.  I waded in ankle-high seawater, clutching the creased fabric of my hiked-up dress pants at my knees to keep them dry, and craned my neck up to transfix my eyes on the Flower Moon of May.  The blown-out, metronomic bass of nearby house music rumbled my solar plexus.  It, along with the white-noise whispers of wave-break and the jumbled chatter of a growing party crowd, flooded my eardrums.  But the cacophony of these stimuli failed to break my concentration on the cosmos.  The intermittent clouds of the night sky were beautifully backlit by a glowing silver sphere.  Its geometric perfection gripped me.  

Fifteen minutes of hypnosis elapsed before I averted my gaze and pivoted it towards the lapping waves of the Indian Ocean crashing onto Canggu’s shore.  The ominous blackness of seawater at night is terrifyingly humbling.  Curbed in the shallows, I felt safe enough to admire the roaring current without pushing my luck.  With its endless expanse stretching far beyond the curve of the distant horizon, its depths unfathomable, and its ecosystem nearly-extraterrestrial, the ocean embodies impenetrable mystery.  Our species’ ignorance of its secrets is a relief, an antidote to the perpetually ravenous conquest which has become our legacy.  I invoked the image of an earth completely submerged in water, a smooth liquid sphere where all our human creations have been reduced to naturally decomposing uniformity.  

Through this visualization, I meditated on the fragile and fleeting nature of the rave that was beginning to ramp up behind me.  Spinning around to face the action, I felt its strobe-LEDs polluting my eyes.  I was at Potato Head, a grandiose and trendy beach club at which PNNY, a Balinese techno-music collective, was performing.  Raja, Diane, and I had been invited to this DJ set by Raja’s friend from high school, but we’d arrived far too early.  The beats were booming, but the club was empty.  We killed as much time as possible by languidly feasting on Potato Head’s predictably-delicious dinner menu, but the dancefloor was still bare by the time we’d licked our plates clean.  Coming from Nebraska and New York, respectively, neither Diane nor I had ever been to a rave on the beach; we took advantage of the juxtaposition, in one final effort to wait out the party’s awkward beginning-phase, by taking a walk on the shore.  

Thanks to the irresistible full moon, the timing of the stroll escaped me.  Diane had long since left me behind to join the blooming crowd of dancers, but I was too enthralled to accompany her.  Both the swelling tide and my attentive eyes were manifestations of the moon’s gravitational pull.  My feet grounded in the wet sand and my face absorbing the reflected solar rays of the moonface, I let Mother Nature charge me with her energy.  I planned on transmuting this energy into frenetic gyration, the pervasively kinetic movement required of ravegoers.  Before long, my spirit felt as full as the Flower Moon.  A booming howl escaped from my throat; my inner werewolf emerged as a techno club rat. In my feral sprint back to the dancefloor, I neglected to put my shoes back on.  

Over the next four hours, I got lost in the blur of sweating and swaying bodies, all obeying the beat.  My stamina seemed infinite.  Through indescribable dancing that felt beyond my control, I celebrated the scarcity of the present moment.  I’ve been sober for six months, but only last night did I gain the ability to truly express my unintoxicated self in these nightlife spaces so rife with substances.  Not only did the drinks and drugs abound fail to seduce me, but the atmosphere’s blaring music and dim lighting brought me to an introspective mindset of solitary self-discovery on the dancefloor.  Closing my eyes as I bobbed to the sequenced drums, I soared away from the congestion of the communal dancefloor into the vacuous mental privacy of moving meditation.  Back in America, most of my nightclub experiences were muddled by the desire to be perceived and inebriated, but last night’s dancing was a spiritually healing act.  

At the night’s end, the anthropological iconicity of this cultural ritual dawned on me as I floated towards the club’s exit.  Despite the brief history of the techno scene, it has amassed seas of worshiping disciples.  I was honored to have received my formative indoctrination.  

There’s no telling whether history will preserve the legacy that this global community of clubbers built.  It could all wash away.  But, though its nuanced specifics may be fickle, inching towards their expiry, the dance floor's core purpose of soulful release is evergreen.  Humans have gathered around pounding drums for millennia.  When I look up at the moon, rhythmically orbiting our planet, I understand that there will always be a beat for us to dance to.

May 26th, 2024

Penida Island, Indonesia 

I tucked into my bed sheets around one in the morning after getting home from the club.  Groggily, I woke up five hours later, at six.  I’m usually willing to make any sacrifice necessary to get nine restful hours of uninterrupted shut-eye — healthy sleeping habits are the foundation of my self-love — but my excitement for the day ahead tempted me to cut corners.  Penida Island, a remote speck off the coast of Bali’s shores, was the destination that Raja, Diane, and I had risen so early for.  I knew absolutely nothing about the island, but Raja’s enthusiastic suggestion for us to venture there earned my unconditional trust and curiosity.  Tiny, remote islands have always fascinated me for their seclusion and lack of infrastructure: they are the perfect place to get lost.

So, clueless about the itinerary ahead, I emerged from bed unrested but hopeful.  I scrawled in my handwritten notebook for a few minutes, practiced some brief asana and meditation, packed my bathing suit and towel into my backpack, brushed my teeth, and walked out the door.  

We took an hour-long car ride to an hour-long ferry ride to an hour-long taxi ride which left us at Penida Island’s Kelingking Beach, one of the most stunning feats of nature I’ve ever witnessed.  From the vista where the taxi left us, we saw two humongous limestone cliffs, jutting out into the sea, fiercely guarding a gorgeous intersection of white sand and turquoise water.  Merely peering down at the pristine enclave that was hidden and protected by the steep crags that bordered it invited tranquility to wash over me.  To our surprise, the shore was quite empty in spite of its beauty; we would soon find out why.  

Like sailors compelled towards the song of seductive sirens, we impulsively embarked on the path down to the beach, fiending for a swim in its clear and vibrant water.  The foot trail introduced itself as a moderate staircase of smooth stone steps, but the conditions grew more steep and rugged as we descended from the cliff’s peak towards its base.  Within minutes, we found ourselves gingerly scurrying down the vertical wall of raw limestone.  Luckily, ledged footholds had been eroded into the cliff face by the repeated steps of countless hikers.  If not for those points of anchor, the surreal cay would be reserved exclusively for brave and seasoned rock climbers.  The wooden railings that lined the route were also massively helpful, but we gripped them reluctantly, for the sweltering midday sun left them piping hot.  Verily, the solar rays were heating more than just the wood and rock we trudged upon: our bodies sweat profusely and grew fatigued under the bright, cloudless sky.  

Frankly, I was enjoying myself immensely in spite of all these obstacles; I adore hikes with high barriers of entry.  Their difficulty makes Mother Nature’s every gift feel like a reward for strenuous exertion.  The challenge created by the demanding landscape thrilled me.  My rigorous yoga routine prepared me for the lengthy exercise, too; I kept my body relaxed, my breath slow, and my mind grateful.  I’m certainly not an adrenaline junkie — I lament confrontations with serious danger, being a lover of peace — but I deeply enjoy letting the untamed outdoors remind me of my weakness and mortality.  

Diane, on the other hand, was facing adversity during her descent.  The distance from foothold to foothold was often longer than her legs could reach.  Her heavy backpack only made her journey more draining.  As our water supply dwindled, she risked heatstroke.  I stopped for frequent seated rests with her, sharing my water and eventually carrying her backpack.  

My backpack against my spine, along with hers against my chest, became my very own turtle shell.  The added weight expedited my ramble towards the beach.  

When I finally buried my feet in the soft white sand, the relief felt sweet and indulgent knowing that I’d made it past the beach’s sedimentary gatekeeper.  I tore off my clothes and baggage immediately, then charged towards the cool blue of the lapping waves.  I’d made it to knee-deep water when I realized how dangerously strong the current was.  Keeping my feet planted, the volatile tide fell to my ankles one moment and rose to my waist the next.  As the firm recession of each wave followed its booming crash, I risked being toppled over by the pressurized sea.  In fact, I was tripped by backdraft multiple times, falling face-first into the wake.  

Adapting to the consequences of my swim, I resolved to explore the safety of the shore.  I traced the walls of a cave with my fingertips, climbed an ancient tree, and wrote Raja’s name in the sand.  The beach was populating by the minute.  I could identify the trekkers who’d just completed their sketchy declivity by their hasty dashes towards the sea.  

Unfortunately, we could only stay at this paradise for an hour, since our taxi driver had instructed us to return to the parking lot by three-thirty in order to make it to the final departing ferry by five; we’d alloted generous time for the climb back up, given the surprising difficulty of the journey down.  Still, I cherished every second of the rewarding bask. 

Our returning ascent was even more treacherous and exhausting than our previous tumble down the trail.  I was thankfully able to keep my composure, but Raja joined Diane in winded exasperation.  They took regular pauses to sit and catch their breath.  On one of these breaks, I checked the time and saw that it was three-thirty-six.  We were only halfway up the cliff, so I decided to sprint ahead towards our taxi driver — who was waiting for us in the parking lot — to prepare him for an accelerated drive back to the port.  

I made it to the parking lot by three-forty-five, informed the driver about the reason for Raja and Diane’s tardiness, and gulped a liter of water to rehydrate.  I pat myself on the back, grateful for my endurance and bravery.  Our driver was initially anxious about rushing us to our ferry, but looked fully prepared to cosplay as a Formula One driver by the time Raja and Diane writhed up to the spot where we waited.  

He certainly didn’t disappoint, but his speed came with a costly repercussion.  As his sedan barreled down the winding roads of the island’s irregular terrain, the water I’d drank sloshed around violently in my stomach.  Suddenly, I was overcome with nausea, feeling liquid rising up my esophagus.  The incident recalled buried childhood trauma: in my youth, I would throw up at the drop of a hat.  One time, my body accustomed to getting motion sickness on planes, I vomited in the aisle of an aircraft as I was boarding it, solely because I’d caught a whiff of the unmistakable smell of its cabin.  Another time, from the backseat of my family’s car, I blew chunks all over its windshield as we drove down a zigzagged mountain road.  I really thought those days were behind me. 

The ferry ride back to the island of Bali was no less emetic.  The choppy waves of the channel tossed our boat about, leaving the vessel airborne for seconds at a time.  I was a bilious mess by that point.  Five hours of sleep, three hours of perfidious climbing, and one hour of diabolical auto-swerving had left me wrecked.  Yearning to be under my soft blanket, I accepted that my neglect of bedtime had caught up to me.  One thing was for sure: I was bound to sleep like a log as soon as my head hit the pillow.  

But I had no regrets.  I was paying a small and reasonable price for the wonder I’d experienced on Penida Island.  Pushing my limits and living to tell the tale is a blessing and achievement.  I’ll be eagerly sharing my photos of Kelingking Beach for years to come, itching for an audience to prompt this soliloquy of recounted hardship.  

May 27th, 2024

Seminyak, Bali, Indonesia

This afternoon, I was talking to the front camera of my iPhone when a disgruntled middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt walked past my table in the back of an empty beachside restaurant.  I paused my monologue to greet him warmly, adding, “don’t mind me, I’m just recording a video for social media.”  

“Of course you are,” he grumbled back in an Australian accent.  

I was taken aback by his judgmental retort, but nonetheless maintained my composure.  I replied, “Talking to camera is very typical of my generation, I know.  But I’m just updating my friends and family back home on the status of my travels.  Speaking of which, what brings you to Bali?”

He entertained my question, confessing, “A much needed vacation from my job.  I’m a recovered drug addict, and, for the past few years, I’ve been working at the rehab center that healed me.  Usually, I’m able to keep a reasonable boundary with the work, but I haven’t been able to escape it lately.  I got here six days ago, but today is the first day that I’ve finally felt my pace slow down.  Now I don’t want to leave!”

“They’ll have to drag us both to the airport as we kick and scream in protest,” I chuckled.  “I relate; I really don’t want to leave either.  As a yoga teacher, I place immense importance on the act of slowing down and resting.  Also, I’m from New York, so I’m no stranger to toxically fast-paced environments.  You should be very proud that you came on this vacation.  And congratulations on your recovery, by the way.”

“Thank you. To tell you the truth, I feel like I could really use some yoga.  But I’m stuck in this rut where I hate the world and I hate people and I don’t feel motivated to do anything.  I can’t help but feel like a bleak cancer has spread across the globe over the past two-hundred years.”

Touched, my heart swelled with empathy.  I thought carefully about the next words I chose, feeling a steadfast desire to uplift his sorrowful vibration.  Finally, I remarked, “Sober joy is one of the greatest acts of rebellion that we’re capable of.  By finding your peace and gratitude now, you can humiliate the substances which once controlled your happiness.  I hope that the tranquility of this island lingers in your spirit when you return home.”  

He muttered his thanks, guarding his emotions behind a poker face, and returned to his table. 

I’ve been thinking about him all day.  It pains me that some people — especially my elders — perceive the world with such cynicism.  From my perspective, our pessimism is the cancer itself.  Of course the Anthropocene is a disgrace, but nature will prevail.  We, as humans, are the ones who will suffer the consequences of our vain actions, but to imply that we’re ending the world is a terribly conceited notion.  Our species’ extinction cannot be conflated with the perishing of the Earth.  Energy simply cannot be created or destroyed, only transmuted. 

As such, I plan on celebrating my brief blip on this planet by honoring its unchanging nature.  I owe it to my undying soul to make the most of this human vessel.  That mission definitely entails my dispersal of the jubilant hope I carry.  It would be an honor to become a missionary of yogic philosophy.  

I truly hope that my Australian friend finds his sober joy.  

May 28th, 2024

Kuta Beach, Bali, Indonesia

The Hindu population of Bali begins each morning with Sesajen, a sacrificial offering to the Gods consisting of flowers, food, and lit incense sticks placed in a palm-leaf bowl.  While assembling these divine gifts, words of devotion and gratitude are recited, centering and uplifting all who participate in the ritual.  The colorful bouquets and their trails of scented smoke – set at the entrance of all homes and establishments – decorate every Balinese street that I walk down.  This morning, as Raja and I were waiting in line for the cash register at Pepito Supermarket, I noticed that the Sesajen arrangement which the cashier had placed upon his checkout counter held an interesting ingredient: between the jasmine and marigold flowers rested a hand-rolled cigarette.  I leaned over to Raja and jokingly unpacked the dire implications of offering such an inflammatory substance to supreme Gods.  He matched my mischievous humor in his response, confiding that he would consistently steal bites of food from the Sesajen trays back when he was too young to know any better.  

The reason for our grocery-store-outing was our ongoing hunt for durian, a spiky bowling-ball-sized fruit which has earned a polarizing reputation throughout Asia for its stinky fragrance and bold flavor.  I’m a passionate fruit lover, and Bali has introduced me to several new stimulating and tasty species, including passionfruit, mangosteen, snakefruit, and more.  Durian, however, has become the apple of my eye above all else.  The prospect of tasting its notorious pulp is as exciting to me as visiting any landmark or attraction.  Unfortunately, though, durian is out of season in May; since Balinese supermarkets mainly sell fresh, local, in-season produce – unlike American ones – our search has been fruitless.  On Raja’s recommendation, I settled for a starfruit in compromise.  I’d never even seen one before, but was stunned by the beauty of its exterior: it looked like a bright-green bell pepper with the cross-section of a five-pointed star.  

Back at the villa, I cut open the starfruit and gave it a taste.  It had the texture of an apple, the seeds of a cucumber, and the flavor of a sour melon.  I found it to be addictively delicious.  In order to stop myself from rapidly inhaling the entire fruit, I arranged its remaining slices on a wooden cutting board.  I brought the platter to Diane’s room, where we leisurely nibbled on the starfruit as we discussed its characteristics.  

That afternoon, the three of us ventured to Kuta Beach in hopes of flying a kite. Kites are a central component of recreational culture in Bali: no matter where I am on the island, I see a smattering of kites when I look up at the sky.  I asked Raja why kite-flying is so popular here, expecting the act to hold as much depth and symbolism as Sesajen.  He shrugged, “Because it’s fun?”  

The stroll we took down Kuta Beach’s boardwalk was lined with vendors of fresh coconuts, beers, and surfboard rentals, but nobody seemed to be selling kites.  Just as our spirit started to sink in disappointment, we approached a beachside skate park, where we stopped to admire the canter of boarders whizzing about.  The park was void of advanced adults, filled instead by an after-school camp of elementary schoolers who were being taught to skate by a boy my age.  The pupils donned thick pads on their knees and shoulders, Vans sneakers, and oversized helmets.  The teacher, fluent on his own board, supportively nudged his students down ramps and out of their comfort zones.  I saw the children smile as they dropped in on quarter-pipes, hit ollies, and jumped stairs for the first time.  

The sight brought me back home.  Before coming to Bali, I’d been working as an elementary-school music teacher for two years.  The job challenged me immensely, but each class filled me with life nonetheless.  The energetic, creative, innocent, and curious youth that I was tasked with educating imparted their immense and effortless brilliance upon me.  Saying goodbye to them broke my heart.  Several students hugged me tightly and shed tears when I left.  I hope to continue teaching young people for the rest of my life.  Witnessing this skate camp resurrected that determination.  

Our kite-flying determination was also fulfilled by kids.  As we descended from the boardwalk onto the sandy shore, we found a group of boys – they looked like they were eight – huddled beside a six-foot-tall white kite.  After working up my courage, I asked them whether they’d be willing to help us fly it.  Our language barrier prevented us from exchanging complex verbal ideas, but they gesturally obliged nevertheless.  Immediately, they ran to the kite, beginning to mess with its wooden skeleton and transparent fishing line.  They reminded me of the scouts from Moonrise Kingdom as they scurried around, barking eager commands at each other.  The wind was too scarce for any meaningful flight, but they still managed to levitate the kite for a few seconds before watching it fall onto a walking stranger’s head.  

I brought their whimsy home from the beach with me.  I’m holding it close to my chest.  

May 29th, 2024

Renon, Bali, Indonesia

I’m floored by the robust nutritional content of Bali’s cheapest, most casual food.  One popular snack that I’ve seen several vendors slinging on the beach is baked tofu drizzled with peanut sauce.  Another is fresh coconut, served with a straw and spoon; first its water is sipped, then its meat is scooped.  By far, the most popular dish among the island’s locals is vegetable fried rice with a sunny-side-up egg.  Fresh fruit is abundant and affordable: watermelon, dragonfruit, papaya, melon, and banana – all grown on the island – can be purchased at any supermarket for less than a dollar.  Meat plays a humble role on every plate: platters favor rice as their centerpiece, their animal portion seldom exceeding the size of my palm.  Above all, I can identify all the foods that I’ve eaten here as naturally-growing organisms.

The United States, where I’m from, is seething with locales severely lacking access to healthy food.  These districts, commonly known as food deserts, offer nothing but ultra-processed junk to their underserved populations.  Having spent several years of my life touring North America in a sprinter van, I know how much effort it takes to find an edible vegetable while driving through rural areas.  

This struggle is undoubtedly connected to the monopolization of American agriculture.  Two hundred-years ago, when my government ordered the genocide of Native Americans, the priceless ancient wisdom of crop-growing in our biome was lost.  As a result, the United States’ current citizenry utterly lacks a lineage of cultural farming traditions; we’re left with no generational understanding of the soil we’ve stolen.  The privilege of profitable cultivation has been relinquished to a handful of gluttonous companies that bastardize the symbiotic relationship required to respectfully till the Earth.  All the while, independent farmers are pushed out of the market.  Consumers are driven to the grocery store, where they can easily forget to question how far removed a food product is from its natural ingredients.  The hot dogs are right next to the steaks.  The frying oil is right next to the olive oil.  A dire consequence of this manipulative deceit is the normalization of unhealthy garbage: breakfast cereals, gas station snacks, and sugary candies are mindlessly embraced in spite of the damage they inflict on our bodies and minds.  

The effects of the twisted food industry are certainly present in Bali, but the difference is that this place’s culinary and agricultural traditions are strong enough to withstand the expensive marketing of poison.  Every native Indonesian who I’ve met this month comes from a family that’s dwelled in this archipelago for innumerable generations.  Ancient recipes have been passed down.  Storied farms have been kept alive.  Indonesian cuisine has been refined to perfection.  Even to me, a visitor, this food feels cozy.  It needs not lean on flashy advertisements as its crutch.  Beyond being delicious, it’s modest and simple.  These ingredients aren’t being changed much.  In fact, they’re being honored.  Rather than attempting to reinvent the wheel or fabricate the next fad, these dishes celebrate the consistent magnificence of nature.  

Back home, I shopped for food on high alert, for I felt the need to defend myself against the sneaky corruption of the natural ingredients I sought.  It wasn’t always a healthy practice.  At times, I was so focused on upholding disciplined nutrition that I deprived myself of innocent indulgences that ultimately wouldn’t hurt me.  Last year, I spent several months ingesting nothing but fruits, vegetables, nuts, and beans – essentially, only foods with alkaline pH levels, as inspired by the mind-blowing lectures of Doctor Sebi.  Any food containing flour, sugar, or dairy did not meet my lips.  Although this choice left my body feeling happy, energetic, satiated, and strong, the absolutism of my diet inflicted cruelty upon my mind and spirit.  I became hyper-fixated on understanding and approving every morsel that I swallowed.  In my head, I exaggerated the dangers of falling from dietary flawlessness.  I feared every ingredient that I couldn’t identify, convinced that the Big-Ag Boogeyman was out to get me.  As time went on, my judgment improved and I learned not to be afraid of any food; while raw plants remained at the core of my provisions, I gave myself permission to eat the occasional panini or pastry, for isolated events do not carry the consequences of regular habits.  Still, due to my distrust of the food industry, I was never able to fully let my guard down while eating, let alone release my skepticism of my country’s agricultural values.  

Here in Bali, that’s no longer a problem at all.  In the same way that this island makes me feel safe from crime, it gives me faith in the integrity of its food.  I’ve enjoyed milk, desserts, and lots of other treats that I wouldn’t touch back home.  Whether or not these sweets are any less inflammatory in Bali than in America – they likely are – is besides the point.  The point is that this culture has earned my deepest trust and squashed my anxiety.  I’m forever thankful.

May 30th, 2024

Nusa Dua, Bali, Indonesia

As if heralded by yesterday’s musings on food, Raja treated Diane and I to our first omakase dinner tonight.  The fine-dining sushi bar which he chose serves its fixed menu from inside The Kempinski, a massive five-star hotel on Bali’s southernmost tip.  Giddy in anticipation of the bourgeois excursion, we dressed in our finest garb and hopped in the car for the hour-long drive from our villa in Canggu to the restaurant in Nusa Dua.  

Upon our arrival, we exited our vehicle and strolled into the hotel’s grandiose lobby, which was outfitted with ancient Balinese rock sculptures, elaborate fountain pools, and iridescent blue flooring of crystal ore.  Taking my seat at the omakase bar, I released all my preconceptions of the meal ahead and prepared to surrender to the chef’s creations.  

To be honest, I stifled a giggle as our server brought out the understated first course: a puny handful of edamame beans, bordered by a ring of peeled radish, accented with a red flower petal on top, all in all was the size of a nickel.  The amusingly minuscule portion played into the classic trope of fine dining’s characteristically restrained and unfulfilled satiety.  But before these judgments took root, I shook them off.  My mind was neutral and open as I pinched a solitary edamame bean between my chopsticks and lifted it to my mouth.  

As soon as the legume touched my tongue, its rich flavor induced an involuntary sigh indicating my audible pleasure.  The inherent taste of edamame, which I’ve experienced hundreds of times, was masterfully paired with hints of truffle oil, salt, yuzu sauce, and butter.  The invisibly vibrant flavor was imperceptible to my eyes,  but unmistakable to my palate.  It was the most incredible edamame I’d ever eaten in my life, consciously elevated to stimulate my senses.  

That sheer surprise set the tone for the rest of the night: the following eight courses radiated with culinary genius.  Past appetizing and indulging me, the food left me admiring the cunning proficiency of the highly-technical staff which prepared it.  Seeing everything assembled before my eyes — our seats at the bar faced the exposed kitchen — was an added bonus.  The cooks’ relaxed camaraderie and focused artisanship made its way into every bite I ate.  The experience solidified my faith in the culinary arts’ ability to intellectually invigorate and emotionally stir its audience. 

I only wish that such craftsmanly performances weren’t so guarded by money.  Everyone deserves to participate in this peak expression of sharing thoughtfully conceptualized food as a wordless language of love.  Although dishes of a more accessible and affordable nature, when cooked with care and intention, can be equally delicious, they often lack the gastronomically olympic athleticism that I witnessed tonight: fish cakes were hardened and blackened to look like river rocks and ice cream was stacked in narrow cylinders that nearly defied physics.  

Then again, perhaps the high price point of my omakase meal is the true reason for its inspiring and thought-provoking power.  I have no doubt that the ingredients which I ingested at that bar were exclusive, expensive, and competitive.  Any dilution of their quality, whether in an attempt to increase frugality or scale production, would surely serve as a blow to the high caliber of the food.  Not only was my delicious dinner dependent on its high cost, but it was also dependent on its scarcity and exclusivity, which permitted the inclusion of its rare natural components. 

Furthermore, once the creation of a song or a movie is completed, the consumption of these digital media can be repeated infinitely; the same cannot be said about the equally-moving artistry of fine dining.  For each paying customer at an omakase bar, an assembly of expert and in-demand chefs must devote an equal amount of elbow grease and perspiration.  There simply aren’t enough trained professionals to positively dilate the scope of omakase’s reach, nor should we disrespect the existing virtuosos by cutting the price of their creations and thereby their wages.  

So, as much as I wish that the whole world could taste what I tasted tonight, such elitist idealism simply isn’t feasible.  The globe’s less-fortunate communities deserve manifold rights far more important than fine-dining dinners.  Marie Antoinette might as well have said, “let them eat omakase!”  

I just feel lucky that I had the chance to take part in such an uncommon exchange of cultural education.  

May 31st, 2024

Canggu, Bali, Indonesia

Diane just left for the airport.  She’ll be back in Brooklyn within thirty-six hours. Tomorrow, I’ll carry my bags out of our perfect beachside villa and into a taxi bound northward.  The Canggu chapter of my voyage is perishing with the month of May.  Intuition tells me that my memories of these past three weeks will always be tinged with warm nostalgia.  

Sharing these unforgettable moments with Raja, Diane, and Jenna has been a priceless privilege.  The laughter, vulnerability, encouragement, awe, fear, and validation we shared has filled my heart to the brim.  I am joyously awaiting the next time I cross paths with Diane or Jenna, for echoes of Bali will forever ground and nourish our friendship.  Raja, on the other hand, is not leaving the island quite yet.  We’ll be a few hours apart, but I maintain trust in our determination to meet again while we’re both still here.  On top of being one of the best friends I’ve ever had, he’s been an incredibly capable tour guide, cultural mediator, and translator.   Always humoring my questions and observations about his homeland with patient and intelligent information, he’s wonderfully prepared me to navigate Balinese culture in solitude.  

Solitude it will be.  As I write this, alone in the villa, I’m receiving visions of the independence that will define the next period of my journey.  I’m wholly grateful that my travels commenced with such a rambunctious outpour of tight-knit socialization, but my subconscious has silently craved an authentic embodiment of the phrase “solo-travel” since I’ve arrived.  I’m smiling at the thought of the freedom and self-discovery that will imminently find me in June.  

“Solo-travel”, however, cannot be mistaken for hermitude or isolation.  With my current group of companions dissolving, I’m bound to buzz around frenetically like a free electron seeking grounding and connection.  Whether fleeting or enduring, with hospitable locals or fellow travelers, I see abundant companionship on the horizon.  

My greatest wish for the indefinite nomadism which I’ve embarked on is to form enriching bonds.  By writing that sentence, I’ve cast a spell, putting the invisible soldiers of universal serendipity to work.  I can’t wait to see what I’ll find next. 

Love,

Etai