The Music of God's Children

June 8th, 2024

Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

“Le Petit Prince!  I love that book so much,” Zoe from France exclaimed as, walking by my seat in Sunshine Vintage Guest House’s common area, she noticed the tattoo on my right bicep which depicts her beloved story’s protagonist.  The remark was an effortless segue into mutually genial introductions between us.  Mere moments into our repartee, a broad base of common experience was established, inviting warmth, trust, and comfort to circulate.  We shared everything from past travel destinations – Nepal, Sweden, and Morocco – to beloved children’s television programming – Hannah Montana, Camp Rock, and a plentitude of other Disney Channel offerings.  Upon revealing to her my identity as a yoga teacher, Zoe mused the sentiment that several other visitors to Bali have expressed to me over the past month: she was fascinated by yoga conceptually, wishing to explore its depths, but remained paralyzed by the pursuit of a timely entry point into its practice.  Ever an agent of yogi-initiation, I urged her to join me at the Yoga Barn the following morning for a proper introduction to the ancient ritual.  Being a solo-traveler on her first day in a new country with no foreseeable plans, Zoe shook my hand and promised to join me.  

This morning, I led Zoe to a gentle and slow Yin flow, informed by speculation that any class more fiery or active might scare her away from further pursuit of postural craft.  However, as we chatted on our mats before class, I found out about Zoe’s history in youth gymnastics, an extra-curricular that gives all its participants an immense advantage on the mat.  I joked, “If I knew that, I would have brought you to the three-hour Ashtanga class I took yesterday!”  

Ninety minutes later, our joints liquid and our voices soft, we sat for breakfast at a nearby cafe and traded manifestations for the gorgeous day ahead.

Thinking out loud, Zoe shared, “I really want to rent a scooter and take it to a waterfall.  I’m just scared that somebody will ask to see my license… because I can’t drive!”

My eyes lit up at her confession of this dilemma.  Seizing the opportunity to elongate our fleeting time spent together, I suggested, “I know how to drive!  I can take you!”

“Really?  Because, honestly, I’d rather not drive at all!  Let’s do it!”

Before I knew it, I was at the helm of a revving moped, careening it down Ubud’s chaotic roads as Zoe held onto the bike for dear life.  The blazing vehicle transported me back to my legion of electric-Citi-bike zooms through New York’s bustling streets.  Finding infinite fun in our motorized commute of swerves and bumps, we played iSpy with our rapidly-changing surroundings, blasted Rihanna songs out of my speaker and sang our hearts out, exclaimed giddily at all the stray dogs we slalomed to avoid, and fawned audibly over the natural beauty of the natural landscapes we crossed.

Needless to say, we were already riding a tremendous high of energetic bliss by the time we arrived at Suwat Waterfall.  Paddling in shoulder-high water of brisk temperature, I shed tears of joy at the earthly ecosystem that engulfed me.  Darting my eyes towards the unrelenting falls which cultivated this pool for my enjoyment, I understood that God was crying equally-exultant tears.  Swimming against the current until my muscles grew sore left me inside a hidden cave behind the waterfall, from which I admired the whitewater curtain’s shapeshift. Past the liquid wall before me, I found Zoe, perched atop a towering rock, bathed in orange sunlight.  It was a perfect moment of stillness.

Soon, our hostel-mates Shannon and Kait joined us at Suwat.  The four of us ventured downstream from the falls, hopping across the slimy rocks protruding from the river’s surface.  As dozens of dragonflies landed on our bodies (to our joy and amazement) we encountered the dry, shedded skin of a snake.  Shannon nobly rescued the waterway from a few plastic bags polluting its organic neutrality.  We swam and splashed until we could no longer ignore our stomach’s roars in demand of nourishment.  

Our hunger guided us back to the same cafe where Zoe and I sat for breakfast.  But, now, a five-piece reggae ensemble graced the bandstand in the eatery’s corner.  As I hadn’t seen a drum kit in over a month, I itched and ached to sit on its throne and whack its tuned heads.  When the band took their obligatory break between sets, I jumped at my chance.  

Approaching the drummer, I politely nudged, “Hi!  I’m a drummer too!  I haven’t had the opportunity to play in a really long time, and I was wondering… would you mind if I played your kit a little?  Just while y’all are on your break?”

“Go ahead, man,” was the nonchalant affirmation I received.  

I sat onstage for five minutes, lingering until the band’s gradually creeping return to their instruments heralded my departure.  In that time, I was teleported back to a wordlessly meditative flow-state of intimate familiarity.  With my eyes closed, I saw all my ghosts of gigs past, feeling a reinvigorated tethering to my inner performer.  But I paid no thought to the beats, booms, and crashes which erupted from the drumsticks.  Their composition was entirely unconscious.  When the guitarist lifted his strap over his shoulder, I knew I was edging towards overstaying my welcome, and punctuated my meandering solo with one final cymbal’s crash.  Rising from the throne to thunderous applause from the cafe’s patrons, I took an indulgent bow and shuffled back to the table where Zoe, Shannon, and Kait sat.  

The reggae group picked up right where they left off, firing through their thick repertoire of top-forty hits adapted in favor of reggae motifs, which included Justin Bieber’s “Love Yourself” and Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours”.  The four of us bounced in our seats as we clapped, sang, and danced along to the band’s cheer.  Eventually, we sought freedom from the restrictions of our table and chairs, rising to our feet to twirl and bop around the stage.  When the band counted off Valerie by Amy Winehouse, I threw my arms into the air in celebration, thanking the talented and tasteful musicians.  Their singer, baiting my excitement, passed me his wireless microphone with an encouraging nod of faith.  For three minutes, I sang my heart out, directly addressing the restaurant’s diners as I passionately lurched from table to table.  I hope I made Amy proud.  At the very least, I enjoyed myself boundlessly.  

After my brief croon concluded, I thanked my hostel-mates for giving me the confidence to express my unbridled self.  I felt more validated and encouraged by them than I could coherently explain.  Through an act as inherent and everyday as showing up to the cafe brandishing their authentic identities – Gen-Z explorers who’ve traveled the globe in pursuit of clarity and meaning – I understood my place in this abundant network of like minds.  

In fact, everyone I’ve met over the past week here at Sunshine Vintage Guest House has shown me how far from alone I am on this seeker’s path.  The universe has led me towards the breeding ground for the global community I’ve long pursued.  May we all find that the answers we crave are right before our eyes, here in this very moment.  

July 10th, 2024

Gitgit, Bali, Indonesia

All my belongings are held within a backpack, duffel bag, and guitar case.  I carry their entire cumulative weight.  With a MiDi keyboard, a watercolor set, and several books on my shoulders, I know I’m far from minimalism; nonetheless, I am grateful to viscerally feel the weight of my chattels each time I move to a new place.  The necessity amplifies my existential tug-of-war between possession and mobility.  Dubbed a Vata Dosha by ayurveda and an air-sign-Aquarius by astrology, I benefit from such grounding.  Who knows where I’d float off to if I hadn’t these bags to anchor me.  That freedom surely sounds romantic and enticing: truthfully, there are hardly any items inside my bags so priceless or irreplaceable that I’d lament their loss.  Yet, I know I’m stabler under the safety of their weighted blanket. 

These were the thoughts tickling my cortex yesterday morning as I walked down the road from Sunshine Vintage Guest House to the location of Raja’s parked SUV.  I’d just checked out from my first-ever hostel stay in anticipation to join Raja, his father, and his twelve-year-old brother for a weekend getaway at a country club up Bali’s northern hills.  

Arriving at the vehicle, lifting my luggage into its trunk, I immediately felt the distance that language barrier dug between Raja’s father and I.  Our gracious body language and traded smiles couldn’t be consummated with stimulating dialogue, so I silently promised to find another method of communication.  My position in the car’s backseat, in relation to his as the driver, prevented any immediate satisfaction of this promise.  I turned instead towards Raja, who sat beside me.  We caught each other up on our week spent apart while his brother snored sweetly in the passenger’s seat.  

Outside the windows, the backdrop to our dialogue was foggy and still: the farther north we rolled, the less visibility gray humidity granted to the winding mountain roads that carried us.  Ever so often, I discerned a blurry temple gate or fruit stand straddling the pavement.  As we drew nearer to the country club, Raja pointed at Bali’s largest lake, immediately to our right, but all that met my eyes were white wisps.

Just before four in the afternoon, we drove through the hotel’s front gates.  Raja checked us in at the reception desk while his dad tossed the car keys to a valet.  After plopping our bags down beside our beds, Raja and I embarked on an evening stroll through the country club’s golfing area.   The thick mist that haunted our commute laid, unmoving, atop the links.  Landscaped, trunkless plains that would invite panoramic vistas on blue-sky days were concealed completely, yet the fog cultivated an equally-alluring atmosphere of dreamlike mystery and wonder.  Our inability to see twenty feet ahead made a surprise of every nuance in the varied biome we roamed.  As we approached trees, bushes, and birds, the clouds revealed them ominously, casting the natural features in a dark and dewy glow.  If not for the cobblestone footpaths between each hole’s greenery, navigation would have been impossible.  Dusk was falling faster and faster.  Rain was beginning to patter.  We returned indoors.  

Back in the cloudless clarity of our room, the two of us laid belly-down, fixated on my computer, which rested on a chair between our twin beds.  We watched the entirety of The Perks of Being A Wallflower, Raja’s favorite movie.  Immersed and transported for two hours, I was glued to the screen.  When the film’s third act revealed a gut-wrenching plot twist, I released a shrill yelp and turned to Raja for his reaction, my jaw agape.  I found his jaw agape, too, but his eyes were closed in sound slumber.  Seeing his head resting so peacefully on his white linen pillowcase, his glasses still perched on his nose, I decided against waking him for the movie’s climax.  

Twenty minutes later, I was answering texts on my phone as credits rolled across my laptop’s face.  Raja jolted awake, disorientedly inquiring, “What happened?!?”

“Raja,” I whispered, soothing his confusion and grogginess.  “That was one of the best movies I’ve ever seen.  Thank you for showing it to me.  It felt like I was back in American high school.”  

The following morning, after Raja and I enjoyed a gluttonous breakfast and biked twice around the resort’s eighteen golfing holes, we skipped over its hills, strumming my acoustic guitar. 

“My dad plays guitar, you know,” Raja mentioned.  

Grinning with opportunism, I remarked, “No way!  Do you think he’d wanna play my guitar right now?  Just a little?”  I’d finally found my avenue of wordless transmission with the Indonesian native.

Raja shrugged.  “Let’s go ask!”

After we gently knocked on his hotel-room door, Raja’s father invited us inside, sat on the edge of his bed, and propped my instrument on his left thigh.  The music he proceeded to play, in fingerpicked open-chords, overflowed with shy empathy and understated sensuality.  Moved to my core, I held my breath.  My palms fluttered in elated applause the moment he plucked his final note.  We shared beaming smirks.  

As my guitar was put down to rest on the bed, Raja muttered in Indonesian, his dad responding with an affirmative nod.  Raja then turned to me, probing, “Do you wanna help my dad stretch his shoulders?  He says they’re hurting him.”

Miles past mere consent, I bounced with excitement – I view any services of yoga therapy that I’m lucky enough to provide as personally-enriching soul-food rather than mundane assignments or favors.  I enthusiastically guided Raja’s father into a series of postures aimed at releasing tension in his deltoid, trapezius, thoracic, and cervical muscles.  Whenever his face emoted relief, my heart fluttered.  His continual requests for more stretches struck me as the highest imaginable complement and reward.  

In that moment, the two universal tongues – music and body-language – were honored.  Moving forward, I’m encouraged to walk the streets with my guitar strapped to my shoulder and my chest poking out, bowing respectfully to strangers and sharing songs of connection.  

June 11th, 2024

Sanur, Bali, Indonesia

This guitar of mine is an absolute magnet of positivity.  Inspired by Raja’s father, I slung it across my back as I strolled down the bustling shores of Sanur Beach last night.  Eventually, I found the confidence to strum along the beat of my footsteps.  I was well-accustomed to hoots and compliments from local onlookers by the time I squatted on a stool, guitar still singing, near a beachside fish satay bar.  Though I initially sat down alone at my table, its remaining stools were quickly filled by Balinese ocean-goers transfixed by my instrument to the point of abatement.  

“Play ‘Country Road,’” the man beside me implored, in reference to John Denver’s Americana anthem, as he shook a tambourine that seemed to materialize out of thin air.  

The singalong that followed transcended language, culture, age, and religion.  The teenage boy grilling my fish satay even joined us, beating on his djembe soulfully.  I felt embraced.  Where so many factors distanced me from my table-mates, music became a leveling force.  I only wish that I had enough familiarity to play all the Indonesian songs they requested! 

June 12th, 2024

Penida Island, Indonesia

Zoe from France is my favorite travel companion on this voyage so far.  Per the nature of solo-travel nomadism, however, the conclusion of our motorbike escapade through Ubud last week bred uncertainty surrounding the likelihood of another joint adventure.  We said our goodbyes amicably.  I left for a weekend upstate with Raja’s family while Zoe stayed at Sunshine Vintage Guest House, unsure of her next destination.  Save sincerely hoping for eventual reunion, there was nothing I could do to incubate our magnetism.  

After parting from Raja’s family yesterday, I booked accommodations for my return to Penida Island, the site of my unforgettable cliff-scramble down to Kelingking Beach with Diane and Raja that occurred but three weeks ago.  The island imparted such a rich impression onto my heart that I craved further exploration of its cays and crevices.  

Yet, the fading memory of Zoe wobbled my ability to ground firmly in presence.  Thereby, I was duly delighted to wake up on Penida Island this morning in reception of a text from her that revealed our second intersection.  Miraculously, she had woken up on the same island, mere paces away.  Instantly, I called her. 

Not wasting a moment, I cheered into my phone’s front camera, “Zoe, I’m on Penida too!”

“Wow!  I really never thought we were gonna see each other again,” she confessed, grinning.  

“Honestly, I had a feeling we might.  Anyway, what do you wanna do today?”

“I really want to go to that famous beach.  It looks beautiful.”

“Kelingking Beach?!?”

“Yes!”

I warned her, “Get ready for the hike of your life!”

Minutes later, we were revving down beachside roads, bounding towards the idyllic surf.  Every detail of the ride returned my mind to memories of our bike through Ubud, only now we each donned mopeds of our own, relieving me of unshared responsibility over Zoe’s safety.  She led and navigated while I pumped my accelerator in effort to keep up with her virile pace.  

The ease of our descent down Kelingking’s intimidating cliff-face, and the enjoyment of our subsequent beach-splash, was bolstered by the hindsight I developed after my first visit.  After parking our scooters at the top of the cliff and pocketing their ignition keys, we purchased an abundance of bottled water and fruit — papaya, pineapple, and banana — from a nearby shop; the former would satiate us during our hike and the latter would become our reward once toes touched sand.  

Both of us long-limbed, slender, and tall, our rocky crawl halved the previous time-record I’d set with Diane and Raja.  Furthermore, since I’d come to know the path more intimately, I earned the freedom to anticipate footholds, devoting my freed bandwidth to lifting my gaze and enjoying glances at the infamously chaotic tide before me.  In that moment, I was a mountain goat, expertly and effortlessly traipsing my native terrain.  When my hooves hit the shore, I galloped into the cyan sea, trading my sheen of perspiration for saltwater glow.  

Zoe and I found a remote cave, eroded by the tide, and nibbled on our fruit under the cover of cool shade, bats flapping overhead.  We hollered each time waves assaulted rock walls with thunderous cracks, but our voices were drowned to silence by the ocean’s.  

Once our supply of nourishment was spent, we walked over to the break-point of the beach-face and plopped down on our butts, inviting the whitewater to wash our lower halves.  Hours flew by.  Each marine pulse that shook and drifted us felt as thrilling as the first.  If a bloated wave tumbled us down the shore, we responded by erupting in laughter and hurrying back to our seats in the sand, ready again for the following surge.  

This cycle persisted until Zoe’s jaw fell upon noticing my ripe red forehead, yelling, “You’re getting so sunburnt!”

Never one to push my luck against mother nature’s will, I left Zoe in the sand, retreating to the shade of the upper beach and climbing the branches of a sturdy tree, its giant leaves cooling and healing my epidermis.  Zoe joined me in its canopy after twenty minutes of mutual silent sky-gazing meditation.

I suggested, “Wanna go to another beach that faces west, where we can watch the sunset?  It has chill waves, so we could actually swim!”

She nodded in assent.  

Across the island, at Crystal Bay Beach, as we bobbed in a shoulder-deep swell of tranquil water, Zoe whispered to me, “This is the prettiest sunset I’ve ever seen.”

I agreed.  As the sun’s orange orb retreated behind the horizon, it was complemented by the luminous moon, shining directly overhead.  The round of the lunar crescent, oriented towards the warm gradient of the western atmosphere, verified that the white moonlight above was indeed a reflection of the disappearing sunlight below.  The sky was painted as I’d never seen it before, dashed with watercolor streaks of orange, yellow, and red.  I might have floated off into its fiery hues if not for the grounding silhouettes of coconut and banana trees against it.  

After emerging from our swim, Zoe and I drifted apart, each to an opposite end of the beach, our solitude striking mental reflection that mimicked the sea’s reflection of sunset tones.  I talked to God, thanking him for my health and fortune.  Neither of us budged until the sky blackened and the stars twinkled.  Only the prospect of dinner drove us to ultimately leave our pastoral scene behind.  

Scootering to our dinner destination, the potholes and pitfalls of the dark roads we rambled over were illuminated only by the dim headlight of my vehicle.  I cautiously maintained a moderate pace, protecting myself against unforeseen dangers of the night.  Zoe, braver than I, vanished from view as she sped away confidently, for she neglected to keep me in her rear view mirror despite her vow to direct us both towards our restaurant.  In fact, I was left utterly directionless: since Zoe’s phone was devoid of international roaming data, mine was strapped to the handlebars of her bike, which was now out of sight.  Rather than taking the risk of hurrying to catch up, I dismissed panic and trudged on at my comfortable pace, the world completely obscured beyond the conic beam of my moped’s headlight.  Accepting my predicament with as much grace as I could muster, I clung to the blind faith that this winding road I rolled down would lead me back to my companion.  

Five long minutes later, I rounded a bend in the pavement and spotted Zoe, her scooter parked in a dusty gravel ditch between the road and a run-down local eatery.  Relieved, I decelerated and stopped beside her, beaming.  She apologized for leaving me in the dust, I dismissed her guilt, and we prepared to carry on as if nothing ever happened.  

But, as I straddled my moped, pushing it out of the ditch and back onto the road with the strength of my arms, an unconscious flick of my wrist accidentally ignited the rotary accelerator on my right handlebar and sent my bike flying.  Too shocked to release my grip, I went right with it.  After a millisecond of airborne balance, the bike crashed onto its side, slamming my right leg against the sharp gravel.  The motor revved on, and my crushed body slid forward several feet along the piercing path, being abated only by a merciful tree that collided with my bike.  I laid on the ground, stunned.  

Within seconds, an Indonesian family — presumably the proprietors of the eatery I’d disturbed — rushed out from their establishment and flanked me with generous assistance and concern.  Somebody switched my bike’s engine off by turning its key.  I helped the family lift the bike off my body.  The kind swarm ushered me inside, where, under white light bulbs, I found bountiful scrapes, bruises, and scratches along my right foot, ankle, shin, knee, chest, and palm, all caked in dirt and sand.  Zoe thoughtfully tossed me her water bottle, which I used to gently wash my wounds.  The matriarch of the property handed me a mysterious dropper-bottle, containing a fluid of green complexion, allegedly an herbal antiseptic ointment.  I beaded its liquid onto my bleeding skin.  

I was injured, but I was alive.  I thanked God for protecting me; I was lucky to walk away with my skeleton intact.  Ignoring fear yet increasing caution, I got back on my bike after a few deep breaths in seated stillness.  

Zoe and I stopped at an apothecary on the way to dinner.  I purchased isopropyl alcohol, cotton swabs, medical bandages, and pharmaceutical-grade antiseptic.  The front stoop of the drug store was reappropriated as an urgent care unit; I squatted there as I disinfected, rubbed, and wrapped my lesions.  My entire right leg was mummified with adhesive cotton wrap.  

The accident lulled my vigor.  My figure drooped with fatigue as Zoe and I ate dinner.  The delicious beachside meal deserved more gratitude, but I was aching to rest.  

The ambiguity embroidered in the second set of goodbyes shared between Zoe and I muddled my confused spirit further.  As I watched her retreat into her hostel, I wondered for the first time if I would ever see her again.  

I waddled into my own hostel at nine-thirty.  Emerging onto its patio, with the simple intention of hanging my socks to dry, I encountered a flock of new hostel-mates lounging on the deck’s bean bag chairs.  Their eyes widened in synchronicity at the sight of my blood stained bandages.  My uncommon accessory proved itself as a smooth icebreaker.  Recounting my incident’s details with heavy melodrama led to convivial dialogue among us.  

I particularly gravitated towards Lara from South London, who infallibly blasted my favorite songs, coincidentally on her playlist, out of her tinny speaker; MF Doom, Amy Winehouse, and A Tribe Called Quest led me to forget about my injury and sing along at the top of my lungs.  Fanning the spark of my excitement into jovial flame, Lara led me down a fascinating sonic rabbit-hole of bombastic UK Jungle and Garage beats that ironically stroked my urgent weariness.  As thunderous DJ mixes weaved into one another, I simply listened, existing outside of time.  The energy of the unfamiliar music seeped under my skin, and I welcomed it.  

Distorted DnB was my lullaby, wrapping a bow atop my endlessly eventful day.  

June 13th, 2024

Gili Trawangan, Indonesia

The television screen inside the cabin of my ferry from Penida Island to Gili Trawangan played Pixar’s Finding Nemo on mute.  The sight of animated sea turtles swimming across LED pixels inspired me to turn my gaze to the lapping ocean outside my window.  I was routed towards an island famous for its sea turtles, and I could hardly contain my excitement about the possibility of swimming with them.  Looking down at my bandaged leg, however, I intuited that I’d have to wait a few days before plunging into their hydrated terrain.  For the time being, I settled for Pixar.  

After making a few stops along Bali’s eastern coast, the ferry docked at my final destination.  Gili T, as it’s colloquially known, is such a small island that no motor vehicles are permitted on its dirt roads.  As such, I carried all three of my bags off the ferry — fixed-gear beach-cruiser bikes and horse-drawn carriages moseying past — dropping them only ten minutes later at my hostel’s reception desk.  

I’m staying at La Boheme Hostel, a lively party hub with quirky and angular architecture: my every exploration of its grounds leads me to another makeshift staircase, another inventive loft, another homey living space, and another group of mingling travelers.  The building seems to have an endless stock of beds.  I see manifold dwellers emerging from around sharp corners and behind creaky doors, amazed that we all have our own private corner of this labyrinth-like plot.   

Before I could explore all of La Boheme’s grounds, I restrained myself, leaving a few passageways unseen, shrouded in alluring mystery.  Instead, I laced up my sneakers and hobbled to the nearest medic, intending to get my wounds professionally cleaned and treated.  

During this limping stroll, I encountered none other than Mohammad from Sunshine Vintage Guest House, pedaling his bike at a tranquil pace.  Chance reunions with fast friends from my first hostel are becoming a wonderful motif of my voyage.  We shared a tight hug, expressing mutual disbelief at the present serendipity, and promised to meet on the beach once my injuries healed.  

Moments later, sprawled out in a hospital bed at Gili T’s premier urgent care unit, I winced in pain as a thorough and diligent doctor scrubbed caked dirt from my gashes.  The ingredients of his healing regiment progressed from stinging disinfectant liquids to topical antibiotic creams, and ultimately to white sterile bandages.  

Handing me a bottled liniment, he ordered, “Spread this on your lesions three times a day.”

Delusionally, I pleaded, “Can I swim?”

“No.  Not until these wounds close.  Keep them clean, and don’t walk too much either.  You should rest until you heal.”

Therefore, I’ve been laying low at La Boheme ever since.  God has given me a reason to rest.  I won’t defy those instructions.  

Directly next door to the hostel is a towering mosque with a grand domed cap of sea foam green and a gallant spire of shiny gold; excluding the anomaly of Bali’s Hinduism, Indonesia is dominated by Islam.  The mosque boasts a network of powerfully amplified speakers that color its vicinity with nearly-endless sang prayers; they meet my ears, in all their pining devotion and natural reverb, as I sit on La Boheme’s second-story patio, reading Marquez and typing journals with my leg propped up on a coffee table.  My hostel-mates regard the worship music with disdain, punching the air, wishing the torture would cease and give way to silence.  To me, however, the singing is soothing, blending effortlessly with the symphony of bird squawks and gecko bleats as old as this island.  

But when the mosque attendees did eventually file out, heading homeward for the night, stagnant soundlessness was swiftly replaced by the strum of a nylon acoustic guitar, emanating from La Boheme’s dining area directly below my patio perch.  Thankful that, in spite of my bed-rest orders, the action had come to me, I grabbed the neck of my guitar and snuck downstairs to find an employee of the hostel masterfully playing the instrument I’d heard.  Wordlessly, I sat down to join him on his bench, elevating my leg on a low stool and weaving my guitar’s notes between his.  We remained in that position for two hours, trading twelve-bar-blues solos and revitalizing classic rock standards such as House of the Rising Sun, Stairway to Heaven, and Knocking on Heaven’s Door.  

Although I was disappointed in my inability to swim and frolic around the island, this music reminded me, for the umpteenth time, that everything I sought by coming to Gili T was already right in front of me.  My guitar is a spaceship that can transport me anywhere, anytime. 

Love,

Etai!