The thing about going to Bali is that you have to get there. And then, presumably, you have to get home. That travel is the rough part. Well, that and the traffic. Our drive from northern Bali to the airport in Denpassar is 60 miles. Putu, the driver (not Putu the cook or Putu the random guy I kept meeting on the beach) suggested that we plan on about 5 hours for the drive. Having spent the last 3 weeks in vicious snarls of Balinese traffic, we had no problem agreeing with his suggestion. In fact, the 60 mile ride only took 4 hours, but when we finally hit the streets of Denpassar, I really started to sweat it that we might actually miss our flight. in the city, we averaged about 2 mph for the final few miles of our drive. In fact, I opted to skip stopping for a Babi Guling to try to smuggle onto the plane for a mid-flight snack. We did arrive in time. After saying goodbye to Putu, we headed into the airport which, like most of the rest of the country, seemed hobbled together in a desperate effort to catch up with ever-increasing swarms of tourists and explosive, unregulated growth. Security involved hoiking our suitcases onto the x-ray machine and then wandering past a guard to collect them on the other side. We discovered, after getting through security that we were actually quite early for our flight. Too early, in fact. We had to leave the check-in area and go back through the wall of security to wait in the main open area of the airport. The airport, like most public places in Bali, was not air conditioned, so in the blazing, oppressive heat, we decided that our best option was to get some hot, spicy soup for lunch. As we sat in warm puddles of our own sweat, we looked for things to do in the time we had to wait before we could move to a different area of the airport and continue to wait. I found a sample bottle of Arak in the airport gift store and my mood brightened considerably. the Balinese airport featured some amenities not found in airports in the west. When we were finally allowed to go through security, we found that our gate, 6-B, was downstairs in a moldy-smelling lower level of the airport. We sat around for a bit before a lady came to the gate and began setting up signs indicating that the next departing flight was NOT the flight to Singapore that we were taking. I asked her if this was the gate for our flight. "No. Check the boards," she said, indicating the electronic boards which all said that our flight to Singapore was leaving out of gate 6-B. As more and more passengers arrived at the gate, they all began checking with one another. "This is the flight to Singapore, right?" "Are you going to Singapore?" If we were in the wrong place, we were all in the wrong place together. Soon, a security guard came and began rearranging the velvet ropes that they used to cordon off the gate areas. This would become a theme over the next hour or so. Different employees would come and rearrange the ropes to suit his or her particular esthetic design sensibilities. The airline employees eventually decided that gate 6-B would serve two flights. One to Singapore and the other to Kuala Lumpur. This was never announced. They simply relied on rumor and hearsay to make sure everybody knew. In addition to watching the constant rope redecorating, I enjoyed watching a kid working at the Circle K who was playing a shooting game on his phone really loudly. He was completely ignoring every person who came to the store to buy something. It was fascinating to the point that Kerri told me to stop staring because I was starting to look like a creepy old man. Which was a fair assessment, I guess. Especially when I started filming him because I thought it was so refreshing to see an employee who was bold and honest about his contempt for customers. Please enjoy two minutes and watch how this kid just ignores the dude standing right in front of him trying to buy his wares. It warmed my heart in strange ways that I still do not understand. Eventually, I had to pull myself away from my entertainment because gate 6-B had opened and they were boarding a plane either to Singapore or Kuala Lumpur. It was never announced which. Kerri and I decided that either option was better than sweating in the airport any longer and we'd risk it. We boldly marched through the doors and boarded... a bus. Which was a bit surprising considering the vast ocean we had to cross to get home. The bus drove us to our plane, which was, inexplicably, at a gate on the other side of the airport. Our flight was hot and full. through sheer luck, we wound up with one of the few empty seats next to us. We had booked our flight through Emirate Air and this plane was a different company. Since we had booked through Emirate, they had thoughtfully arranged to have meals provided for us. So, once in the air, about 20 poeple on the flight, including us, got meals while all the other passengers got to watch us eat. It was cute. The flight was smooth and short and on the descent into Singapore, a crew member made an announcement to gently remind customers that we were flying to Singapore and that the possession of cannabis products in Singapore is occasionally punishable by death. Yes. Really. It seems like something they might have announced before takeoff to provide anyone the opportunity to make a discreet trip to the bathroom or at least to quietly hand their bag of weed to the kid working at the Circle K. The airport in Singapore was huge and spotless. We had to take a shuttle from one gate to another. The bus ride across the airport took 20 minutes. It is a BIG airport. Once we arrived at our gate, we found that it wasn't, in fact, our gate. After a few panicky minutes trying to figure things out, Kerri suggested that we ask someone for help. "But what if they think we have weed?" I whined. "Why would they think that?" she asked. When I couldn't think of a good answer, we approached an airport employee who told us that we were about 74 miles away from our gate. We began the long trek through the airport and finally reached our gate, which was locked up behind thick security bars. Each gate in Singapore has an entirely separate security checkpoint with x-ray machines and body scanners, and politely hostile guards who are sick of your shot before they even see you. When I put my carry on through the machine, a gentle alarm started honking and a guard politely pulled me aside. "Oh my god," I hissed to Kerri. "They found my weed! They're going to kill me right here." "You don't have any weed," Kerri said. "But what if that kid at the Circle K planted some one me?" I was very, very tired at this point. "Seems unlikely," Kerri said before she was yanked out of line by an angry guard who was barking something at her in a language we did not understand. "See you in prison," I said as we went our separate ways to be tortured and killed. "Excuse me," a guard said to me, indicating my backpack, which, at this point in our trip, had honestly been through at least 8 security screenings. "Is this your bag?" "Please don't kill me, dude," I mumbled. "It was that asshole kid st the Circle K." The guard looked confused, but carried on officiously and politely. "You have a blade in your bag." "A what?" I asked, perplexed. Because, seriously, that bag had been screened more closely than a supreme court nominee over the course of our trip. "A blade. A knife, sir. I need to inspect your bag." I then became an ugly American. "A blade? There's no blade in my bag. I've been through 76 security screenings. How could there possibly be a blade in my bag? Don't you think I'm smart enough to know that you can't..." And then he pulled a small multi-tool out of my toiletry kit. It had about 1/2" of sharpened edge on it. "I'm sorry, sir. you cannot take this on the plane." "What the..." I sighed. "Okay. Toss it in the trash, buddy." I spent a few meditative minutes repacking my belongings that he had scattered everywhere and remember that Kerri had also been pulled aside for interrogation. When I found her again, she was fuming. Kerri has had both knees replaces and, as such, is more machine than human. At lest between her thighs and calves. "What's up?" I asked her, treading carefully because she was livid. "I don't know. Some guard just yelled at me for going through the scanner that she told me to go through. Something about my knees an metal." At that point, the guard returned. "You went through wrong scanner. Why did you go through that one?" she barked at Kerri. I ducked to avoid collateral damage. "Because that's the scanner you told me to go through," Kerri said, through gritted teeth. "But you have metal knees!" the guard said. "You can't go through that one." "YOU SENT ME THROUGH IT!" Kerri said. "Be cool , dude," I said. "If they toss you in prison, I'll have to carry both suitcases home. It will hurt my back. Seriously. They kill people here for smoking pot." The guard huffed and walked off again. "Screw this," Kerri growled. She pulled on her shoes and walked away from the security area toward the actual gate. "But, but, but, " I bleated, hopping behind her, "They're going to throw you in prison and kill you." "At least then I can get some rest," Kerri grumbled, marching away. I strongly suspect that Kerri is now some sort of international fugitive and I'm trusting all of you to help keep that secret. After that security delight, we had to show IDs and passports three more times before getting on the plane. I'm all for security and safety, but maybe simmer down, Singapore. The flight to Dubai was a brief 6.5 hour jaunt. It was comfortable enough, but we were both exhausted by the time we got there. We found some recliner seats and tried to get some rest before the powerhouse 13 hour flight from Dubai to Boston. I wound up wandering around for a while. Dubai is so big, it's a bit hard to get your head around. And just as I began to, it was time to board our flight. Emirate Air does a good job making a 13 hour flight as comfortable as it can be. Which is not very. The food is actually very good. They offer free alcohol. The staff is very accommodating and nice. And they pride themselves on having a diverse flight crew from many different countries. In fact, at the beginning of each flight, they announce how many countries the flight crew is from and how many languages they collectively speak. Our final flight had crew from 21 countries speaking 24 languages. One of the languages was Japanese. When a flight attendant from Japan came through to offer breakfast, she offered omelettes or mblegrumphasmph. "Excuse me?" I asked. "Omelettes or what?" I could not understand her. She consulted the card she held in her hand. "Mblegrumphasmph." "I'm so sorry," I said, genuinely embarrassed at this point. "I still didn't catch that." And that's when the Indian dude next to me leaned over and told me that it was a north Indian dish that is commonly served at breakfast. "Oh, HECK yeah!" I sang. "I don't care what it is. I'm IN! Thank you." I spent a lovely couple hours chatting with my new friend about India, Indian food, and his travels back and forth between Albany, NY where he lives and Calcutta, where most of his family lives. He made this marathon trip about once a year. Something I cannot even imagine. We chatted on and off. We wandered around the airplane. We watched movies (I especially recommend Apocalypse Clown). And then, just like magic, we landed in Boston. And were gifted another opportunity to practice patience in a line of hundreds of people waiting to go through customs. When we finally got to talk to the customs agent, he took out passports and glanced at them.
"Where are you coming from?" he asked in that particular accent that only people from South Boston can manage. "Bali." "Where do you live?" "New Hampshire." He looked at me as if that were slightly disappointed in me and waved me by. Our son, Alex, kindly picked us up at the airport and drive us home where we both flopped in bed and slept for about 12 hours, dreaming dreams of Babi Guling. We are home.
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