On day five, the itch to explore spread across my feet and I decided to scratch my soles with a walk around town. Weak and yearning to chew, I was determined not to break my juice fast as I broke beyond the walls of the spa. Large slabs of engraved stone lead my way onto the Jalan Raya Ubud where the streets flowed with people unconcerned with colonics, mud wraps, or what their ex-girlfriend really meant when she said, “Keep in touch.”

On the streets, people haggled over prices, dodged motorcycles, prayed in public on cement floors, and ate solid food. The men verbally advertised transport services, young women sold goods — from spices to stuffed animals — as children ran through the stalls in the Ubud market, and older women sat in the shade, endlessly weaving simple offering baskets before filling them with crackers, rice, and flowers. Thousands of these offering baskets were stacked inside temples, lined on the walls, and peppered throughout the sidewalks. On the streets, the scent in the air changed every few steps; sweet flowers, thick wafts of incense burning, raw sewage, savory plates of mie goreng (a typical Balinese fried noodle dish), and fresh dirt and other smells came and went under my nose. A bit down the road, a group of sweaty men sat around a modest charcoal pit, obscuring the sidewalk. A red-hot grate waited impatiently for bits of meat or vegetables. Nearby, a very tiny gray-striped kitten shook from the power of its own powerful, yet incessant whine. Thick crust welded its eyes shut and it blindly stumbled on the pavement, eventually tumbling off the curb onto the busy street. Attempts of returning to the sidewalk were thwarted by its small stature. Teary and full of pity, I gave it a boost, only to have it zigzag in darkness toward the hot coals of the barbeque. In Bali, there was nowhere to take the animal for help, and so, after much deliberation, I turned and headed back to the refuge of the spa.

Five days later, my program finished and I found myself more than ready to move on. I said a quick goodbye to the acquaintances I would forever know too much about, and unpacked my bag inside the four modest stonewalls of a guesthouse tucked in a garden off Jalan Raya Pengosekan. For $15 a night, I sacrificed air-conditioning, a fan, hot water and the Internet, but was able to remain within distance of my new daily yoga spot, a few organic cafes, and The Enchanted Monkey Forest. I walked down the street to an eco-friendly and organic eatery I had passed while exploring the town, still on a liquid diet, a few days before. I sat inside Kafe at a wooden table next to the window and noted that it seemed more likely to do business in L.A. than Bali. I gave an uneasy glance at the solid foods on the menu. After my juice fast, I was much more aware of the things going inside my body, and I briefly wondered if I would ever eat pancakes or bacon again. I had worked so hard to clean and restore my body that it seemed foolish to begin dumping heavy, clogging solids down my throat. I ordered tomato soup and tea and promptly began people watching as I ate and drank.

Inside, sitar music played and nearly every patron was Western; wrapped in colorful bohemian style threads, sporting an Om somewhere, and seemed to be on a journey, silently reading paperbacks or writing in journals. I watched my serene yoga instructor from a morning class walk in noticeably agitated, angry words about another instructor spilling out of her mouth faster than the recipient could absorb them. Her poise and balanced demeanor displayed in front of the class seemed like a sham now. The scene left me wondering if I had ever really left Los Angeles. I turned my head so that she would not see me seeing her acting like a brat, and stared out the window into Bali.

Outside it was a different world; locals buzzed by on motorcycles, people greeted one another on the street, prepared food over a fire on the sidewalk, or were gathered in bunches laughing and chatting — it was grimy, it was loud; it was life. I suddenly felt embarrassed for holing up inside a Western-style restaurant watching the real Bali through window glass, ashamed for not fully emerging myself in the environment I had traveled thousands of miles to participate in, and for having my first meal outside of a Western tourist-filled health resort be in a Western tourist-filled café (most likely owned by a Westerner). I scraped the remaining bits of tomato soup from my bowl and swore that from now on, it was Balinese or bust! That night, I had one of the best meals of my life from a little restaurant off the main road. Women up to their elbows in pork dished out the house specialty, babi guiling, a Balinese-style sucking pig that’s basted and roasted for hours over a pit of hot coals, and then served up with intestine and pieces of crispy golden skin that simultaneously crunch and melt in your mouth. What a find! (OK, fine, someone else found it, and it was featured on the Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations show and then recommendation made its way to me during one of our porch sessions at the health spa.) It was so good that I could not wait to wake up and return for breakfast.

My next find revealed herself while waiting for a yoga class one morning. A young woman and I started talking and discovered we were both from Los Angeles. Going out on a bold limb, I asked this stranger if she wanted to grab dinner or hang out sometime. We decided on sushi (so much for Balinese or bust!), and over tuna rolls and miso soup, I learned that while we were very different, Yeva and I had similar stories, ideas, and goals (and later I would find out, mutual friends, too!). She was a graphic designer who had just quit her job, broken up with a much-younger-than-her boyfriend, booked a month-long trip to Bali on a whim, and couldn’t be more excited to explore life. Her enthusiasm and honesty were infectious. We discussed sushi, art, epistemology, applied kinesiology, babi guiling, doing drugs, and traveling — and that’s when it, The Book, came up.

“Did you read that book, Eat, Pray, Love?” she asked. I really did not want to get into a big discussion on the book, but we were having such a great time, so I told her I had read the book but that it was fuzzy.

“You know that was here, right? Ubud is where she was for most of it.” A coy smile crept across her face. “Can I tell you something?” she asked. “It’s so stupid, but I have to tell someone.” I told her to spit it out. We had already shared so much; she could not start holding out on me now. I popped a tuna roll into my mouth and pointed a chopstick at her (at least it wasn’t a finger this time!) signaling it was time for her confession.

“I went to go see Ketut,” she said, half-excited, half-bashful. I was still chewing, but my confused look registered with her and she added, “From the book!” Still nothing came to mind. “The medicine man from the book!” she exclaimed. “The one she goes to see every day while she’s here — the really old guy.” Bingo! The puzzle pieces snapped together and immediately, I wanted to see Ketut too. I had been carving my own path for a week, I deserved a detour and besides, spending time with a traditional Balinese medicine man is a unique experience, something I could not get at home. These were all things I told myself to rationalize the next thing I said. “Can you tell me how to get there?” And in less than one minute, I had vague directions to Ketut Liyer, the famous ninth generation medicine man. “Don’t tell me what he told you,” I begged, pushing my palm in her face. “I want to have him give me a reading first, and then we can compare.” Yeva swore herself to secrecy and we enjoyed a few more drinks before walking home, testing the theory of applied kinesiology along the way.

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