Bleary. Tired. I just got off an overnight flight from Bali to Guangzhou in China and will be heading back to NYC. Did not sleep. I thought the point of booking first class was to have a flatbed. For the past hour, I’ve been overindulging at the China Southern airport lounge. Many plates of eggs, bacon, and dumplings have been consumed. Also a giant bowl of wonton and noodle soup. No exaggeration. Giant.

Mostly, I’ve been wondering how I lost my head and my heart in Bali. It happened so quickly. Earlier this month, I had left the Bukit peninsula with hurt feelings and my poor battered heart in my hands. I had stayed with an American surfer / furniture maker who had been living between Bali, CA, and Hawaii for the past 20 years. We met 4 years ago during my first trip to Bali and spent 24 hours together. When I came back to Bali earlier this month, we spent seven days straight together. Intense. Things got a bit tense between us during this period. Much was left unsaid. I felt like he hated me but wanted me at the same time. It was a mix of emotions, but when I left him and the Bukit a few weeks ago, I needed a lot of solitude and alone time to recharge and heal. I didn’t want to look back. I at least promised myself that I wouldn’t return to the Bukit unless it was on my terms and turf.

For my last two nights in Bali, I decided to return to the Bukit, this time in style. I used some SPG points to treat myself to a stay at the Laguna, a 5-star resort in quiet Nusa Dua, the land of white sand beaches, good waves, and 5-star resorts. So that’s where all the Americans in Bali have been! I’ve been wondering.

I loved being alone. It has been so therapeutic for me to try to find quiet within myself as I travel to beautiful locations, live minimally, and embark on select adventures (like scuba diving). I agonized over whether I should keep my Nusa Dua time solitary or whether I should see my surfer friend. We’ll call him “Kelly” after the surfer Kelly Slater – no idea who he is. I had to Google that one.)

In the end, I decided to take a chance. I thought about not giving into my hurt or acting from a place of pain. I also thought about forgiveness. I closed my eyes and imagined his heart and not his actions. When you feel pain, it is more often than not a mirror of your own issues rather than the objectively grave affront you might think it is. I didn’t want to acknowledge the dark places, and let them win.

Um…and helloooo…men can be assholes. I decided to invite Kelly to Nusa Dua. I told him to invite his friends as well.

So once again, it was myself and four other crazy surfers sitting on the beach. We spent the time drinking beers (me, a bottle of wine – no glass), eating spicy chicken and rice with our hands from a banana leaf-wrapped packet, and telling funny stories and jokes. The mood was jovial. One of the guys left to go to the airport and return to Australia, and then it was the four of us – the Peruvian former hitman, the Californian entrepreneur, Kelly, and myself. While the pasty white Americans and Japanese sat behind us in their loungers, we were kicking it in the sand, oblivious to the world around us.

Soon it was dark, and we were the only ones left on the beautiful beautiful white sand beaches of Nusa Dua. Immature jokes were flying around, and we talked about politics, abortion, and all sorts of other topics. The Peruvian former hit man was a Trump supporter, born again Christian, anti-abortion, anti-gay, and anti-sex before marriage. Um…didn’t he have two kids with his ex-fiance (i.e., not wife?)? I teased him gently through rounds of questioning, poking light holes in his logic. I didn’t agree with his views, but I respected his opinions and his willingness to state them. And I suppose we all contradict ourselves in our speech and actions. Also, Mr. Peruvian is among the funniest people out there, and that can take you a long way.

Some drummers and fire dancers came by to entertain some guests dining by the hotel, and Kelly and I jumped in to become their wacko backup dancers. We were dancing wildly behind them to the beat of the waves crashing behind us and the drums in the foreground. The band invited us to join them on their nightly tour and dance with them going from hotel to hotel. I was very tempted, but we still had some guests in our party, so we politely declined but eyed them in the distance as they made their rounds.

The Peruvian disappeared for a while and came back saying he had ordered four bottles of wine and put it on room 222. Okay…well, that’s funny, but also not appropriate. Also, isn’t stealing kind of anti-Christian? Whatever. I said he could charge stuff to my room but not to steal from others. Then he was back saying that the kitchen was bringing us lobster meals to the beach. At this point, no one could tell what was fact or fiction. So we waited it out.

And indeed, the staff eventually appeared with four plates covered with a silver cover. Based on the Peruvian’s meticulous instructions, the staff fixed us plates from the buffet – beautifully and delicately plated – each with three rows accompanied by sauces. One row was seared tuna, in the middle was foie gras and crab, and the third row was smoked salmon with a sort of garlic sauce. He encouraged the waitstaff to bring it to us on the beach itself so we could eat on the sand. They were a bit perplexed, so we obliged and sat at a nearby table.

At that point, what could I really do? Instead of getting annoyed, all I could say was “buon appetito” and encourage everyone to have seconds at the buffet. We got up to explore. Many stations grilling lobster, shrimp, and crab. We wandered around the opulent setup barefoot and returned to our table. The dessert round was over the top. Eventually, we said goodbye to the Peruvian and Californian after a long chat in the lobby.

Then Kelly and I went back to the room, which had direct pool access from the private terrace. I was buzzed from drinking a bottle of white wine and downing a few vodkas. I stripped down and didn’t bother putting on a bathing suit. I jumped into the water. Kelly jumped in after me.

“I’m such an asshole. I’m so sorry. I’m just really grumpy in the morning. I never do that…”
More conversation here and there floating in the water.
“You know, I’m confused too,” he said. (Um, hello? Am I confused somehow? Oh right, yes, I am. Fine.)
And then somewhere in there unexpectedly, he said, “I love you” or maybe it was “I did all these things, and I realized that I must be pushing you away because I love you” or some variation of this. I don’t even know.

What???!!! “Um, you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“I’ve always loved you. We had our moment four years ago, and we’ve been friends since then.”
As ridiculous as it sounded, I believed him. I really felt that it was genuine and real.
“Do you love me?” he asked.
I paused. “Yes.” And in that moment, I really meant it. And then I went for it. “Yes, I love you.”

We jumped out of the water, dried off, and talked about trying to be together and what that would look like or if we could even do it. He was dead serious. We talked a little about how it felt for me to be back in Bali. The strong connection we had with each other. But if we were going to be together, I think I would need to move to Bali. He wouldn’t survive or be happy in NYC. He hates cities and the East Coast. We were in balls of laughter as we FaceTimed with my sister and her boyfriend, who were in Boston. As I drunkenly and happily chatted with my sister and introduced Kelly in the background, he interjected by yelling, “I love your sister!” I think she was highly disturbed.

The next day, we were hung over, and I felt detached – less lovey dovey – more cold (Ugh, what’s wrong with me? So hot and cold all the time). We spent the entire day at the resort eating heavily and swimming around lightly. We took a long 2-hour walk barefoot through thatched areas, stairs, dirt paths, and baking hot pavement streets, where he showed me temples, different spots in Nusa Dua, and shared Bali stories.

At 5pm, we went to the Melia for happy hour. I was over-exuberant, and by 7pm, I was bombed off white wine. I felt a sense of freedom and reckless abandon as I chugged away. I felt myself expand and kept gulping. Woo hoo, my last real night in Bali!!!!!

I told the bartender Made that I loved him. “Jimbarooo,” he said to Kelly while pointing at me. This translates to “flying chicken” and means a free woman. That became my catchphrase for the evening, and I amused countless Indonesians by repeating everything Kelly said and coocoo’ing a vigorous “Jimbarooooo” and flapping my wings from time to time. It’s great when it’s that easy to make other people laugh.

At the next bar, we were starting to create quite a commotion – endless laughs. We were soon surrounded by the Indonesian staff who were in stitches, as Kelly and I talked to them in English and Indonesian.

“I love you sooooooo much,” I said to Kelly repeatedly.

“You only love me when you’re drunk,” he laughed.

It’s sort of true though. We do kind of love each other when we are drunk. I don’t know what that means.

We capped off the night with tequila shots. That I don’t remember. My last real night in Bali, and I don’t even remember how it ended. According to the reports, we ended up back at the Melia hotel for a bit because I wanted to dance. We danced to Adele, jumping on stage with the band. The next song was a Happy Birthday, and I apparently kept dancing on stage, and Kelly had to drag me off and carry me home because I couldn’t really walk anymore at that point. I don’t remember this or the pizza I ordered back in the room. But I was bummed in the morning – I had hoped for a spectacular and memorable night, not a black hole in my mind where the night had been. But that happens. And there’s no need to be sad or down when you’re in paradise and have had nothing but beautiful memories, even the ones that may have had to be shared second-hand. Just eat before you get too drunk next time. Lesson learned.

The next day – our real last day in Nusa Dua – was a beauty. The same breakfast buffet bingefest. Laying on the beach most of the day. Some wine and laughs. And then we packed up to go to Uluwatu for sunset, coming full circle to the beginning of my Bukit adventures earlier in the month where we had watched the sunset together for the first time.

Then it was time to head to the airport. We grabbed some dinner on the way. As we were driving, we stopped by an abandoned building to check things out and rocked out to some tunes, singing at the tops of our lungs, which were not doing too well after all those clove cigarettes. Echhh.

I can’t even place how it happened, but at some point on that ride to the airport, we decided to get married. We set the date as Halloween (more practically, the weekend before) and the location as his mom’s place in Shell Beach, California. It would be Halloween-themed and a super fun costume party with our friends on the beach.

We arrived and parked at the domestic terminal. The song “I’ll be there” came on the radio. We blasted it and sang along with the doors of the car open and agreed that would be our wedding song. Some even more cheesy romantic song came on, and he shut the radio down. That was too much.

It was time to go. I was even kind of late. He walked me into the terminal. There were several layers of security, and he managed to penetrate one layer, but then they were on to him, asking him for his ticket. We managed to avert them for a while with me saying, “I need to say bye to my fiance! Please give us some time.” They backed off for a bit and then found him again.

“I gotta go, baby,” he said.

We hugged and kissed and waved goodbye.

We chatted by Facebook messenger. He had already told his mom. Photos of us were sent.

“Are we really getting married?” I wrote.
“I hope so. I am counting on it. You are my love, and we should be together forever.”
“OK! Halloween wedding! But I still want an engagement haha.”
“OK, well, you will have to come back or we do over the phone. But let’s just do it. Think we would be best mates and as team, make an empire. Love you.”
“OK, I’m in….shouldn’t we get to know each other better before getting married?”
That question never really got addressed because we started chatting about something else.

I promised not to black out at our wedding.

I landed in China. He had written saying he missed me and was sad and lonely without me there.

How can this happen so quickly? Am I engaged? Is this really happening?

Now that I’m sober, I am thinking more rationally about all of this. Is it true that we only love each other when we’re drunk? I think we probably need to give ourselves some real time to figure things out instead of being so impulsive. But it feels good to feel. And it feels good to allow yourself to follow that feeling.

I just really hope I don’t screw the pooch on this one.