Describing the sound of rain cascading onto trees is pretty cliched territory for poets and writers. Which is why I’m hesitant to describe the sound I’m currently hearing on the porch in Bali.
In so many ways, Bali for me is like Maine but with different foliage and less drinkable tap water. It’s the peacefulness, the easygoing vibe, the smell everywhere of burned wood, the vast expanses of tress.
…I always thought if I ever started a blog it would be because I had a specific idea. The joys of whiskey and kittens! Cooking with nut butter on a budget! Feminist philosophy complete with “bitch” or “cunt” or something equally subversive in the title! Traveling while tall! (the last one actually isn’t a bad idea…)
Instead, here I am, trying to come up with something interesting to say about rainy evenings in Bali. The very definition of #firstworldproblems. I find myself getting defensive about even being here. The only reason I could afford this trip in the first place is that I was in India for work, meaning somebody else covered the cost of getting me about 75% of the way here. I’ve got a lovely cottage that cost next to nothing on Airbnb. I’m not rich. I don’t know why I care that people know that. Maybe because of the constant deference Western women are shown in Asia. I squirm when I’m waited on. I wish I could say it was entirely because I am a strong and powerful woman who don’t need no man to open doors/carry bags/offer me a ride, especially if I am only being offered those things because I am white and American… but honestly, it’s largely because the image in my head of people who are waited on is not great. There’s an interesting topic for a blog (and several therapy sessions).
So, here it is: my blog post about feeling uncomfortable writing about being in Bali.