Miss S is a character all onto herself. She is the one that I mentioned in a previous account had been spending the past 18 months traveling around the world first class in a cowboy hat. Loud, racy, and spontaneous she showed a new way of living to us all.
On our first dinner together she announced that she was on a cleanse. She drank strange Chinese elixirs and ordered a heaping pile of greens. Then she downed two gin and tonics.
“Aren’t you supposed to abstain from alcohol while on a cleanse” K asked, who was well familiar with all things new age.
“Well….drinking this small amount of gin IS a cleanse for me. Besides the Chinese potion I just drank was a liver clearer so I am fine, darling.”
By our last supper together we were well aware of S’s drinking preferences. That is, she preferred to drink. It was no surprise that she mandated we have lots of wine for out last meal at the villa. This may sound simple enough but Indonesia was facing a wine and spirits import ban, which means little remained of decent Australian wine. Bali did make its own wine, but it really wasn’t something for the faint hearted. Just one sip stripped a layer off your throat. Thus, I volunteered to escort S on her wine journey. We checked out various shops and finally found a place that had three bottles of Shiraz left. While I was paying, S noticed a fish in a small bowl. She became instantly outraged at the cramped confines the poor creature had. Not only did she reprimand the poor Balinese staff, but she also left an angry note for the owner stating that if the fish were not in a bigger bowl or pond tomorrow, she would not only organize a boycott of the store but also a midnight rescue campaign for the fish.
With S in such spirits I knew I should have stayed in bed after supper. I was planning an early night to prepare for dramatic waves the next day. Nestled in bed, sleepy with wine, I heard an abrupt rapt at my door. “Heidi?!” came a throaty voice.
Oh no. ”I’m…er…resting in here.” I meekly replied.
The door swung open. In walked in S decked out in a miniskirt, snakeskin cowboy boots, and a pink cowboy hat she had purchased in Dallas.
“It’s time to go out to Kuta darling. No ifs ands or butts”
“Nooo…..” I wailed as she got me out of bed. She simply stated, “Look, I’m wearing the hat. You have no choice, you must follow it. The hat has its own rules for the evening. We must all obey the hat.”
Kuta was surfer party central. I am more a mediation through movement kind of gal, remember?
But somehow I made myself presentable and followed her and the hat out. The hat also recruited K, who was up to see what Bali nightlife looked like.
We hailed a taxi as easily as three girls in miniskirts (one with a large cowboy hat) can do. S sat in the front and immediately threw her cowboy booted feet on the dash.
“Have any music, “ she asked while ruffling through the diver’s cassettes. “We and the hat must arrive with a cool beat.”
All S could find was Indonesian love ballads, so we blasted that with the windows down; not the coolest entrance into party central.
“You know,” S commented above the ballad melody, “this hat has a life of its own. I cannot be held responsible for any actions while I am wearing it. In fact, it’s giving me a whole new identity.”
She looked back at us sternly. “Tonight I am not longer S. Tonight I am Bobbi, wearer of the hat.”
Bobbi?
The hat got us out at a lively bar called Sky Garden, so named for its multiple floors to the heavens.
Upon seeing the crowd of boisterous 20 somethings K begged to be taken back to our calm villa.
“No such thing while the hat is on guard” S replied. “You are coming out and drinking whisky; hat’s orders.”
Oh boy.
S, or Bobbi, worked the crowd that night. Australian surfers love a cowgirl, especially one with an English accent. K and I sipped our drinks calmly, proud of the energy of the hat wearer and her ability to get the attention of half the bar. Suddenly a 6’1” tall dark handsome stranger plopped down besides me. “You won’t believe what your friend just said to get me to come over here,” he said laughing.
“Bobbi in the hat?” I raised my eyebrows.
“That’s the one. Utterly unrepeatable,” said the Australian accent.
Great. I was visibly flushing although I had no idea what statements the hat wearer may have concocted. However, whatever it was, I needed to thank her. The stranger was beautiful and we got along quite well. Too well. He offered to be my personal surf institutor, Bali guide, and other, er…. like things for the remainder of my stay. It may have turned into a romance for the next few days, but oh was Bali too complicated. The island offers so many other distractions, too little time; the sun on a very tight schedule. Sweet as he was, I I had come to the island to forget men, not rediscover them. But I had no time to debate myself to death. I managed to cut my head open surfing the next morning (not sure how cute I am with blood stains on my face). Head throbbing, I missed our slated rendezvous.
Instantly regrettable but perhaps for the best. I’ll need every square inch of my heart when I return to the states to start my new life. Writing, travel, and nothing corporate.
Bobbi returned to the villa the next day having found her own beautiful stranger. Hat and boots were still intact. She received one standing ovation as she entered, and then another one when we discovered that the fish at the wine shop had been moved to a larger pond.
Lesson: Always follow the way of the hat. Your heart and brain are too confused
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