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Recently in Salon Travel

Travel Advisor
On location
Our expert steers you toward those famous movie settings you've always wanted to see, plus offers the lowdown on travel insurance, accessibility information and that elusive Dutch B&B.
By Donald D. Groff
[08/12/99]

Rendezvous of the sun and the moon
Our eclipse correspondent witnesses ancient treasures and a modern miracle in Iran.
By Jeff Greenwald
[08/11/99]

Total eclipse
Encountering Iran on the cusp of change.
By Jeff Greenwald
[08/11/99]

Vagabonding
Searching for Binh Hoa
Hoping to find an obscure Vietnam War killing field, our correspondent discovers that some lessons of history teach themselves.
By Rolf Potts
[08/10/99]

China good? China bad?
Nothing is simple in Tibet.
By Hank Hyena
[08/07/99]

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++After Ed
++With some help from Bali, I learned how to let go again.

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By Kiersten Aschauer

August 13, 1999 | "You'll break some hearts in Southeast Asia," my friend Tracey said as she leafed through my Indonesia guidebook. "If you remember how."

"I don't want to know how. And that's not why I'm traveling," I replied, half wanting, histrionics aside, to tell her I hoped I'd never meet another man. "I'm going so I can remember how to speak in the 'I' again instead of the 'we.' I'm going for the cultural experience and the solitude. I'm going so that someday I can come back here and start my life over."

She just smiled, no questions. I'd been through a lot during that visit to the United States.

I'd gotten dumped, eight hours before my flight back to Thailand, where my ex and I had been living in a little teak house at the foot of Suthep Mountain. A five-year relationship, over in a 30-minute, international phone call. The math alone was breathtaking.

Suddenly, I was without a job or a place to live, and I had very little money and a heart that had been ripped apart with a butter knife. And while everyone else in America was eating Cheez Whiz on crackers and looking forward to Super Bowl Sunday that weekend, I mummied about the house with a bottle of gin in one hand, a box of Kleenex in the other.

For two weeks I was in a blur, my conscious mind only concerned with the fear that Racquel might bring about the demise of Halie and Matteo's relationship on "All My Children." I slept on the couch some nights, unready to crawl into a king-sized bed alone.

But at 5 a.m. one day, the urge to pack a bottle of ibuprofen, a couple Lorrie Moore novels, six freelance projects and a pair of sandals into a backpack overwhelmed me. After a one-week fast and a few semi-successful tries at meditation, I made a fruit salad and called my travel agent.

I was out of there.

"It's like riding a bike," Tracey said as we hugged goodbye. "Even after a nasty fall, you can still get on and make an ass out of yourself by trying again."

As I walked out the door and got into my car, I thought of the last time I'd been on a bike. I was 10 years old, and in leaning too far sideways around a corner to impress a cute neighborhood boy, I'd fallen off and skidded across the pavement, legs straddling a mailbox post.

Of course, when I arrived in central Bali, I still had a fatalistic view of love and romance. I was nowhere near prepared to meet a tall handsome Londoner and spend a few days immersed in intense conversation and lovemaking. In fact, I wouldn't have considered it possible when I first checked into my hotel in Ubud.

No, it was going to take some time, about a month and a half.

I first had to shed my Western pace, succumb to the island. It was innocent enough, I thought, to be overtaken by the sloping rice terraces, swaying palms and humid breezes. It was OK to get a little emotional while watching a sunrise in Padangbai or seeing the mist roll in over Gunung Agung volcano. It was even all right to have pictures of sexy local boys in their sarongs or of tanned, trendy tourists replacing memories of my ex.

After a couple weeks of touring the island and perusing small villages, I went a step further: effort. I permed my hair and got a pedicure. I paid attention to shaving detail and replaced those weathered undergarments with things more Calvin Klein-y. I had stress knots worked out by nimble-fingered Balinese masseurs.

Once I felt confident enough, I had flirting to relearn. Remembering how to lift my concentration from a book or my laptop and actually make eye contact was harder than it seemed. To stumble through awkward first greetings, find conversation lag-fillers and figure out how to hint sexual interest into seemingly innocent dialogue -- this all took work. But the work started getting easier.

Next page | My graceful smoker's exhale