is this our new home?

We tried a new cafe today, possessing the perfect blend of local and Bule.

M was nibbling Nasi Goreng with her front teeth, I was inhaling a croissant stuffed with bacon, eggs, and hollandaise, when we agreed this fusion to be our favorite: some creature comforts of America, married with the rich, rooted, connectedness of Bali. Lean too west and things get blasé, but lean too east and you feel like a fish out of water at best, trespassing at worst.

A few days ago, we toured a villa that manages this fusion. A rare find. After brunch, we purchased a tape measure to take with us on our second, more thorough, viewing.

Is this our new home?

[a few days later...]

Moving used to be one of my favorite things to do. I once counted how many times I’d moved. The number was the same as the number of years I’d been alive. I always knew a condo or house was meant for me, when I’d start decorating it in my mind before the papers were even signed. Once furniture was arranged and pictures were hung in my imagination, the deal was as good as done. This is all I’ve been doing ever since viewing that villa a few days ago. Except for this time, I don’t actually own any furnishings or art. I don’t even own a bed.

[a few more days later...]

We’re signing the villa papers in three days. I’m looking forward to no longer living with strangers or having to wash my dishes in the shower.

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