Wayan spoke English well. We chatted about my recent travels through Asia, Europe, and Oceania. He asked where I was from, if I was meeting anyone here, and then if I was scared to travel alone. We talked about his country, the island (I was too afraid to ask about bombs), my expectations of the program and why had I chosen to participate in it. After a brief explanation of my dissolved relationship and plans, I said, “I didn’t know what else to do and it sounded nice, you know, to relax, to get clean, to kind of restart everything.” “I guess I want a fresh start,” I confessed. “So, here I am.” I laughed, but felt like an idiot for being so frank with a stranger. Still, in a relentless show of Balinese friendliness, a warm smile appeared in the rearview mirror and asked, “Do you know the book Eat, Pray, Love?”

“Yes, I do,” I answered. “I read it a few years ago. What about you, have you read it?” (I omitted that while favoring the Italian section on stomach stuffing I had not paid much attention to the section on Bali. I also had not remembered that Ubud, our final destination, was the area where Gilbert had spent most of her time. However, once I arrived, there would be no chance of forgetting it.) Wayan said that although he had not read the book, everyone on Bali knew of it.

We turned onto Jalan Raya Ubud, the quiet town’s main in-coming road. The effect of Elizabeth Gilbert covered every store window. “Look!” I was excited and pointing, forgetting for a brief moment about the impoliteness of it. “Look there! There’s a poster for the book!” Tapping on the window glass now (oops, I had done it again!), I was proud for Ms. Gilbert, excited for Bali, and anxious for my own upcoming Balinese discoveries. From the driver’s seat, Wayan said, “Yes, we all love the book here in Ubud. It’s good for economy. Before the book, more tourists go to the beach, like Kuta or Seminyak. After the book, everybody want to come to Ubud!” He chuckled and then added, “Maybe you will find love. Many people want to find love here.” I insisted that I was not looking for love, but Wayan would hear nothing of this.

The reality finally clicked — the book had been enchanting millions of readers for over three years. Wayan had probably picked up hundreds of women like me at the airport, and after the release of the Eat, Pray, Love movie starring Julia Roberts the following year, he would probably pick up thousands more. There was no pretending that I alone had the ingenious idea to discover a path for myself on this now notoriously famous island, in this particularly well-tread, soul-sifting neighborhood. Immediately, I was grateful I could not remember any details of the book, afraid I might do what so many others before me had probably done — followed Gilbert’s footsteps instead of exploring a route of their own. Once we arrived at the health resort, I vowed to live a Gilbert-free life in Bali, focus on my program, do yoga every day, and see whom and what I could run across — most immediately this turned out to be a freshly-juiced welcome drink, and introduction to my very own personal assistant to help me through the program. She walked me on a tiny stoned path to my room. A wooden door opened into a simple, but inviting bungalow. A light blue bathroom with a standup shower, western toilet, and sink were to the right. A few steps on the dark hardwood floor found me next to a large mattress draped with mosquito nets on the floor to the right, and a hand-painted mural to the left. The floor continued a foot past the bed and then dropped into my sunken lounge area complete with a tiny wooden table adorned with yellow flowers, two bottles of drinking water, and a welcome packet. The entire back wall was a sliding glass door that opened onto a private wooden deck overlooking a small man-made waterway carved through dense gardens. It was perfect.

My detoxification program consisted of a strict juice and broth diet, sleeping through my morning yoga classes, sneaking in an afternoon cigarette, getting enough massages to empathize with Kobe cows, and wandering around the hotel’s peaceful grounds. My camera captured a variety of plants and trees, prolific moss growing on stone creatures and across walls, strangely quiet waterfalls, and life in the verdant gardens on the property — anything to distract me from thinking about solid foods. Between frequent naps and planned excursions such as witnessing trance-like chants of a Westernized kecak, a traditional Balinese dance ritual, I began my own ritual of dissecting my life, relationships, society, and anything else that popped into my head. Then, I would regurgitate my wildly profound findings to the other guests during our self-initiated group therapy sessions. Everyone brought up The Book, but our attention never rested on one topic for too long. Often, our social gatherings on the tiny, centrally located patio would consist of our progress in the program, most notably what purged during our colonics. You would be surprised how quickly people feel comfortable talking about their bowel movements (and any other extremely personal details of their life for that matter).

“How’d it go?” we would ask of someone who emerged on the path leading from the colonic room.

“Got rid of three parasites!” the victor would answer.

“That’s fantastic, and it’s only your third day? Nice!” another would say, legs tossed over their wicker chair.

“Congratulations — that’s usually day five material,” a returning veteran might add. And everyone would sit around jealous and order another fibrous watermelon juice.

On day three, two days into my juice fast, my sleepy-eyed personal assistant collected me from my room at the ungodly hour of 2:40 a.m. for a middle-of-the-night hike up Mount Batur, an active volcano over an hour away in Kintamani. By 4:07 a.m., I was climbing upward in cold darkness headed for Batur’s 1,717-meter high caldera motivated by the promise of an unforgettable sunrise. The middle-of-the-night, two-hour climb seemed impossible with such an empty stomach. I imagined how many easy steps I might take if I could eat a piece of bread. Every step was exhausting. I was being a big whiny baby, but I pressed on. The provided flashlight cast a faint light that extended a foot in front of the bulb at best and my shoes frequently rolled across basalt gravel causing me to slide back down the path I had so arduously climbed. My legs shook on steeper inclines and sometimes gave out, my ankles wobbled and I took frequent rests against rocks. Eventually, I told my climbing party, a local guide and an Australian middle-aged woman with freckles, also in the program, to leave me behind; I would finish the trek on my own. I did not realize it at the time, but climbing Mount Batur was the physical equivalent of the mental journey I had already embarked on. I was alone, hungry, tired, and climbing in the dark toward the promise of something beautiful. I had to push myself, take one step at a time, deal with the setbacks, and relish the view once I reached the top. I had to not be jealous of the people at the top enjoying their sunrise coffee and egg breakfast, and learn to be satisfied and grateful for the water that I had.

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