BALI - The chaos and the beautiful

Stepping into the arrivals hall at Ngurah Rai airport filled me with enough excitement to fuel a passenger plane.
Imagine the noise level of a handful of luggage belts and a few dozen suitcase wheels transforming into the yells of a good hundred drivers, all battling to get to the very front, yelling out the misspelled names on their hotel signs. It was thrilling and so comfortably uncomfortable to yield through the masses of faces and signs, until I finally spotted my own misspelled name on one of them. I initially felt quite bad for my driver and wondered how long he must have been waiting for me, considering the four hours it took me to clear customs and immigration. 

Once outside the airport, two things instantly hit me: the beautiful, unfamiliar architecture and the polluted humidity. I couldn't stop looking around myself, twirling like a sweaty ballerina with big ass thighs and look at the to me unusual architecture, the attention to details, the offerings and the crazy yet somehow functioning traffic.

By the time we found the driver's car, I was all the more ready for a shower, a long walk to explore and some delicious Indonesian food for dinner but as so often, life got in the way of my plans. My driver's car decided to shit itself and he himself, only fifteen or sixteen years old, I swear, managed to ruin it even more through ferocious attempts of starting and restarting it. My lack of Indonesian and his lack of English inevitably turned the whole situation into a bit of a comical one and to be honest I didn't mind stepping straight into a bit of Balinese chaos.

Long story short we got underway about an hour later, the sun was setting and my first day in Bali ended with a hell of a reception at the Courtyard Marriot Hotel in Seminyak, including a million apologies from the hotel manager who didn't charge me for the airport transfer, the driver, the luggage boys, the staff at the screening point (yes they screen your luggage before you enter a fancy hotel OMG) and the beautiful man who brought me sweet cucumber infused tea, a steaming hot face towel and a Popsicle as I was checking in. I passed on the popsicle as, at that point, I was as dehydrated as a hungover camel in the Sahara and just looked forward to some complimentary aqua both in and around my mouth.

As it was dark already, I didn't get a good look at the hotel complex but let me tell you when I'm a 45 year old wealthy botoxed up lady of the West who has seen all and done all, this is where you will find me. In a luxury hotel. Eating all the foods from the breakfast buffet. Slurping away at cocktails from the pool bar, perving on twenty-somethings. Getting my boobs massaged (yes I had my boobs massaged this one time and it was weird but ok weird, the kind of weird you can tell your mom about over a glass of wine).

such a burnt touristy dork! embrace the dork!

My room was so exquisite I felt sad about not being able to share the glory that was my king sized bed, private balcony, raindrop shower and toilet that washes your butthole upon pressing a button. And then I realised I had 24 hr room service and could pig out at 11 pm eating shit on the bed, pee with the door open and leave all other basic manners at the door.
Then I went from wanting to share to wanting to hog and wondered if I was even going to leave this room or complex for the next two days (spoiler: I did, but I blame it on the urge to eat secondbreakfast without embarrassing myself at the hotel more than anything).

Seeing as it was late by the time I had checked in, 10 pm crept up quicker than expected and I made use of said room service, instantly a little intimidated by the exchange rate, but knowing that even if I ordered a lobster stuffed spatchcock, I would probably pay less than I would for a decent steak sandwich back home.

This was my $ 12 room service meal, including the fresh watermelon juice and a generous tip:

Nasi goreng. So simple, so satisfying.

I basically passed out after inhaling this meal so quickly I may as well have snorted it and slept like the personified version of sophistication. Proud I could afford this meaningless crap and over the top treatment. Proud I knew it was all meaningless. Exhausted and relaxed at the same time.

And then the next day, I went and explored and shopped in Seminyak, watched the surfers in Kuta and ate delicious street food in Legian. But more on that in my next post.

Daisy chains

I am currently indulging in child hood memories, which in my case, involved a lot of nature, flower picking, playing in the millions of forests surrounding my parents' house, building dams in every stream we could find and watching wild animals with fascination. Yeah, I had a pretty banging time growing up on the country side, where the TV was never switched on before 5 pm and, looking out the window of my room, I saw nothing but mum's massive veggie garden, a linden tree and endless fields.

One very fond memory I treasure is spending afternoons with my great grandmother, who not only had a talent for finding rare flowers in the wild (of which we were only allowed to pick one or two), but who could also find four leaf clovers in an ordinary clover field and make the best daisy chains the world has ever seen.

And since daisies are a big trend at the moment, I felt the need to share a few of the many ways one can surround oneself with as many daisy themed items as possible.

daisy dress via asos, headband and necklace: Lovisa, magnificent pouch manufacturer unknown, other images via pinterest

Putting daisies in your hair is really not a new thing - I can remember the girls at communion at age 8 wearing flower crowns their mums, aunts or grandmothers had carefully made the day before and  kept in water overnight to keep them from wilting. It's not a hipster thing, gooosssshhhh. It's really a catholic countryside farmer tradition. Let's see who will burn their flower crowns first?

I involuntarily fell in love with this dress from Asos when I "researched" for this post. The length, cut and the fact it's called a "sun dress" make it completely unsuitable for my body shape and personality but hey, it's a steal at $ 35 and you might want to have a closer look!

The headband from LOVISA is not yet in my possession, but the necklace I own and I have received a lot of positive feedback from various strangers on the internet (don't you love reassurance through social media? Jokes...). Lovisa is making a bit of a statement with daisies at the moment, so there is a much bigger range online. Check it out.

As for the tea cup - it's vintage and possibly a one off - but daisy tea is something we learned to indulge in as kids too. To be honest we even put daisies in our cocoa some experimental summery holiday mornings. You can eat the leaves as well or put the flower buds in sandwiches, soups or salads. Speak of prettying up your lunch!

Being surrounded with possessions, responsibilities, currency and social pressure, it really helps remembering the blissful content I had as a child and taking in how happy I was as a little peanut. I had next to nothing in materialistic goods (expect for a shit ton of Lego, of which some was handed down from my mum's childhood days), yet I think of it as one of the richest periods of my life. Anyone's life really. There is nothing more exciting than exploring and seeing the beauty of the world through a child's eyes. It's not something we have lost, we just need to re-learn it. C'mon everyone, shake off that sarcasm, money-orientated attitude and indulge in some barefoot, flowery goodness! *slaps a tambourine and rides off into the sunset*

Strawberry farm babbles

What is happening in the world? Ugh I suck at blogging, I know. My brain juices are drained and I live at airports now, trying not to get queasy in the terminal and actively avoiding anything royal baby-esque that tries to bury itself into my head.

SO....

We have strawberry farms back home in Austria. Yes, I know they're here as well but I can guarantee you ours are a million times better. Fuck the word "farm" too, we call it "Strawberry Land" and it raises about as much excitement in young and old and people in general as the word "Disneyland" because a trip there usually involves your mum and your best friend's mum and your best friend and yourself in your orange colored bike shorts and "Jungle book" - t-shirt and jelly sandals, eating unpaid strawberries and throwing half eaten strawberries at each other and frolicking and slipping on rotten strawberries on the ground, staining your orange bike shorts red and then vomiting that exact color later on when your body just had enough of that sweet sweet princess of a berry, which really doesn't hold you back from picking another one...and another one. Mum and best friend's mum rock up with about 10 Tupperware containers each and start picking berries like it was the most prestigious of all housewife contests. If you're picking, your butt has to be the highest part of your body, they say. And in this very moment, no sarcasm involved, I swear, I am so grateful for growing up on the country side, without supermarkets and traffic and bus stops and no internet until I was 15 because you ain't gonna learn that shit on the streets.

At the end of the afternoon mum and best friend's mum would have their Tupperware containers full of the juiciest and reddest berries and get them weighed at the little wooden hut they call the "checkout". Whoever picked the most wins a non-existent price in a non-existent contest.
You pay a ridiculously cheap price (something like $ 25 for 5 kgs) and load up the precious goods in your car, then drive home, eat some more strawberries, watch mum and Nana make jam and cakes and compote and then fall asleep in your little warm bed, oblivious to the fact that this was one of the most amazing and memorable afternoons in your childhood.

Strawberry farmer is a profession. An ACTUAL PROFESSION. It must be the most romanticized profession aside from Shepperd in the European Alps that has ever existed in this crazy lady's head and I want to know how to become one. NOW.

(images via google)