Last night, I dreamt that I was in Bali with Ceci. I was making my way up to the veranda of our Ubud hotel when it started raining. In the warped way dreams work, we ended up in a nearby bar, gulping down cocktails served up by one of my poly lecturers. Really vague, really ambiguous, but I remember that we were happy because we were safe from the bombings.
I’d be lying if I said the news of the impending execution of the Bali bombers and possible retaliations don’t worry me. But I am unwilling to forfeit my trip, for reasons surpassing monetary losses.
The island and its inexplicable hold on me.
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