An addendum for the family doctors

A few more words about the final steps my Mom took in completing her doctoral degree.

My Mom's dissertation, on how schools can apply Total Quality Management and strategic planning techniques to improve student learning, is peppered with incisive observations about the state of education, and the challenges and opportunities for improving it. She quotes Andy Hargreaves' succinct description of how important this work is, that "education is the greatest gatekeeper of opportunity and a powerful distributor of life chances."

It was great fun for me to read this document, codifying the knowledge and experience earned through decades of work as an educator. In discussing how educational reform efforts are necessarily situated within a large social context, she writes:

A school is affected from the outside by the stability, support, and socioeconomic status of the community. A community in turmoil is less likely to lend support and prioritize education as a value.

In describing how a school's culture and process for decision-making can impact the ultimate success of school improvement efforts, she highlights how critical it is that all the people involved have a shared understanding of the process and its importance, and what happens without it.

What can easily be construed as resistance to change may in fact be uncertainty of the task or training needed to build capacity. Seldom is the desire to change problematic in a school when the need is evident, the process is clear and relevant and the belief is there that it will benefit students.

A dissertation culminates in a defense, the term of art for a committee review of the material including an oral interview by the committee. From the stories I've heard, it seems these free-form, no-holds-barred investigations of the material covered by the dissertation often go in unexpected directions, as committee members might be interested in hearing the candidate expound on a passing remark on page 57.

It sounds like my Mom's defense was a rich and intense discussion, giving her an opportunity to demonstrate her broad, confident knowledge of her material. The unexpected part came when after the committee's deliberations were complete, she was asked to follow the committee throughout the halls of the department, as her advisor rang an antique school bell — hear-ye, hear-ye style — introducing her to all of the staff and faculty as the department's newest Ph.D.. For all the pomp and circumstance of a commencement (which she got to experience the next day), so I love the image being invited into the ranks through the ringing of an old school bell, and striding the halls with those who have conferred the distinction. Once again, Ma, way to go!

I have also just learned that my aunt Kim successfully defended her dissertation yesterday. Congrats, Dr. Kim!

Much occasion for family pride, indeed.

Buttons bursting

The title would be apt for our time in Singapore, the result of grazing at every conceivable opportunity on that city's amazingly diverse, abundant, inexpensive and delicious street food. But, in fact, we did a lot of walking, and it's pretty healthy stuff, so the buttons of our midsections — for the moment, anyway — remain intact.

No, this is not a post about our time in Singapore, nor our first impressions of Malaysia. Those will come. This is a post about family pride.

Tomorrow, after the considerable years of effort that the title always implies, my Mom receives her doctorate from the Department of Educational Policy and Administration at the University of Minnesota.

Congratulations, Dr. Mom!

I cannot fathom is how she managed to squeeze time for her research and writing between her way-more-than-full-time gig as an elementary school principal, her role as family matriarch, her primary care-giving for my sister, her avid grandmotherhood, her support for the whole damn clan and all the gazillion other interests calling to her — but I have evidence that most of it took place between the hours of 4 and 6 a.m.. No, I'm not kidding.

Mom, you're an inspiration for your persistence and dedication, and also for your ability to balance all of the many demands pulling at your attention. Kudos for hanging in there through the inevitable set-backs, changing priorities and plain ol' passage of time, and crossing the finish line with such style! Hooray!


On the list of buffo family accomplishments, my Mom is sharing the stage right now with my amazingly talented sister-in-law, whose well-loved writing has appeared, for the first time, in book form!



Drink This: Wine Made Simple, Dara's guide to wine, hinges on the dramatic, democratic premise that the most important thing about your experience of wine is — BEHOLD! — your experience of wine! Rather than sending you rushing for a thesaurus or fumbling for obscure imagery ("ah, this one has hints of reading Rilke during summer rains"), her radical idea is to help you get to know your own tastes and preferences better. Wicked! The experience of wine, expressed in the most important tongue of all: yours!

The book has been getting rave reviews (turns out those James Beard awards weren't for nuthin'!) here and here and here and lots of other places. Check it out!

So, hats off, Mom and Dara! These are big milestones, worthy of much celebration. A toast, a toast! To you!

In pictures

Judged by any reasonable measure of consumption, Julie and I are cinephiles of the "frequent and vigorous" variety. Our regular routine in a more abiding abode would typically involve a weekly trip to an art house or one of our favorite second-run cinemas. Enter the trip.

To our pleasant surprise, cinema has also been appreciated in our destinations to date. Whether spending time with Tony at the USC School of Cinematic Arts, screening Up! in 3D, or visiting the WETA Workshop in New Zealand, we've been able to keep the cinematic flame alive and aloft. But who knew that Ubud, Bali would offer so many memorable movie-going experiences?

It began with a chance encounter on an evening walk up Monkey Forest Road, past a sign hawking what we could only take to be a joke:



Lord of the Rings 4?! What Halloween-costumed, Ren-fest-inspired, lilt-uttering massacre of all things Tolkien could this be? Natch, we had to go. (The short answer: a fan film, yes, but one with surprisingly high production values. If only their scripted dialogue hadn't tried so, so hard to sound like the original trilogy, it might have been quite engrossing. Note for future fan-film makers: your target audience already knows the original scripts too well to let you get away with reusing existing dialogue in new contexts, without killing the buzz.)

Later that evening, we passed one of Ubud's many DVD chop shops, huge storefronts packed to the gills with dubiously-obtained video, amazed to discover films available on DVD for US $1.50 that have not yet even reached the cinema! From the little I actually saw of it, Where the Wild Things Are appears to be a pretty incredible film. Do you suppose the sudden appearance of a tiny silhouetted figure on the lower bounds of the screen, walking toward stage left, is some inexplicable easter egg added by director Spike Jonze or co-screenwriter Dave Eggers? Or could it just be someone exiting the theater? I admire their daring choice to include audio of real children watching the film, particularly the high-pitched urgent query right at the end, asking Mama "Is it over now?"

Ha. While this is not the only bootlegged movie I've seen, it was easily the worst made. So, naturally, how could we pass up an opportunity to see 2012 the day before its US premiere?



Thankfully, this is a visual movie, so the absence of audible dialog did not detract from the expected apocalyptic images. There were some muddled but satisfying low-end reverberations that made it through the speakers whenever something large was being destroyed by something even larger, which was enough to reinforce the idea that "this can't be good." Besides, there's only so much dramatic tension John Cusack's love interests can really sustain for me. I decided if Cusack's character had motto, it should be: "Unlucky in love, lucky in class-C driving." But you judge for yourself.

Our cinematic highlight to date of the trip -- for me, anyway -- was attending the fabulous Ubud "flim" [sic] club, a group of Indonesian and expat cinephiles who gather weekly at the home of their gregarious host, Artur, a Polish Swede who with his wife and their two kids have made movie nights an important part of their extended stays in Bali. Artur found me on CouchSurfing, invited me to screen my own cinematic pride-and-joy, Friction, and generally made it an irresistible and unforgettable night. The company of smart, interesting fellow travelers and an... intoxicating, home-brewed concoction known as the Magic Coconut were potent icing on the cake. With some help from said company, I even managed to procure the ingredients for my signature caliente popcorn, but alas, the kernels would not pop! We screened the hilarious and chaotic Black Cat, White Cat as our main feature, followed with Friction and closed the night with trailers of the films to be screened at flim clubs to come. It was a joyful and light-hearted movie club experience, something I've missed having in my life for several years. I only wish we'd been in Ubud more than just the one week!

We are in Singapore now -- the time has flown with so many diverting scenic and culinary experiences -- and we have learned that we have more movie fun ahead in Kuala Lumpur, where purchasing movie tickets seems as complex as a tax form, with prices varying based on the time of day, day of week, size of seat, location and, naturally, availability of restrooms. It should prove memorable!

Left and leaving*

Tomorrow, we depart Ubud, making our way to the airport and a plane
bound for the city-state of Singapore.

Leaving our quasi-home of Padangbai was difficult. Leaving Bali will
be, too. Our last morning in Padangbai was spent making the rounds,
saying farewell to our friends and the places we frequented, the
places where people knew us by name. We took some photographs with our
new friends, keepsakes to hold them and our time in Padangbai in
memory until our return, who-knows-when. Farewell Martini, and Regig,
and Made, and Nyoman, and Ayu, and Kesni, and David, and Wayan, and
Rini. Until we meet again.

Ubud, for its charms, did not quite fit as comfortably (for one, it is
far more touristy), but it too will be hard to leave. I made some new
friends here, too, especially a fabulous group of expat and Indonesian
film lovers (more on that to come). We have said our farewells to the
monkey forest, to our favorite local spots, and to a few dollars for
some clothing (though reasonably well-suited to the motorcycle
journey, I am officially done traveling in screen-printed T-shirts for
a while) and Balinese TLC (a facial for Julie and a massage for me).

I feel changed by our time here in ways I can't yet find words to
express, and also by the richness of an experience in a place that
previously had been only a blank spot on my mental maps. When I
reflect on the transitional trepidation I felt leaving New Zealand for
Indonesia -- followed so quickly by a sense of familiarity with this
place, then appreciation, then true affection -- it makes me eager to
find what awaits us in all the other unknown-to-us destinations ahead.
And it makes me eager to come back.

Thanks, Bali. Terima kasih and selamat tingal.

_______

*Thanks to one of my favorite albums of the Weakerthans for the title.

Gratitude

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

This is the first Thanksgiving I've spent outside of the U.S. since my senior year of high school, on my first trip to Europe with my parents and my brother Nathan, which I celebrated with cheese sandwiches (I wasn't a very creative vegetarian back then), wandering the streets of Munich, realizing that these Germans had no idea what day it was.

Today, Julie and I find ourselves into our sixth month of travel, enjoying the Balinese hospitality in Ubud, famous for its art, its temples and its monkey forest. Wonderous though it is, leaving Padangbai was difficult, having become so comfortable and so connected to others living there. More about that later.

As is fitting for this day, I want to reflect on the abundant good fortunes that let me write you from this place. By fortunes, I don't mean money. Or, at least, I don't mean just money. (People often wonder about the financing of a journey like this one. I hope to write about that at some point in the future, but for now, suffice it to say the money part of preparing for a trip like this has been much less complex than the people part.)

As I look back on the preceding six months, or on the preceding two years (when we hatched the idea for the trip), I am astounded by how many people have been integral to our finding ourselves here. First off, it's incredible how important it was to have family and friends supportive of the idea. Give up your comfortable life? Sell your home and purge your possessions? Quit your job, doing important work with great people? Say goodbye to family and most of your friends, not to lay eyes on them for a year and a half? And not to know when or where you will land, or what you will do?

Certainly, someone could be forgiven for thinking the whole plan was a bit daft. Instead of greeting us with skepticism or mental health interventions, so many people in our lives responded with "sounds exciting!" and "how can I help?"

The friends -- old and new -- we've met along the trip have made the journey far richer, less an expedition into the unknown than a circumnavigation of our address book. We have been invited into the homes and into the lives of friends in so many places, it is astonishing:

Jon, Jen, Ruthie and Gabe (Denver)
Dan and Sheika (Vail)
Kim and Jack (San Diego)
Tony, Tara, Jennifer and Claudia (LA)
Tim and Camille (Carmel-by-the-Sea)
Carol, Bill, Nico and Paul (Berkeley)
Marty and Eileen (Stinson Beach)
Tim and Joan (Point Reyes)
Erika, Carel, Angie and Darren (Portland)
Donald (Seattle)
Tom, Emily and Shane (Vashon Island)
Linda and Everett (Anchorage)
...with Max and Mick (Wild Lake)
...and Kelly (Valdez)
Rex, Trish and Leigh (Wellington)
Jen, LJ, Grady and Zoey (Lyttelton)
Anna (Auckland)

And that's just the list so far! 

Our families have been the very definition of supportive during our preparations and throughout our travels. In addition to hosting our remaining possessions in storage, they have provided incredible moral, financial and logistical support. My family swung into action, Viking raiding-party style (but thankfully sans mayhem and bloodshed), months before our actual departure, helping me prepare my condo for sale. This was followed by my real-estate rock star brother selling it in exactly the time he estimated, letting us leave liberated and with the promise of a little coin hitting the bank account. My father has been my point person back home for the closing on that transaction, as well as all of the miscellaneous details involved in continuing to have a presence in the world (fun stuff like bank statements and bills!). My mom has been a continuous link back to news of the family, and constant support to have fun, and to be safe. (Can you imagine, what we put our poor families through, riding our motorcycles to Alaska?!)

Friends have also made our departure possible, through their encouragement and well-wishes, by staying in touch, and (is there a theme here?) their back-breaking labor. (Thankfully, Primo, I am quite sure we will never have to move my behemoth of a desk again; but I'm afraid to say, Bone, that I don't think the same is true about the roll-top.) Ann helped us get our legal house in order, Steve sent us off prepared to head into the wilderness of Banff and Jasper national parks, and Jennifer gave us some of the best tips for her beloved islands you could imagine. My friends at work gave me such a send off, I'm still amazed by it. And finally, on the weekend before our departure, Lucas hosted our final, final bon voyage party.

It's quite a list!

I'm also struck by all the invisible supports, the keepers of the infrastructure that has allowed us to pass this way with so little encumbrance. I remember riding down one particularly isolated stretch of the Alaskan Highway, somewhere in the Yukon Territory. The terrain was formidable, and the road reflected its reluctance to be tamed by pavement, in undulating patches that bounced a rider from pressed firmly in the seat, to floating, feet barely on the foot pegs. What was surprising was that these patches somehow weren't visible to the eye -- you wouldn't know you'd hit one until you felt it. Or, when you saw a cone or little red flag on the edge of the roadway. We saw hundreds of these along the Alcan. I was amazed to think that in this place, such a subtle little marker -- nothing but a bit of red plastic glued to a piece of wire, posted upright in the ground along the verge -- could be the difference between enjoying the ride and skidding along the road. I felt such gratitude for the attentiveness of the highway workers, miles from their boss or supervisor, who diligently made sure these markers were in place where they were needed. It was a small symbol, surely, but a sign of civilization, of care and of human attention nevertheless.

But this is just one example. Broadening the circle of thanks in this way never really ends. The ripples of support and gratitude widen, intersect and merge, and it quickly becomes impossible to trace exactly where you should direct all of your thanks. Elizabeth Gilbert, in Eat Pray Love, said it beautifully when she wrote:

In the end, though, maybe we must all give up trying to pay back the people in this world who sustain our lives. In the end, maybe it's wiser to surrender before the miraculous scope of human generosity and to keep saying thank you, forever and sincerely, for as long as we have voices.

Amen, sister. Amen.

But there is one more person to thank for her role sustaining me, on this trip and in this life.

Perhaps it will surprise you (ha!) that I'm not always the easiest person in the world to travel with. Opinionated, strong willed, sometimes restless and sometimes unpredictably particular, there are gentler assignments than spending a year and a half linked at the hip with this particular wanderer. 

Julie has, time and again, amazed me with her ability to adapt to the changing circumstances of our travels thus far. She is competent, generous, resilient, funny and sincere, in the unique combination that made her such a potent inebriant to me in the first place. We have been getting to know one another better, day by day, as we learn how we each respond to the constantly changing, often compelling, sometimes difficult, stimuli. She continues to surprise me, by saying yes over and over again to opportunities that provide rewards, but also call for sacrifice. (A week in the Arctic, anyone? How about a 35-mile hike along the New Zealand coast?) And she continues to surprise me, too, by time and again saying yes to the challenge that I earnestly hope provides the greatest reward of all: that of loving each other, of building a life together. I am lucky and grateful to have such a companion, traveling or not.

So, I have no pretensions of having "earned" this experience, or to ever be able to say thanks properly for getting to experience it. I can only repeat, as often as I can, thank you.

Balinese discipline

Life in Padangbai continues to reward in its gentle, relaxed fashion. We've now spent more time here than any other place in the journey -- and our familiarity with this place is rewarded by people greeting us by name as we walk its few blocks of warungs (shops), hotels and restaurants. (Well, truth be told, I am greeted with Eric -- pronounced enthusiastically as "air-EEK!" -- and Julie is greeted as either as Julia or, much to her chagrin I'm sure, Mrs. Eric.)

I have been relishing finally taking time to dive into long-deferred projects that I envisioned dedicating my presumably abundant free-time to earlier in our trip. (That's a vision that did not contend with the demands of camping and near-daily motorcycling, to say nothing of the wonders of Hawai'i and New Zealand.)

At the moment, I'm sitting at the Buddha Bar, one of several frequent haunts, all of which provide ample shade from the intense mid-day sun. The Buddha Bar is unique in town in having a prominent salt-water pool, and a relaxed policy about patrons using it. When hanging out here, my routine is typically to order a mango juice ($1.25, and containing nothing but juiced mangoes, but so sweet you doubt it), crack open Proust (fittingly enough, I'm making my second attempt at In Search of Lost Time) or pop open the laptop and work on various coding or video projects. Might not be your cup o' fruit, but it's definitely mine. That is, when we're not spending the day snorkeling, swimming, or scuba diving.



We have several days left before leaving for Ubud, often called the cultural heart of Bali, but honestly, I am not eager to leave. Little did I know that I'd fall so completely for this routine and rootedness. Little too did I know that in so short a time I could become proficient at discerning a really, really exceptional mango from a merely really exceptional one. (It's mango season here right now, so those are the only two varieties on offer.)

The U.S. State Department -- typically, the most conservative travel advice you could find on the planet -- describes Indonesia with a tacit chauvinism that feels so unjust given our experience here. To be sure, Bali is not typical of Indonesia, but even the way our government describes traffic patterns here, namely, as "undisciplined," feels both needlessly antagonistic and inaccurate. Traffic here moves very differently from back home, but it abides its own discipline, however chaotic it might first appear to Western eyes. Drivers are attentive, communicative and frankly, quite skilled at maximizing the number of vehicles moving on the two-lane trunk roads throughout the island. In the space that two cars moving in the same direction would occupy on a similar roadway in Minneapolis, there might be a fully loaded dump truck hauling a load of dirt or lumber, a hired car straddling the center line, looking for a safe moment to pass, and a dozen scooters with an average load per bike of 2 adults, various satchels and packages, and a child or two wedged into the spaces between the rest. At the same time, there are dozens of scooters and motorbikes moving in the opposite direction, pinching without complaint down to the portion of their lane remaining which allows the hired car to stay over the center line. "Undisciplined" does not characterize the utter absence of road rage, the fact that every driver seems to view making space for every other driver on par with their objective of reaching their destination.

Dear President Obama,

I know you have a soft spot for Indonesia. Spending the time we have here, Mr. President, I see why! I know you have a lot on your plate right now, what with the economy, and the opposition to resolve our health care crisis, to say nothing of the violence and wars you inherited, but if you and Ms. Clinton could perhaps see whether your travel advice writers could make their travel advice demonstrate a modicum of respect for the places they describe, this traveler would be most grateful.

Thank you for presenting an American face to the world we can be proud of, instead of embarrassed by.

Eric
Padangbai, Bali, Indonesia

Of course, accidents do happen. We had an opportunity to watch Padangbai spring to action during a traffic accident last week. Apparently, a small SUV was parked in our hotel's driveway, with the keys in the ignition. Someone who did not know how to drive wanted to listen to music, so turned the key to activate the accessories. In doing so, they inadvertently started the car, the manual transmission of which was engaged in first gear, at the same time that they had their foot on the accelerator (again, not knowing how to drive). The car started, and rapidly accelerated, careening across the street, over the substantial, foot-high curb, onto the beach, colliding with and shattering an outrigger canoe, pulled up on the sand awaiting passengers.

Fortunately, no one was hurt, which is nothing short of miraculous. I'd just left our hotel to head to (you guessed it) the Buddha Bar, and had just set my stuff on the table when I heard the ruckus. By the time I'd walked a dozen paces to see what had happened, it seemed that all of Padangbai had done the same, a large circle of people around the car, while its "driver" exited the vehicle, stunned and shaken. Julie talked with one of our sarong-selling friends on the street, whose stand was the closest thing to the boat destroyed by the impact. She, too, was shaken, grateful the car had not gone ten feet further down the road, and hit her instead.



As I imagine might happen with a traffic accident on Main Street in small town America, this was the event of the week. People lingered, making sure the vehicle was safely removed from the beach (this time, by a qualified driver), and conferring about what happened, what each person saw, and who was responsible for what. Interestingly, in talking to one of our drivers here about the accident, he suggested that the owner of the car bore some responsibility for the accident as well, since he should not have left keys in the car.

The big event for this week has been something on an entirely different scale, however.

Every six months, the three main temples in Padangbai host a ceremony which locals say brings "all of Bali" to this tiny village. While my estimates suggest it's a fair shot short of the millions of people that claim would represent, it is certainly impressive to watch thousands and thousands and thousands of people filter into this town, clotting the parking area and streets with buses, scooters, temporary food and festival-merch vendors and the countless pilgrims. They arrive day and night, as the ceremony continues for three days, from 5:30 a.m. until midnight each day.



The main road along the beach (where we are staying) is closed to vehicles, and filled with a continual progression of people in ceremonial attire, beautiful offering baskets containing fruit, flowers, food and incense balanced atop the women's heads, as they walk down the beach toward the temples. These before-and-after photos of the main road give some sense of the change that has come over this normally sleepy village.

 

Seeing Padangbai's temple ceremony has been an unplanned, unexpected stroke of fortune.

Comfortably ensconced in my disciplined uncertainty, I don't think of myself as a spiritual seeker, and am even less drawn to regimented religious practice. That said, I have near bottomless curiosity for how people have organized themselves around humanity's eternal questions (why are we here?, where do we come from?, what happens when we die?). I hope, in participating in the ceremony, that this curiosity expresses itself as genuine, engaged interest, and not as a kind of cultural voyeurism that is particularly uncomfortable to participate in as an affluent, western white male observer (relishing neither the role of the vulgar cowboy "Hello! Make way! Anyone seen God around here lately?" or his subtler prostituting cousin "It's just so exotic, all these fancy costumes. And the people are just so peaceful, don't you think?").

In any case, Bali's Hinduism (akin but distinct from the Hinduism I've encountered elsewhere in the world), its ability to draw thousands upon thousands upon thousands of adherents from all over the island to this tiny village, and the gentle, joyful and communal way that these ceremonies occur... well, all of this is pretty darn intoxicating. And the people do seem pretty peaceful, in fact. Hmmm.

I guess there's something elemental that speaks to me about faith practices that make extensive offerings of fruit and flowers. Where the men and women are adorned with blossoms, tucked into their hair, behind their ears, resting on their head during prayer. Where each prayer service's "benediction" involves affixing grains of rice to your forehead. Add to that a stunning gamelan ensemble featuring our friend Martini greeting us on our visits to the temples, along with a thousand smiles, friendly glances and introductory questions ("Hello, where are you from? Where are you staying?"), and suffice it to say: this ceremony has been unforgettable indeed!



Our next destination, Ubud, is famous for having dozens of nightly performances of Balinese culture for tourist consumption. Seeing Balinese culture, here, in practice, somehow feels more grounded, less sanitized. Besides, it surely can't hurt to put a good word in with Ganesha for our trip, right?

Blub, blub, I think I'm in love

It will surprise no one that a bad day in Bali beats a good day in lots of other places. Here, even the humdrum is pretty darn fantastic.

Yesterday was not just a day in Bali. It was a great day in Bali.

We've settled into a lovely rhythm here in Padangbai, waking up to the crowing of the roosters (honestly, not an embellishment nor literary device!), lingering in bed to admire the vanes of the ceiling fan circling behind the translucent the mosquito canopy overhead. The view of the draping canopy -- with its a wooden hoop spreading the gauzy fabric to cover the mattress and also focusing its rise to a single point above us -- somehow never fails to conjure Arabian music in my head. I can observe it rocking gently in the fan's breeze for far longer, and with far more contentment, than I care to admit.

At some point, I get up (the early riser of the two of us) and migrate to the balcony of our little two-story hut to read or watch the village of Padangbai spring to life again, heralded by the sweepers in every establishment, scratching of straw brooms against stone pavers and polished tile. At some point, I climb down the stairs from the balcony, walk a few paces to the breakfast counter, and place our order. Fifteen minutes later, a pancake or egg dish, fruit salad and two cups of the tastiest coffee on planet Earth are delivered to our door. We eat, pondering how to spend the day. (Walk a block down to the fabulous snorkeling beach? Walk across the street to the main beach? Or just pick a new restaurant to try their versions of various Balinese dishes, or fruit juice, or get an early start on a Bintang, the ubiquitous local lager?)

Most days, we continue this pace until after sundown, letting our appetites for food, drink and activity be our guide. It's a gentle rhythm.

Yesterday before breakfast, I finished coding my first non-trivial iPhone application, completed as one of the assignments for the Stanford University iPhone Application Programming course I've been following, whose materials (including videos from the course) are available for free online. (You may ask, "this is what he does in Bali?" Yes. It is.) Meet Hello Polly, my polygon rendering application that I'm sure will make millions on the iPhone App Store.



After breakfast, yesterday's activities included my last two training dives. The first took us out to a wall extending to about 50 meters down, coral and countless varieties of sea life clinging to its vertical face. Hovering at various depths down to our maximum of 18 meters, a gentle current carrying us laterally along the wall, I have never felt closer to flying in all my life. Practicing maintaining buoyancy -- achieved primarily by controlling the amount of air in your lungs -- only made the experience more sublime. Want to ascend slightly? Take a deeper breath. Descend? Release more air on your next exhalation. To my surprise, this quickly becomes second-nature, require little more thought or concentration to change your depth that it does to walk down the sidewalk on the surface. Complement this buoyancy control with a kick from your swim fins, and voila, you are able to navigate the underwater world fully in three dimensions!

I was relieved and amazed to discover that, contrary to feeling like shark bait, diving (at least in Bali's waters) feels like walking through an underwater garden. Fish and coral and crustaceans and plant life abound, but none of it felt the slightest bit threatening to me. (Is it possible that Bali's underwater dwellers are Hindus, too?) At one point, we came upon a group of five squid, each the size of a terrier, hovering and darting in their other-worldly way, communicating with electric colors on their skin, raising their tentacles as if to say, "'ay, you, come on ova here!" I felt zero trepidation, and following my dive instructor's lead, held out a hand, wiggling my fingers. It was fascinating to watch their eyes pivot in their sockets, examining us, knowing that with their jet-like propulsion, they could disappear in a flash, but seemed, too, to understand that we were no (immediate) threat. And, instead of hearing the klaxons of a red alert, I was imagining the Cousteau's lovely lilt: "'ere we 'ave the squid in 'is natif 'abitat, peacefoully exploring 'is surroundings, much as we are."

(To say this experience makes me second-guess consuming squid at the dinner table is an understatement.)

Our final dive -- all that stood between me and certification -- took us out to a ship-"wreck" and an artificial reef. The scare quotes are warranted because this ship was sunk deliberately as a diving attraction, a common but to me distasteful practice in areas vying for the diver's dollar or pound or euro.

My favorite moments were finding little spots along the "reef," a cylindrically-wound metal mesh, contorted, unrolled and dropped to twist along the bottom. The metal gives coral a place to grow, and provides protection for fish, and so attracts both. In appearance, it looked less like a reef to me than an underwater roller coaster. Soaring just inches above its undulating length was great fun (as well as another good test of buoyancy control), and at several points I would spot something of interest attached to or just underneath the mesh, and would pivot to observe, often hovering head down, a floating underwater handstand of sorts. One of my biggest surprises of scuba diving is how gracefully and acrobatically it is possible to move, wearing 60 pounds of gear.

After the reef, we proceeded to the final skill check before heading back to our boat. Our last skill was complete mask removal and replacement, something our practice in the pool showed me was easier than I imagined it would be. Like most things in scuba, the trick is just to remain calm, keep your head and follow your training. After successfully replacing and clearing my mask, there was an underwater celebration of sorts, handshakes, and slow-motion high fives. As we ascended to the surface, I went slowly, looking all around me, savoring my last moments underwater for a while.



Thanks to my excellent instructor, Laura Stolzenberg, and all the staff at WaterWorxx in Padangbai for an absolutely unforgettable, fun and successful training course!

Now that my days aren't full of dives, Julie (who's been certified for years) and I are contemplating our next dive experiences. I can hardly wait to try diving with my new dive buddy.