This game has gone into overtime

It is unfair to make broad generalizations or snap judgments about a population, but based on my second visit to the town of Denpasar, I can say with confidence this about its people: All of its men are pimps, and all of its women are whores.

Early-morning flight logistics back to Jogja are such that once again I must lay over near the Bali airport. I negotiate a hotel and transport with the villains who staff the terminal’s traveler “help” desk. The shuttle driver arrives and we go. On the way – and I mean on the way to the van – he dispenses with pleasantries and gets down to business: “You like girls?” (Sigh.) I decline the official form of Denpasar hospitality with thanks, just like last time. Later at the hotel, I step out to a nearby market to buy water and get two different offers of back-street massage from smiling local maidens.

Back in the room I catch a glimpse of my goofus self in the mirror: Sweaty, balding, bespectacled, 50-something guy in his short pants, Merrells and white ankle socks. Yup, that’s sure what a John looks like. Can I stick my finger in the 220 socket now?

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I admit it: at this point I am simply marking time until I can get on the BIG plane and come home. At the risk of sounding like some first-class bitcher about the grind of the developing world, I am tired of Indo-everything: piss-poor Internet connections, night-light levels of illumination, having to haggle, swarthy con artists, feral cats and dogs, singing imams, and inane, inexplicable Indonesian television. Plus being a constant sweat-bomb for almost six weeks in the same ill-laundered clothes. And I haven’t felt motivated to snap a picture in days.

I am ready for Levis and long-sleeved shirts. And food, glorious western food! Last night I caught an Italian Iron Chef-style cooking show on TV, competing pasta preparations, and it was like I’d stumbled across the Spice Channel.

Justin, kudos for sticking with this, and let me know what we can do to make your remaining time any easier.