The existence of the book, which the famous movie was based on, eluded me until I spotted my yoga comrade engrossed in it during class breaks (thanks Sandy). Intrigued, considering books often outshine their cinematic adaptations, I promptly added it to my Amazon cart, planning to consider purchasing it when I return home. However, destiny, or perhaps whimsy, intervened when I stumbled upon “Eat, Pray, Love” nestled in the corner bookshop at Komodo’s airport – a serendipitous sign, if you will.
My customary hesitation ritual took about 25 minutes, which was just enough time before the final boarding call. It involved a lot of back-and-forth, inspecting other books in the store, a brief detour to a neighbouring coffee establishment (where my patience waned, prompting me to seek quicker service elsewhere), and a series of incidents I’ll omit for brevity. Accepting the fate (that’s one way to put it) of being probably the most indecisive person at least on this hemisphere, I went back to the store for a conclusive assessment – to measure the book against the available space in my backpack.
The fact that I struggled to even unzip my tightly packed bag signalled that there was no hope for additional cargo. Therefore, I did what any rational human being would – bought the book. Creativity doesn’t come from abundance, it usually emerges from struggle. Thus, I stood at the boarding gate wearing two hoodies as an accessory around my waist while holding another piece of clothing as a pillow to smuggle my impromptu purchase.
It was one of those unexpected pratihara moments (senses withdrawal in yoga philosophy) when I sat on the plane and opened the book. I recall briefly lifting the head up to say “what?! Only?!” in response to pilot’s announcement that the flight would take approximately 1 hour and 10 minutes. Other passengers did not seem to relate to my frustration, but I got glued back to the pages and the whole world disappeared again.
Another quick hiatus from my literary indulgence took place after landing. I needed to get a taxi to Ubud and the rush to return to the book ASAP was the the primary mover of my once-in-a-blue-moon decisiveness moment. Knowing the standard price for the route I assertively negotiated with one of the hundred drivers hanging around the airport offering their services. In less than a blink of an eye I was sitting comfortably in a spacious car, deeply impressed with how quickly I managed to sort it out.
Traffic in Bali is no joke if you are in a rush or if time matters to you at all, but on this particular occasion I was grateful for the full 3 hours of tranquility with the most silent driver in existence. Google Maps was predicting 42 minutes, while my driver was speculating it would be an hour and a half for the distance of 29km, so I was very pleased to be ‘trapped’ in the car for twice as long to enjoy the read.
