Although most of the Sanur beach front is now crowded with upscale hotels and villas, along with the outlying restaurants which generally block access to the beach itself, there is still a stretch of the old style plyboard warungs, dress and hat shops and local massage tables which have now become quaint rather than the norm.
For my own part, I find this stretch distinctly preferable to all the rest of the manicured, foo-foo garbage. You cannot pass through this stretch with...out talking to a half dozen people, certain in the unassailable hope that you must want a hat or a shirt or a massage.
One leathery, middle-aged woman chases me down the path.
“Massage?” she says.
“No. No thank you.”
“Come look at my shop?”
“No, thank you, Ibu. Just walking.”
“Wait, Tuan, wait!” she says. “No massage?”
“No.”
She takes my arm, leans in conspiratorially. “Special massage” she says.
“Oh. Special?”
“Yesss, Tuan.”
“But who will give this special massage? You?”
“Me! Hahahaha. Noooo! Young girl. Pretty girl.”
“But I want you.”
“Hahahaha! No, Tuan!”
“No?” I say, with dramatic disappointment.
“I have a husband.”
“We no tell husband.”
She laughs again, and blushes, I think. She’s heard this story before, but usually she’s the one telling it.
Oh well, we had fun. We had a laugh. And next time, she’ll probably know me.
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