‘Mum's right,' The Princess agreed. ‘You MUST buy a new shirt, Grandpa.'
‘There is nothing wrong with the ones I've brought with me,' Dad insisted. Who was he kidding? That particular one he was wearing was starting to fade, with little tatty patches around the neck.
‘Dad, that shirt was in its prime ten years ago. You are not wearing it to St Regis,' I stated. Dad looked slightly wounded and began to argue, but I cut in. ‘Today we will go to Bali Galleria, where you will buy a new shirt. And get your hair cut at Johnny Andrean. End of story!'
You may think that a new shirt and haircut is not a priority when you're on holiday in Bali, but we had plans for the following Sunday: brunch at Boneka. It was simply not the done thing to wear a ratty old shirt that wilted like an exhausted cabbage the minute you putit on. Nor to have a haircut that looked like Albert Einstein's on a bad day.
Dad had flown in from Melbourne on Jetstar Star Class the night before. He was allowed 30 kgs of luggage plus his cabin bag. He brought carry-on only. To be exact: one small wheelie bag containing three shirts, three pairs of ‘knicks' (as he always calls them), his pills, spongebag and his travel docs. These were to last him a week. I'd suggested he might need a few more of everything, but no, he said he would hand-wash his smalls in the basin each day. I mean, why would anyone want to do this when on holiday? The local laundry would not only wash his socks and jocks for a few shekels, but iron everything too.
Yep, you've probably guessed by now: my father is not only punctual but frugal. I know he has to be careful... but not that careful!
The fact that he had travelled light was actually a good thing, because this would now give Princess and I the opportunity to fill our second empty case with goodies and send it home with Dad.
This was Dad's first day in Bali. We were all sitting around, having breakfast at Pearl. For anyone interested, this was a simple meal of juice or fruit; coffee or tea; eggs any way (with toast) or a bread basket of toast, rolled up crepe, and a small pastry.
Breakfast may have been simple, but you ate off nice china, in elegant surroundings. If you were really lucky, you got the nifty bendy teaspoons that balanced on the side of your teacup. Occasionally the bunnies would hop by, to see if everything was to your liking, and if Chef was around to catch one, you'd see him giving it a kiss (a sight to send the thighs of any red-blooded woman trembling).
The plan that day was to spend a few quiet hours at Bali Galleria. But before we left, I needed to drop my things into the laundry opposite Kumala. When I got back, Dad was rinsing out a shirt in his bathroom basin. ‘Joy rang,' he told me. ‘She'll call you back.'
‘Joy? Who's she?'
‘Oh, she's a woman who wants us see some place in Nusa Dua. I told her to call you because you're in charge.'
Ah yes, I should have also told you that my dad is not only punctual and frugal, but he has an obsession with helping out timeshare salespeople. The last time he pulled this stunt, I was more than a little irritated. Now I just wanted to choke the daylights out of him.
We hurried away before I could do so (and before Joy could ring), and jumped into the first cab we saw. The traffic was vile on the way to Galleria. What a pleasure to be stuck in a taxi playing loud disco music for a half hour. At least we had time to bicker about Johnny Andrean and Dad's hair.
Dad: ‘I don't think I'll get my hair cut today. I'll wait until I get home.'
Me: ‘No, Father, you need a haircut to go with the new shirt you're buying!'
Dad: ‘But the last time I had my hair cut in Bali, they gave me boofy hair.' The Princess and I both sniggered at the memory - poor Dad had come away with a Donald Trump hairdo.
Me: ‘Your hair won't look boofy if you tell them not to blow wave it, Dad.' He still looked dubious, but he knew better than to argue with a determined daughter.
By the time we arrived at Galleria, we all needed a coffee. I always like the Excelso coffee shop; it's a bit on the pricey side, but they do a good range of hot and cold drinks (stuff that even The Princess approves of).
Our salon experience took over an hour. While I was having my hands and feet seen to, a nice young lad was attending to Dad's hair. I noted with approval that there was nothing remotely boofy happening - in fact, this hair cut was a little bit George Clooney, as opposed to Donald Trump. Princess browsed through various styling books, her frown deepening by the second. ‘Nobody can cut good fringes,' she announced, and stomped off in search of the perfect outfit instead.
Finally we were ready to hit Matahari. Dad stood patiently by, while The Princess and I sifted through shoes and bags and jewellery. Then we wandered around and around the men's department, looking in vain for stylish and cheap shirts. On about the 20th circuit we came upon a pile of sale shirts - I'm sure we'd passed them a gazillion times before - all under half price. The Princess and I threw shirts at him from every direction: ‘Hey, what about this one, Dad?' ‘Grandpa, this is a good one'... Eventually Dad bought two for about $15 each. I was happy, Dad was happy, and so was The Princess - she especially so because we could now stop shopping for other people and go have lunch.
Bali Galleria's always been a favourite mall of mine. I like its quietness, the fact that it's indoor/outdoor, is never especially busy, and has lots of little cafes to eat at. Since my last visit, the Galleria has become more enclosed, with shops moving from the ground to first floor, and more food outlets opening.
Choice of restaurants isn't necessarily a good thing for The Princess, as she can never make up her mind. ‘What about this place?' I'd ask. Princess would look at the menu and shake her head. ‘This one looks good,' I'd say hopefully when we reached the next place. Nope. Dad was looking exhausted at this stage, and my feet were killing me. ‘Look, here's Ryoshi. What about Japanese?' The Princess eventually decided that Japanese was acceptable, and we all went in and gratefully sat down.
The meal was nothing extraordinary - a shared bento box with a few extras for Dad and me, and some tofu concoction for Princess Picky. But our meal was pleasant, and certainly cheap. The thing I liked most was the incredible music they were playing - women singing amazing harmonies that made my heart soar. When we were paying the bill, I asked what the music was - I HAD to buy a copy. ‘Oh,' replied the waitress, ‘I-Pod.'
The shopping was done, and so were we. Time to return to the hotel for an afternoon swim, a siesta, and Happy Hour on our veranda.
Shortly after sunset, we went out for dinner. That evening was not a Cab-It-Into-Eat-Street evening. We wanted somewhere cheap and cheerful and tasty... and definitely close to our hotel. Waroeng Asia was the logical choice. We headed down there at a crawl, me leading the way, stepping from uneven pavement into the gutters of Jl 66 (which fortunately is still a fairly quiet road) and then back onto the pavement again. We took at least ten minutes to walk to the restaurant.
Now, about Waroeng Asia. This has had a great reputation in the past, and deservedly so. Lovely clean, fresh flavours, a good variety of Asian delicacies, good prices. Their tom kha gai was always excellent - not as good as Black Canyon's used to be, but now that Black Canyon has removed it from their menu, there's no competition.
I ate many meals at Waroeng Asia eighteen months ago. Apart from tom kha gai, their gado-gado was good, as were their rice paper rolls. And then on the day I'd flown home, I discovered their chicken and prawn vermicelli. Oh my goodness, it was one of those dishes where your tastebuds did a happy dance. Superb... the broth was sensational.
Eighteen months ago, Waroeng Asia was just like Eden Green - always busy.
This time, however, there were many empty tables. Dad, Princess and I sat down, ordered drinks and mulled over the menu. I dithered over several choices, and ended up ordering the chicken and prawn vermicelli. My first mouthful was not the taste sensation I was expecting. So I tried another mouthful. Something was not right. Just to confirm my suspicions, I tried a spoonful of broth on its own... there was an unpleasantly dominant fishy taste... in a dish that had the sum total of four small prawns. Dad and The Princess both finished their meals, but I left the rest of mine.
It was great to get back to Pearl and its tranquillity. The bunnies had gone to bed by then, and Dad toddled off to join them (not in their hutch, but in his own bed). The Princess and I both had a dip - before 10pm, when the pool turned into a pumpkin - and then it was pumpkin time for us too.
A satisfying day - maybe not so much for The Princess, who didn't part with any of her carefully-hoarded money. But I came away with hands and feet as smooth as a baby's bum, and Dad got his two new shirts and a wonderful haircut.
No complaints from me...