The next day, I moved to a new hotel by Echo Beach, a calm neighbor to noisy Kuta. It's got a courtyard swimming pool, tropical fruit trees, and an unobstructed view of emerald rice paddies that just make you want to go – ahhhh...
"That'll be 1.5 million rupiah," the friendly hostess beamed at me at check-in.
I opened my wallet, counted a stack of bills, which made me feel staggeringly rich for a fleeting moment, but only amounted to a dismal 500,000.
"Do you take American?" I asked.
In advance, my Nazi-commander aunt had packed me a wad of American cash wrapped in a plastic bag, assuring me with the utmost certainty that Indonesians take American money as though it were their own currency. This was based on her first-hand experience with the Chinese tour group for retirees. "We tipped everyone in American," as if that proved it.
The hostess gave me a funny look, "Um, we only take Indonesian rupiah here," Her raised eyebrows seemed to suggest no one had ever tried to pay her with anything but rupiah before, like, What an absurd idea this tourist has.
I rooted through my wallet for credit and debit cards. When they were not there, I bent down to empty my suitcase, until my sandals, towels, socks and tennis shoes, lay sprawled in a grand display on the lobby bench. Still, my cards were nowhere to be found.
Blood rushed to my face as I lifted my head to look at the hostess. Time seemed to have stopped solid for a few seconds. The disappearance of my cards hung between us like an iron curtain. Curiously, the friendly proprietress didn't look so friendly anymore, because a sickening realization had just come scrawled blatantly on my forehead:
You must have lost them at the last hotel!
I stood up, felt a little woozy from the head-rush. Everyone was completely silent. The currency exchanges had all closed by then, the proprietress was waiting for my response. I had to think of something. But before I could think of what to do, Jeremiah did something very kind.
"Here, take this," He handed her his American Express.
I was so relieved that I looked at him in a momentary hero-worshipful gaze.
"Thank you! I'll pay you back in American."
"Don't worry about it," He smiled, "Just give me rupiah when I come back."
I simply stared at him. And then felt a flicker of panic in the pit of my stomach. Why is he saying this again? Is he really going to come back? Do I want him to come back?
We walked to the beach for dinner. This was our last dinner before his flight back home. I thought we should celebrate having met each other, but he was especially quiet, chewing his nails. He told me a few days ago the only times he chewed his nails were when he's stressed, but since he'd been in Bali, he's so relaxed his nails have grown out.
I didn't know what was bothering him, nor did I want to interrupt him, so I ate in silence.
The ocean turned black in the darkening sky, the breeze chilly.
Jeremiah didn't seem to have the felt the chill, his brows gathered firmly in a knot. He didn't utter a single word for a good half hour. When he did at last, it was an announcement.
"I'm staying!"
I shuddered.
I put down my half eaten pizza, still in shock.
"But...what about your son's birthday?" I murmured.
"I'll just call him on his birthday. I mean I thought about it some more, why waste three grand, endure another forty hours in transit, just to come back. I'm going to call the airline and change my flight."
I took in what he said in a daze. What is happening? What does this mean? Could it mean what I think it means? I wanted to live alone and write for a month, didn't I? This was supposed to be my month of solitude, soul-searching, wasn't it? I'd wanted to do this for years, right? Shouldn't I stop him? Why am I allowing this near perfect stranger to stay? Why am I not saying anything?
Three hours before departure, he called and delayed his return by a month.