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You are suffering from a severely broken heart, and travelling to Bali seems like a pretty original therapy idea because Liz Gilbert hasn’t published her book yet. You hope to put together the broken pieces of your heart. So here you are, injuring yourself with a surfboard — the instructor’s infernal scream 'PADDLE!' stuck your ears, — and raving the nights away at the Kuta Beach parties. Surfing is the most exhausting part. The waves are huge and scary. Salty water fills your nose, ears, and mouth. You fall, you get up, you paddle, and you start it all over again. By now the wave power has knocked you over countless times and turned you and tossed you under the water with no mercy — "That’s what they call 'laundries'," you’ll say once back home. You now know the white waves — white foam that shapes after the wave breaks, "Only good for beginners", you'll say later, — and the massive rolls of real, unbroken ones, roaming towards the shoreline, getting ready to tumble down. The sea drips from your nose day and night. Your right ear doesn’t hear. The thumb of your left hand has broken out and is blue and thick. You constantly hit the water with your head. Finally, at the beautiful pink-colored sundown, when you think you take your first real wave, the so-called pro runs on you with his tiny short-board, leaving you with impressive size bruises. Every day you discover something new in your body, and this “new” hurts. The worst thing though is that all this body pain does nothing to your heartache. The first week goes by. The exhausting scratching, — you could say surfing, but that would be a lie, — ever wet clothes, and partying get you a splendid sore throat. It is practically killing you together with fever, muscle cramps, and that bleeding heart of yours. “This whole Bali plan just doesn’t seem to work!” you think in despair. Knowing that the hearts don’t get stitched in one day doesn’t help. So you drag yourself to a solo diner al fresco in one of the Legian Beach cafes. Miserable and sick. Bali smells of the joss sticks, the iodine, fresh tea and baked potatoes skins. You close your eyes and concentrate on the scents of the island, trying not to think. It’s hot and humid, but you are shaking with fever. You’ve already paid getting ready to leave when an old lady comes by your table. She stands tall in a long white skirt, her beautiful grey hair combed in a neat bob. “You look so bad!” she says. (“This comment is so not-Bali-like – I must look terrible”, you think.) “Oh.” You try to squeeze out something vaguely like a smile. “You don’t feel well. Something hurts? Is it your throat?” Her intuition, soothing voice and kind, watery eyes take you aback. “I own this place and I want to cure you. But no dancing tonight.” She goes back inside, not waiting for you to reply. Three minutes later she comes back with a small white teapot and puts it, steaming, in front of you. The captivating Gandalf-lady says: “It is garlic, ginger, and lime. Tomorrow you’ll be fine. But go sleep now.” And again, not waiting for you to reply, she starts walking away. You wheeze Terima Kasih, Matur Suksma — Thank you — until she disappears through the curtains on the far side of the cafe. At the start of adventure you promised you’d be a “Yes Woman”. So as “No” is forbidden, you drink your hot and smelly nectar and go home. Next day you wake up healthy and full of life. The fever is gone, and the throat feels better. Pouring tropical rain gives you a break from incessant paddling, so you go for a one-dollar manicure and a coffee. You sit on the bar terrace, looking at the huge raindrops knocking on the wooden railings of the porch thinking that garlic, ginger, and lime have cured your throat, while the unexpected kindness of a stranger has moved your heart towards the healing.