I arrive at dusk and the restaurant is empty. The women in charge giggle because they don’t speak English.
The menu is in Indonesian, but I know that “nasi” is “rice”, and “goreng” is “fried”. I decide on grilled fish, fried papaya salad, rice and tea.
Despite the wind, the balcony is calm, and I sit outside with a view of the neighboring islands. Clouds embrace the top of the volcano.
I had to come all the way to Indonesia to learn that nasi goreng simply means fried rice. When I grew up, nasi goreng was one of the few “exotic” dishes we would occasionally have.
It didn’t take much to be exotic in Sweden back in the 1970s. Grape leaf dolmas or adding some oregano on the grilled chicken; such were the foodie experiences of my childhood.
The waitress comes with my food. It’s good. A karaoke machine is turned up. A party of four walks in. One of them comes out on the balcony to smoke, and offers me a cigarette. It’s menthol and clove, and leaves a taste of candy in my mouth. She’s transgender and I’m dying to ask her about her life in this place.
Venus, or if it’s Mars, shines steadily above me. The ocean and the sky has merged into darkness, and the lanterns of fishing boats are bobbing on the waves. The stars are all out.
A meteor strikes across the sky in the corner of my eye. When I look at it it’s gone.
I make a wish.
