The Funny Thing

is that I hate the heat. I spent six months in Singapore fantasizing about cold places like Sweden or Seattle: places that require sweaters, scarves and thick down comforters, or places where I could knit, read thick English novels and drink coffee all day long. The things I love are generally things associated with cold or mild weather; I love warming my hands by holding a hot mug of tea or coffee. I love taking hot bathes to get warm. I love long coats and boots.

I enjoy other weather besides cold weather; I enjoy Spring and Fall, and I even enjoy Summer, especially mild ones. This may be the problem, that I was raised in Portland, where the seasons are mild. Whenever I am some place that has extremes in weather, I hate it.


Most of all, I hate the heat. While I appreciate the sun and swimming pools, I am fair skinned and neurotic about my fair skin. This means I spend a fair amount of money on sunscreen because I am going to spend a lot of quality time with it making sure it is applied to every inch of my body.

I also prefer being in cities. Especially cities with quality libraries, museums, restaurants and parks. Cities with subways or efficient transit systems I feel especially comfortable in because then I never feel stranded or stuck or in the middle of nowhere. To some extent, my love of cities may stem from a mild case of agoraphobia. To be some place where I can hear roosters all day long, the bellowing of cows in the afternoon, and cicadas zizzing and zuzzering in the treetops surrounding my current bedroom isn't generally like me. At least not for long periods of time. In fact, my usual city self wouldn't call this living. She would call it camping.

Yet, in Bali where the weather is very similar to Singapore and where the museums exist only for the benefit of tourists, I find myself wanting at least a part time house here, and it feels a little unsettling. To some extent the unsettled feeling is due to the fact that we are house hopping - a month here, a month there - the suitcases are only unpacked a little before being packed up again. But most the unsettling feeling, I suspect, comes from me surprising myself or me not knowing myself as I am not having the responses I normally expect from myself. When I wake up in the morning, to the sounds of roosters, ducks and dogs, and slip out of the mosquito netting tucked into the bed, it feels a little like I have woken up in some one else's life.

But then I see the trees and bamboo surrounding the upstairs of our house and think of all my childhood tree house fantasies. I see the green fields of rice growing and flags waving in the breeze. I think of how my sister reminds me from time to time that when I was younger, I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up, but I knew I wanted my life to be an adventure. Then I do feel at least a little like I'm at home, but home in the adventure of my own life, and home in the awe of finding this place that soothes as well as surprises the soul.