I did it. Twelve consecutive days of playing poker and 90 hours later, I earned well beyond the amount to justify the purchase. “I deserve them,” I say aloud, holding them to the light. I turn to the salesman Matthew: “How much?”
“5050 HKD” ($650 USD).
“I’ll take them.”

I walk out of Louis Vuitton beaming. When nobody is looking, I actually skip. The delayed gratification of a lavish purchase silences the ache I felt about spending $650 on a pair of sunglasses. Besides, in Bali, Indonesia there’s going to be plenty of sun.

On the streets of Bali one can find tons of freshly picked coconuts. Local Balinese women cut off the tops with a machete.

I have 15 minutes to kill at the airport. I run to the gift shop to pick up some last minute items. They’re only 100 HKD ($12 USD). They look just like mine!! What the heck? “One for $650 or two for $662.” I add them to my cart.

As I land at the airport in Ubud, I look for the sign that reads my name. “Alec Torelli.” Mare, my driver, takes me from the airport to my villa. $20. When I arrive, chef Katut greets me. “Welcome Sir.” A private pool, outdoor kitchen, and hand picked fruits spell paradise.

A local Balinese fruit, the mango steen is a a mango and only sweeter and tangier.

The first thing I sign up for in Bali is a bike tour. It comes not only with two buffets and a trek around the gorgeous island, but an inclusive tasting at the Lawak coffee plantation.

Following a 30 mile bike ride we induldge in a home cooked meal!

It’s hot and I’m going to sweat profusely so I opt for the cheap shades. They’re ideal for the day, protects with style, and if they break, who cares?

On a stop in the rice fields I got the chance to work with the locals.

Afterwards I’m exhausted, so I spring for an in house hour long massage. Dinner is free, cooked by the chef using the freshest ingredients from Bali’s local fields. Sensational.

Our chef prepares a home made feast cooked in coconut oil.

The next few days I don’t do much of anything, just relax. Island living.

I take a two hours daily class for $12 at Yoga Barn, Bali’s premier studio; I visit a monkey forest, where I feed bananas to baboons for free and I do some shopping.

Ubud's Yoga Barn is one of the most beautiful in the world, offering an indoor/outdoor experience.

Feeding a mom and her baby in Ubud's Monkey Forest

The hand carved wood Buddah statues are perfect for a house center piece. Enjoying a fun game of bargaining, I pick up three plus some unique style clothes. $100.

Found all over Bali, these hand crafted Buddah's can be had for unbelievable prices.

Bali, Indonesia Wood Carvings from Alec Torelli on Vimeo.

My week in paradise comes to a bitter sweet end. I tally my expenses:

Room: $40 x 6 = $240
Bike Tour: $40
Driver: $40
Food: $150
Statues: $100
Clothes: $100
Yoga: $36

Total: $706

When I return to Macau, I stop by Louis Vuitton. “Matthew, I don’t normally do this, but I’d like to return these.” When he asks why, I explain to him my shame at spending the same amount for a week in Bali as on a ludicrous purchase. He sympathizes… but “Unfortunately sir, we can’t accept returns after 7 days.” I’m reluctant, happy and sad, in the same time.

At dinner that night, I head to Il Teatro, the Italian restaurant at the Wynn Hotel. A few drinks and three hours later, I leave empty handed. It was’t until the following morning that I realize I left my glasses at the table! “I’m sorry sir,” the Lost and Found tells me, “we can’t locate them.” $650 has never stung so much.

It’s impossible to compare doing something vs. having something. While being bombarded with media and advertisements, we are taught that things will bring us meaning and happiness. We are wrong. The media’s message stems from embedding this falsity deep within to generate revenue at our expense.
Imagine losing your camera or cell phone. The item is replaceable, the content is not. We can acquire, use, break and lose things, but they will never last.

Both my sunglasses and Bali are over.

One is gone forever. The other will last a lifetime. ♠

I had been extremely fortunate to spend Chinese New Year in Macau, an island off the coast of Hong Kong. The country is arguably the most far removed from western culture. Walking through the city, I met no Americans and struggled to find people who spoke English. What began as frustration turned to appreciation when I was humbly reminded of the purpose of traveling. It’s beauty lies not in finding what we already know, but discovering that which we yet to learn.

I began to practice Mandarin and explore some of the unique cuisine that China has to offer: dim sum, pork buns, jerkies, pastries, milk teas, stylized meats and specialty desserts. I learned a bit of history as well. Red and gold are symbolic colors of prosperity and good fortune and tea pots hang upside down to “rain money on guests.”

During the New Year’s festivities red envelopes were given out to children as gifts containing candy and money, and the dragon (this year’s symbol) means children born will show signs of fire, vigor, success and have strong personalities.

Here are some of the highlights:

Nights in Macau: 14
Hours of Poker Played: 90
Similar City: Las Vegas
Best Meal: Golden Flower, Wynn Hotel
Best Buffet: Mandarin Oriental Breakfast
Best Thing: Unveiling a new way of life
Worst Thing: Sitting between two chain smokers at the poker table
What’s Cheap: Taxi’s. A 20 minute ride costs 50 HKD or ~ $6.50 USD
What’s Expensive: Fruit. A Japanese apple costs $158 HKD (~$20 USD) and a bag of strawberries costs $10 USD.
Interesting Facts:
1) The casinos only accept HKD because of gaming regulations, but Macau has its own national currency. $1 HKD = $0.97 Local.
2) Macau’s gaming revenue is four times higher than Las Vegas.
3) The One Central Mall is home to the highest grossing Louis Vuitton in the world. It’s a 50 meter walk from the Wynn poker room.
4) At the time of construction, the Venetian in Taipa was the world’s largest building and is still the world’s largest casino, seven times larger than the one in Las Vegas.
5) Macau has 550,000 people. Last year, their gaming revenue was 60 billion. Hong Kong has 7 million people. Last year, their GDP was 40 billion.
Memorable Moment: Watching the New Year’s firework show from my window. It lasted five days. ♠

Water Show at Wynn, Macau from Alec Torelli on Vimeo.

November 2010

I spring out of bed full of energy. I grab a beanie, tie my Nike’s and hit the streets. Outside the morning air chills my face. As my feet pound the pavement I see the wind of my exhale. A mist begins to fall. It mixes with the sweat on my face and I cannot tell which is more pervasive. Further along the bay, atop the hill stands the most beautiful red bridge the world has ever known. When I reach the edge, a ray of sunshine penetrates the haze and illuminates the city. I experience the most pleasurable feeling. I feel alive.

The night before, I arrive in San Francisco at 5 pm. I check into my friend’s apartment; a modern 2 bedroom loft on the third floor of the Marina District. Before I can unpack, four friends join us and we hit the town. Union Square is packed with people to watch the annual lighting of the Christmas tree. We secure seats on top of a planter on the northwest corner of the park. Couples cuddle close, enjoying each other’s body heat. The smells and sounds of Christmas fill the night with love.

Following the festivities, we grab a bite at an over priced Italian restaurant. After dinner we drift. With each new venue, a larger group forms as we take prisoners from one place to the next. By the end of the night our group turns to a blob too large to move. As quickly as we gathered, we dissipate. Friends are made and memories are created but neither is forgotten.

January 2012

I arrive at 6 pm on New Years Day and spend 15 minutes looking for a place to park. When I find my motel, cheap but conveniently located two blocks from Union Square, I inquire about parking. “We have a $20 valet service,” they inform me. Thinking it was a bit pricey, I leave. I dodge the lunatics running through the streets and weave my way into a garage with a sign that reads: Self Parking. Brilliant. I circle up to the 8th floor and park in the first vacant spot I see.

As I walk the streets I am overcome by the amount of garbage and litter on the streets. The unfortunate homeless seem to outnumber tourists. They wheel around shopping carts or trashcans stuffed with salvaged goods. Most have one outfit: a ragged black cloth-like garment. Several are drugged beyond repair. My head turns as they mumble. It takes me a while to realize they aren’t speaking to anyone. Others make me stop and wonder: what happened? They seem so out of place, like it could be me. I am filled with empathy, despair and a hint of fear.

I allocate $5.00 in $1.00 increments for donations. I begin on the southwest corner of Union Square. By the time I cross the park the money gone. The same Christmas tree decorates the courtyard; only this time the air smells of decay. I continue north on Powell and make a left on Sutter. I stop at the first suitable place, Sugar Café. It’s a modern lounge: stone countertops, a gas lit fireplace surrounded by comfortable chairs and mirrored walls shelved with alcohol. “Make me something hot and strong,” I tell the bartender. He nods.

I sip on a sweet concoction of Baileys, Kahalua, espresso, and Tuaca, a vanilla citrus liqueur topped with cocoa and carmel. The simmering heat burns my taste buds and the alcohol permeates my veins. “So what’s would you do if you had 48 hours here?” I ask. “Have you tried Fernet’s?” “No,” I reply. “Where’s that?” He smiles. “We’ll start there.”

He pulls out two shot glasses and throws them in the air, spinning like a performer juggling bowling pins and slams them on the granite. He grabs a bottle and pours two shots. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Fernet Branca. It’s the drink of choice around here.” “Oh Fernet!” I exclaim. “I thought it was a restaurant,” I laugh. He holds up his glass, touches it to mine, taps the tile and put it back. “Ahhhhhh.”

I finish another mixture. This time it’s steamed apple cider infused with coconut rum, whiskey and orange juice and spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg. When I can take no more he points me to Chinatown and Little Italy. I bid him farewell and stumble out of the bar.

I walk through an uneventful Chinatown. In a drunken mess, I stop for a coconut bun pastry. I take two bites and throw the rest away. I am tempted to add it to the mountains of rubbish. I resist. In Little Italy, I walk past cheap attempts to replicate authenticity, like a bad Elvis impersonator. I avoid making the same mistake I did a year ago and hail the first cab I see. I have no destination in mind, but any place is better than here. I tell the driver I’m hungry and he takes me to a Moroccan restaurant. I order the mixed couscous. It’s average.

I spend the next hour searching for my car. I pass my motel that I still haven’t checked into, Super 8 (a destination I spent hours seeking out in the effort of frugality). Outside it looks like an Occupy Wall Street movement of destitute. Frightened, I walk quickly toward the structure for my car. When I find it, I realize it is parked in the Hilton. I’m informed about the usurious rates for parking: $52 per night. “But I’ve only been here 5 hours,” I argue. “After four it’s the same price.”
“Maybe it’s a sign,” I think to myself. I inquire about room rates. My justification to stay is a stretch: I’ll feel better about paying $52 for parking when I’m at least staying at the hotel. Somehow, I feel like I cheated.

The following morning I open the curtains of my 23rd story hotel room to see a panoramic view of the city. Old weary buildings look like pieces in a Jenga game. Something about being atop of a city never loses its charm. I snap a photo. I proceed to the lobby and pay $5.71 for a vanilla latte at Starbucks; a small price for my safety. I sit in the lobby checking email while the security guards evicts unwanted guests.

I pack my bags, check out and make my way north. Before leaving I stop at the Golden Gate Bridge and think back to a year ago. Had the city changed drastically or is it my perception, a cumulation of recent experiences that alter my awareness? I resort to not knowing. I watch the sun glisten off the water. I gaze onward to the sailboats gliding effortlessly through the bay. My eyes profile the outline of Alcatraz. Standing across the bay, I cannot help but feel relief. Luckily I have escaped. ♠

Miles Traveled: 24,444
Countries Visited: 6 (US, Holland, Sweden, Italy, France, Switzerland)
Poker Tournament Cashing Record: 1 cash in 22 tournaments
Most Amount Weighed: 172 lbs
Least Amount Weighed: 151 lbs
Current Weight: 159 lbs
Proudest Accomplishment: Getting in the best physical shape of my life
Best Workout: Biking around Lake Lugano from Italy to Switzerland
Best Thing I Did: Move to Italy
Coolest Thing I Saw: Statue of David
Inspirational Moment: Watching the sunset at the top of Sillman Pass in Sequoia National Park
Hobbies: Writing, Italian, Cuisine, Travel, Reading
Best Meal: Montecristo Ristorante, Milano
Food of Choice: Sweet Potatoes
Drink of Choice: caffé shakerato (shaken iced coffee)
Alcohol of Choice: Scotch
Clothing Items Purchased: 0
Favorite City: Venezia, Italia
Books Read: 18
Favorite Read: Biography of Michelangelo: Bruno Mars, The Power of Now: Eckhart Tolle
TV Show: Homeland
Movie: Midnight In Paris
Song: Littlething, Jimmy Eat World
Artist: Taylor Swift
Role Model: Rafael Nadal
Estimated Hands of Poker Played: 250,000
Word of the Year: Meaning
Lamest Moment: Hearing people celebrate the beginning of 2012 while writing this blog
♠

Monday, November 7th, 7 AM

“I’m not going,” I protested as she dragged me out of bed. “Isn’t there an afternoon class?”
“Mio Torelli. You’re never going to learn Italian if you don’t study.”
“What’s the plan again?”
“Get there early and say that you want to preview the class.”
“Where is it?”
“I left a map of the campus here,” Cat said pointing to the desk. I have to meet my colleague. 8:30 Torelli. Don’t be late!”
“Can I get a kiss?” But she was already out the door.

The campus was surprisingly beautiful. Palm trees escorted the footpaths. On the grass, herons, ibises, sandhill cranes, geese and squirrels lived in harmony. The multitude of lakes gave the wildlife a five star residence.

The spectacle was beautiful not to capture. Despite the questioning stares of passing students, I laid down on the grass to snap this photo.

When the teacher arrived, I was already seated. I took a deep breath and approached her podium.
“Hello Professor,” I said. “My name is Jake. I emailed you about sitting in on your class today.”
She scrolled through her gmail. “Sì certo. Siediti lì,” she said pointing to an empty desk.
I took a seat in the back. Next to me, a guy lifted his head off his book, the price tag still on the front cover. He gave me a nod.
”Sup,” I said nodding back.
He introduced himself. “Hey bro, I’m Max.”
“Jake,” I replied. “Piacere.” ”
“Huh?” He looked dumbfounded.
“It’s a greeting used…never mind. Nice to meet you.”
“Word.”

“Ciao ragazzi,” the teacher began. Her outfit was simple: blue jeans, white tank top and sandals. Had I not known better, I could have mistaken her for a student. “Oggi dobbiamo ripassare per il nostro esame,” she said. Blank stares omitted from the room and I felt better about my modest understanding of the language.
“You have any idea what she’s saying?” Max asked while the professor scribbled on the white board.
“Not a clue,” I joked.
“Me neither. You new or something?”
“Sort of,” I explained. How’s this class? Worth taking?”
“I don’t know,” he sighed. Italian’s tough man.”
“What about the teacher?” I inquired. “She seems cool.”
He raised a mischievous eyebrow, his tone dropping to a whisper: “Bro, she’s hott.” His head bobbing up and down like a buoy. “Man I’d like to…”

“Trentatré trentini entrarono a Trento tutti e trentatré, trotterellando,” the professor continued. The vibration of her “r’s” gave her intonation a poetic ring. In italiano its called scioglilingua,” she said. “Come sei dice in inglese?”
“Tongue twister,” one of the students shouted.
“Esatto. Now re-peet after me.” Her English proved she was Italian.
Silence. The professor hand selected several unfortunate students, all of whom failed miserably.

Simultaneously on my left, two girls practiced amongst themselves. The blonde, who was almost certainly a sorority president, albeit beautiful, sounded more like a dying cat than a purring one. Her friend, short, round, brunette, wore a short black shirt she couldn’t pull off, and sheer grandeur topped with an unfortunate belly button piercing were no match for my eyes.

“Train-tar-ay train-tiny en-tra-o-no- a-uhhhhh, I’m never going to get this,” said the beauty.
“I know and we have a test this week. I’m literally going to leave the whole thing blank,” complained the beast.
“She doesn’t teach us anything.
“All she talks about is food anyway,” said the blonde. “Like who cares?”
The brunette wisely chose silence.
“All I know is she better not give me a B in this class,” continued the princess.
I laughed. She darted me a look.
“Is the professor nice?” I asked the blonde.
“Oh, she’s the best,” she said rolling her eyes. “You’re going to love her.”
I wanted to tell her: “I already do.” “What’s your name by the way?” I asked.
“Jessica.”
“Nice meeting you Jessica. Thanks for the advice.”
I stuck out my. Instead, I got another look.

When the class ended, I got up to leave. “Jake,” the professor called as I neared the door. When I turned around she was staring at me.
“I need to speak with you?”
“Am I in trouble?” I asked.
“Yes,” she smiled. “Very much…”

Laying in bed that night, class resumed.
“I had fun with you tonight mio Torellino,” she whispered as we cuddled on her bed.
I pecked her face. “Ankio bimba.”
“I think we ate a little too much thow.”
“Though,” I corrected her.
“How do you pronounce it?”
I thought for a moment. I set my tongue at the base of my top front teeth and tilted my head back so she could see. “Put your tongue here,” I instructed. “Good. Now perch your lips forward and say “the.”
“The,” she repeated.
“Brava,” I complimented. “Now say, ‘go
“Go.”
“Bene. Now put them together but drop the ‘g.’”
She formed her thoughts. “Th-o,” she said. I gave her a kiss.
“Perfetto.”
“What about ‘threw and ‘through?” she asked.
“Well, there is a difference… Except they sound the same when you say them,” I joked. She made me repeat ‘threw, through, throw, though and tough fifteen times.
“It’s kinda like “Trentatré trentini entrarono a Trento, tutti e trentatré, trotterellando,” I said tripping over each syllable.
“If you want to practice, just say: Though its tough, the pitcher threw the baseball through the wall.”
She sighed. “Mi arrendo,” (I give up) she conceded, pounding her fist on her thigh.
“No,” I reassured her. “Non sei orrenda.” (You’re not horrible) I said.
She laughed as she pointed out my mistake.
I brushed her hair back over her ears. She smiled softly.
“You know what I rather say?” she asked.
“What’s that bimba?”
“I love you.”

Like the quickness of summer as a child, our time together came to an end. At the airport we said our goodbyes. During our final embrace, I slipped her a note:

“I had an amazing week with you. I can’t wait until Christmas.”

Love,
Testolina

P.S. Give Max an A. Fail Jessica.♠