“Do you rent longboards?” he asks.
“We sell them.”
“How much?”
“Very expensive.”
“Well, that’s OK. I mean, I’ve brought my own equipment of course.”
“They are priceless,” she continues.
“Can you suggest some good waves for long boarding here on the island? Some place mellow and uncrowded. And no reefs.”
Maybe I should stop ordering french friess, she thinks to herself. I’m never satisfied. Always, it’s the same cravings: crispier, thinner, less greasy. They have a giant menu here. It’s very western, but still, much to choose from. Maybe an omelete next time, she thinks. That might be a healthy alternative. Or fruit salad, with granola. Yes, that sounds very good.
“We don’t make suggestions,” she answers.
“Exhaustingly, can you tell me which waves are better for Bali longboarding?”
She leans back in her generic wicker chair and crosses her legs.
“We are of the position that there is no better or worse. Nationally in Bali, and internationally, elsewhere.”
The boulevard is surprisingly uncrowded this morning. A light consistent flow of traffic weaves between each other. Motor scooters and mini vans and dump trucks filled with white rock and rubble pass in front of the cafe all day. The sun is out but still a morning cool in the air. Two boys on scooters with surfboards in side racks pull up in front of the cafe and dismount.
She eyes the boards carefully. Thrusters, she observes. New. Australian shapers. Computer productions.
The two boys amble into the cafe comfortably.
So she says her friend would rather not come along anyway, so that means it’s just us. And she doesn’t even take photographs!
His friend sighs.
“What do you do then?” The voice on the phone is exasperated, hot, tired, not acclimated to the tropical heat and noise and impoverished smell and horrid sanitary conditions and thick dry air and relentless savage sun.
We do just this, she responds, and tips another fat french fry into the mound of ketchup.
What is your name? he asks quietly.
Audry.
Audry what?
Audry, of the Bali Longboarding Club.
