Bali Sayings And Quotes

When you are walking down the road in Bali and your pass a stranger, the very first question he or she will ask you is, "Where are you going?" The second question is, "Where are you coming from?" To a Westerner, this can seem like a rather invasive inquiry from a perfect stranger, but they're just trying to get an orientation on you, trying to insert you into the grid for the purposes of security and comfort. If you tell them that you don't know where you're going, or that you're just wandering about randomly, you might instigate a bit of distress in the heart of your new Balinese friend. It's far better to pick some kind of specific direction -- anywhere -- just so everybody feels better. The third question a Balinese will almost certainly ask you is, "Are you married?" Again, it's a positioning and orienting inquiry. It's necessary for them to know this, to make sure that you are completely in order in your life. They really want you to say yes. it's such a relief to them when you say yes. If you're single, it's better not to say so directly. And I really recommend that you not mention your divorce at all, if you happen to have had one. It just makes the Balinese so worried. The only thing your solitude proves to them is your perilous dislocation from the grid. If you are a single woman traveling through Bali and somebody asks you, "Are you married?" the best possible answer is: "Not yet." This is a polite way of saying, "No," while indicating your optimistic intentions to get that taken care of just as soon as you can. Even if you are eighty years old, or a lesbian, or a strident feminist, or a nun, or an eighty-year-old strident feminist lesbian nun who has never been married and never intends to get married, the politest possible answer is still: "Not yet.

Now, Raquel, you’ve told us that your beast leans a little more toward anima sometimes?” Raquel shrugs. “Yeah.” “So you don’t mind us calling you anima?” Raquel nods. “D-doesn’t matter which one.” “Good to know,” Theresa says, looking meaningfully around at us to make sure we got that.

Globe-trotting is just the chance to feel bored more places, faster. A boring breakfast in Bali. A predictable lunch in Paris. A tedious dinner in New York, and falling asleep, drunk, during just another blow job in L.A. Too many peak experiences, too close together. “Like the Getty Museum,” Inky says. “Lather, rinse, and repeat,” says the Global Airlines wino. In the boring new world of everyone in the upper-middle class, Inky says, nothing helps you enjoy your bidet like peeing in the street for a few hours. Give up bathing until you stink, and just a hot shower feels as good as a trip to Sonoma for a detoxifying mud enema. “Think of it,” Inky says, “as a kind of poverty sorbet, a nice little window of misery that helps you enjoy your real life.

As for losing your edge,” Eric said, “I think that warrants a little inquiry practice.” “What’s that?” “Most people actually believe their own thoughts. But thoughts are not facts. They’re just thoughts. They don’t necessarily reflect reality. Whenever you hear your inner voice saying, ‘I haven’t achieved enough,’ or ‘I don’t have what it takes,’ or whatever—and we all have that inner voice—ask yourself this: ‘Is it true?’ We’re all attached to our stories, but it’s worth asking coldly, ‘What evidence do you have to prove beyond doubt that it’s true?’” He suggested I ruthlessly apply the Socratic method to the judgmental opinions of my own mind. “If you can’t find that evidence—because guess what? Most of the time it doesn’t exist—then imagine how you’d feel if you told yourself a different story or simply envisioned yourself without that self-critical thought.

You study Yoga in India, Liss?” he asks. “Yes, Ketut.” “You can do Yoga,” he says, “but Yoga too hard.” Here, he contorts himself in a cramped lotus position and squinches up his face in a comical and constipated-looking effort. Then he breaks free and laughs, asking, “Why they always look so serious in Yoga? You make serious face like this, you scare away good energy. To meditate, only you must smile. Smile with face, smile with mind, and good energy will come to you and clean away dirty energy. Even smile in your liver. Practice tonight at hotel. Not to hurry, not to try too hard. Too serious, you make you sick. You can calling the good energy with a smile. All finish for today. See you later, alligator. Come back tomorrow. I am very happy to see you, Liss. Let your conscience be your guide. If you have Western friends come to visit Bali, bring them to me for palm-reading. I am very empty in my bank since the bomb.

What’s the first thing you do now before you visit a new restaurant for the first time or book a hotel room online? You probably ask a friend for a recommendation or you check out the reviews online. Now more than ever, the story your customers tell about you is a big part of your story. Word of mouth is accelerated and amplified. Trust is built digitally beyond the village. Reputations are built and lost in a moment. Opinions are no longer only shared one to one; they are broadcasted one to many, through digital channels. Those opinions live on as clues to your story. The cleanliness of your hotel bathrooms is no longer a secret. Guests’ unedited photos are displayed alongside a hotel brochure’s digital glossies. TripAdvisor ratings are proudly displayed by hotels and often say more about the standards guests can expect than do other, more established star ratings systems, such as the Forbes Travel Guide‘s ratings. Once-invisible brands and family-run hotels have had their businesses turned around by the stories their customers tell about them. “With 50 million reviews and counting, [TripAdvisor] is shaking the travel industry to its core.” —Nathan Labenz It turns out that people are more likely to trust the stories other people tell about you than to trust the well-lit Photoshopped images in your brochure. Reputation is how your idea and brand story are spread. A survey conducted by Chadwick Martin Bailey found that six in ten cruise customers said “they were less likely to book a cruise that received only one star.” There is no marketing more powerful than what one person says to another to recommend your brand. “Don’t waste money on expensive razors.” “Nice hotel; shame about the customer service.” In a world where online reputation can increase a hotel’s occupancy and revenue, trust has become a marketing metric. “[R]eputation has a real-world value.” —Rachel Botsman When we were looking to book a quiet, off-the-beaten-track hotel in Bali, the first place we looked wasn’t with the travel agents or booking.com. I jumped online and found that one of the area’s best-rated hotels on tripadvisor.com wasn’t a five-star resort but a modest family-run, three-star hotel that was punching well above its weight. This little fifteen-room hotel had more than 400 very positive reviews and had won a TripAdvisor Travellers Choice award. The reviews from the previous guests sealed the deal. The little hotel in Ubud was perfect. The reviews didn’t lie, and of course the place was fully booked with a steady stream of guests who knew where to look before taking a chance on a hotel room. Just a few years before, this $50-a-night hotel would have been buried amongst a slew of well-marketed five-star resorts. Today, thanks to a currency of trust, even tiny brands can thrive by doing the right thing and giving their customers a great story to tell.

As soon as they left, Lyssa had decided to creep into her grandfather's room to see if there was indeed any money around. If she found anything, she had decided she was probably not going to tell Jacob the whole truth. There had been too many empty promises made in the past, like saying how he would take her on holiday to Bali. Or even the simple ones like coming to pick her up after school.

Xander says you may be inbred. Is that true?

Sweetie, I’m so sorry about what happened,” I say, trying to blink back the tears. 
“You say sorry too much,” Anna cuts me off. “Stop apologizing for being alive.” 
“But I made a complete idiot of myself.” 
“At least you were entertaining.”


I always believed that love was supposed to bring you pleasure, not pain,” I say. “So, if you don’t feel completely happy, it isn’t real.”
 “Oh, come on, Luce. We’re fed all the Disney bullshit and rom-com ideals. Love isn’t a Xanax. It’s a process that can be hard, and dirty, and demanding. It doesn’t fall from the sky, you have to work on it. And I’m not saying that anyone should stay in a toxic relationship, but you shouldn’t run away because of the slightest inconvenience, either.

And what he says into my mind, his voice guttural and harsh, restraint made into a man, rattles my entire reality. "I did not exist before you.

People don’t belong in cages,” Selena says quietly. I regard her carefully. “Or towers.” Her eyes sparkle.

She gasps into my mouth. And it does something so primal to me. A growl tears from my throat, greed and desire taking me over completely. Her scent—gods, her scent is everything, and my dragon sways in approval. I sweep the sheet off her, sliding my hand down the curve of a delicious waist, down a smooth thigh and lower to the back of her knee. With another growl, I hike her leg over my hip, my cock painful and hard as obsidian stone. “I need you,” I mutter. “Fuck, I need you.” She whimpers, her own primal desires making her writhe, making her skin slide over my naked skin, leaving me panting and half-mad. My cock twitches and catches her between the legs, the head sinking into moisture. She hisses and so do I, making me slide my hips, greedily wanting to be coated in that sweet wetness. I palm her breast and she arches into me, moaning wantonly. The scent of her wet pussy makes me drunk and I suddenly can’t think of anything else except what that would feel like inside of my mouth and on my tongue and on my entire face. I want to cover my whole body in that sweetness. “I need to taste you,” I say hoarsely, sliding down her body, tasting her skin as I go. The centre of her chest, a line down her body. The taste of her is almost orgasmic, like a buffet of every perfect taste in the world.

She cries out and I send my finger deeper. I’m met with a gush of fluids that I lap up immediately, licking faster and faster at her clit. She moans and I stroke her inside, a slow, lazy rhythm that makes her muscles loose. I have to hold her up as she whimpers. Grinning into her pussy, I work my pretty jewel, massaging her, licking and tasting until she screams, coming completely undone and all but collapsing onto my face. My own cock is hard and pulsing, begging for release, but I must ensure my most precious treasure is attended to first. “Good jewel,” I say, hauling her into my arms and stepping out of the shower. “Very well done.

Say Yes to Heaven — Lana Del Rey