Eat, Pray, Love

Armenia laughed, but then seemed to consider the question seriously and answered,
“Well, I always tried to look nice and be feminine even in the war zones and refugee camps of
Central America. Even in the worst tragedies and crisis, there’s no reason to add to every-
one’s misery by looking miserable yourself. That’s my philosophy. This is why I always wore
makeup and jewelry into the jungle—nothing too extravagant, but maybe just a nice gold
bracelet and some earrings, a little lipstick, good perfume. Just enough to show that I still had
my self-respect.”
In a way, Armenia reminds me of those great Victorian-era British lady travelers, who used
to say there’s no excuse for wearing clothes in Africa that would be unsuited for an English
drawing room. She’s a butterfly, this Armenia. And she couldn’t stay for too long at Wayan’s
shop because she had work to do, but that didn’t stop her from inviting me to a party tonight.
She knows another Brazilian expat in Ubud, she told me, and he’s hosting a special event at
a nice restaurant this evening. He’ll be cooking a feijoada—a traditional Brazilian feast con-
sisting of massive piles of pork and black beans. There will be Brazilian cocktails, as well.
Lots of interesting expatriates from all over the world who live here in Bali. Would I care to
come? They might all go out dancing later, too. She doesn’t know if I like parties, but...
Cocktails? Dancing? Piles of pork?
Of course I’ll come.
Eat, Pray, Love