I arrived at Gusti Ngurah Rai International Airport in Bali at midnight.

Hoping to find a quiet bench in the domestic airport for a brief nap before my 6:40 am flight, I embarked on a peculiar 12-minute trek from the international airport through a parking garage adorned with decorative tiles, following signs to the domestic airport, creating a yellow brick-esque path.

Unfortunately, I was greeted by no wizard, but closed glass doors.

Puttering around for a few minutes, another traveler arrived, and we discussed our shared plight.

She had discovered that the domestic airport opened at 5 am.

It was 1 am.

I had 4 hours to kill.

On the strange trek to the domestic airport, there was a hotel conveniently named Airport Hotel, but I was determined to loaf free of charge, especially for such a brief period of four hours.

Scheming, I remembered passing a Starbucks on my way out of the international airport; maybe I could chill there for a bit.

But upon entry, they informed me they were closing in an hour.

Thankfully, after asking what spots were open at this time, the Starbucks employee informed me of a cafe open 24/7 on the third floor.

I headed to the cafe and struck gold, discovering two secluded benches in the open-air setting on the airport’s third floor before reaching the security checkpoint.

Setting my alarm for 3 hours and 50 minutes, I inflated my travel pillow, using the cover as an eye mask, put in my one remaining AirPod (hope you’re living your best life in China, well-loved companion), secured my suitcase under the bench, put my fanny pack strap through my backpack to serve as a kind of leash, and set to work mentally dismantling the hovering concern of being a victim of theft.

Five hours later, a nap had been had, and I had finished two plates of food at the domestic lounge and was waiting to board my flight.

Things were moving.

Sometimes when flying in Asia, you never know if an airline is real or what to expect from it, especially when you’ve paid $47 US for a ticket.

But Lion Airlines was, in fact, a real airline and had the additional benefit of delivering me and the other passengers safely to Java, despite arriving on a 50% full Boeing 737 MAX.

After dodging the taxi assault, the inevitable game of phone tag, “Where’s Waldo?” game ensued with my Grab driver; then we hit the road for our 3-hour drive.

I took the opportunity to catch up with my sister.

While chatting, I noticed the Grab driver taking a video of me. A bit uncomfortable, but with hopefully just a one-off occurrence, my non-confrontational self was not prompted to say anything.

My guess was making the trek to Bromo was a bit of a novelty since it was quite a distance, and he was telling his friends about it and wanted to show them the foreigner in his car.

After all, in this day and age, the California valley girl mantra of “if you didn’t take a photo of it, did it even happen” has permeated all corners of the earth.

When he did it again, and I made eye contact with him and asked in a mildly abrasive voice, “Why are you taking a video of me?”

He was embarrassed and stopped, and I was a bit unnerved.

At the end of my phone call, I engaged in a conversation with him, to the best of one’s ability with a language barrier when you can only speak a few words to each other.

In between the occasional stretches of road where the white line wasn’t directly under our car (staying in lanes is apparently out of fashion here), he showed me his WhatsApp status with a video of him driving the car. Although it wasn’t the same video as the one that had me in it, it was enough to confirm my suspicion that he just wanted to flex on the gram equivalent. So I suggested we take a selfie, and before you know it, I was FaceTiming his wife and friends to introduce myself.

The initial discomfort aside, the drive to Bromo was stunning.

Mountains formed walls on either side, clouds danced throughout the valleys, and there were gardens and crops growing on every surface, no matter its incline.

He asked if we wanted to stop to take a photo a few times, and I said no. But then, we eventually turned a corner, and I agreed this was the one!

We hopped out, he discarding his Grab-branded green shirt to reveal a peach shirt beneath (dang, this man had wardrobe changes down!), which was more suitable to take photos in.

Apparently, a few months ago in September, he had visited Mt. Bromo with a friend and had really enjoyed it, so getting to return was a treat.

As we got closer to our destination, he recalled the names of a few passengers he had taken to Mt. Bromo from the airport. It seemed like the cadence was around one passenger per month. That is, if he was lucky. Because the rides are long, they pay pretty well.

Having entered my whimsical travel era, I had picked the end destination by finding the road that was the absolute closest to the volcano with hotels and hoped that once there I could find an available room. It seems this was my best bet since the Airbnbs available in the area did not inspire confidence, and the websites of hotels, homestays, and hostels in the area were generally trash, and I wanted to see with my own eyes what I was getting into.

Although this might unnerve some, I’ve adopted the mindset of a friend who said, “People are willing to take your money,” and in cases where running out of supply (in this case, a room) is pretty low, it’s a good mantra to live by.

The homestay I had picked to arrive at wanted to charge 800k (rupiah) for a night, $50 USD. I was looking for something in the 250k range. With a genuine smile on their face, the receptionist suggested a homestay 30 meters down the road.

Unfortunately, they had no availability but did recommend another homestay 20 meters back up the same road.

Suddenly I had a room with hot water, but no toilet paper for 300k.

After tipping my driver (he had stayed for the details of finding my accommodations), I was ready to grab lunch and try to stay awake until 5 pm to take a well-deserved sleep before waking up at 3:10 am to hike Mt. Bromo.