We went back to a small beach community Jemeluk where we had stayed 15 years ago.Of course it had grown immensely and with all the choices for accommodation, none seem just right.After some looking, at the end of the village, a well-built young man, obviously a fisherman, as opposed to a tout who gets a commission for renting a place, invited us to look at his rooms.
Down a dirt path we went for about 150 meters, through a field, past the small black pig tied with a rope, past the chickens and two brown cows to a wall with a small opening that led to two bungalows, in front of which was a small open café and all of this no more than 30 feet from the stormy Bali Ocean.
The room was obviously just built and had crisp white linen with a huge four poster bed.I knew this was the perfect place for us. I asked about the rate and with only a smile and a hint for a discount, the $12 a night rate with breakfast, seemed like a gift.
It was only when we were moving into the room that I noticed a neatly monogramed towel “Papa’s Home Stay”.
Later in the small eatery, sipping a hot ginger tea, the wind blowing, the white caps dancing, the local children running around freely,I had tears of joy. I had come home.
My father, whose birthday is today, was called "Papa".
