The flight to Doha finally takes off twenty-three hours behind schedule; exhausted from constantly walking, I awake nine hours into the twelve hour flight. In Qatar we go through security check again, and I spend my hours there over-watching a massive duty free area, making countless walking circuits, and eating halal food I pay for with a credit card. While riding the bus to our plane I let my tattoos show, hanging from the hand-holds and peering deliriously out into the night. I find myself being appraised by several young ladies, whose male companions eye me warily. Having sat in the wrong row I change seats and find myself next to an attractive, skinny British woman; her boyfriend is livid, staring straight ahead, on the verge of tears; he does not look directly at me until perhaps our last hour together, before which he tracks my every move out of the corners of his eyes; I could have taken a seat in one of the many empty rows, but I enjoy his torture, and so I stay. In roughly eleven hours we reach Singapore, go through security again, and enter a waiting area that has access to neither water nor restroom. The flight to Denpasar is uneventful, and when I arrive, my ATM card works, my ride is waiting, the rains have just stopped, and the sun is setting on a day that only Bali can deliver.
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