We kicked off the morning with a side of breakfast mystery courtesy of a French waiter who looked like he’d just stepped out of a noir film—or maybe a mildly chaotic indie heist. Tattooed, evasive, and suspiciously cagey when asked why he’s lived in Bali for ten years and never once set foot in Australia. Naturally, Matthew and I decided he was on the run. Possibly from an ex. Possibly from the law. 

Just as we were finishing our coffee and character development, we realised the same family from a few days ago were seated beside us. The loud guy, who’d previously treated breakfast like a TED Talk on volume about Los Angeles, started off suspiciously quiet. Then, mid-bacon, he launched into a monologue about how often planes are turned around these days due to mechanical failure. That cleared the table faster than a fire drill. Nothing says “bon appétit” like the threat of mid-air doom.

Post-brekkie existential dread, we headed to Kebon Vintage Cars, which is basically a shrine to chrome, horsepower, and questionable restoration choices. The collection? A lot bigger than we anticipated. BMWs, Volvos, American muscle, a stretch VW Beetle that looked like it had dreams of being a limo but got stuck halfway through puberty. Even a Torana, which felt like spotting a unicorn in a sea of shiny metal.
We were followed, gently stalked really, by a guide who popped up every time Matthew and I lingered too long near a car. Like a museum ghost with a passion for pistons. She proudly informed us that Kebon means garden, because the museum was built on one. Which explains absolutely nothing about the décor, unless your idea of garden chic includes hazardous waste drums and the questionable work health and safety compliance. This was evidenced by a spectacular attempt to back a car trailer up a flight of stairs…yes…stairs, while a crew of guys tried to “engineer” the perfect angle using whatever was within arm’s reach. Old railway sleepers, rogue pavers, possibly a prayer – especially as one of the men who’s safety shoes were thongs, held up the back tray as the truck backed up. It was like watching a pit crew audition for Survivor: Bali Edition, improvising with debris, sweating profusely, and somehow making it work through sheer determination and questionable physics.

As we meander, our guide close behind, we see some cars were pristine, others looked like they’d been dragged out of a swamp and given a quick polish. But the chaos was part of the charm. It was like wandering through a car-themed fever dream curated by someone who once watched Fast & Furious and thought, “I could do that, and they won’t even need to work.”

The museum turned out to be wildly worthwhile, far more delightful than we ever expected. Bali has its own rhythm, its own logic, and honestly, that’s a huge part of why we love it here. There’s a kind of beautiful chaos woven into the everyday, a reminder that “Bali does Bali” in ways both baffling and brilliant. Case in point: on the drive home, we passed a scooter transporting a kite. Not in a bag. Not folded. Just the full body of the kite balanced on one bike, with its tail trailing behind on another like a parade float with trust issues.

After sweating it out at the open-air car museum, and enduring the kind of air conditioning that’s more “suggestion” than “function”, we retreat to the pool for a final dip and one last shot at that holiday glow (yes Mum, sunscreen still firmly in play). The sun-and-swim combo is exactly what we need to decompress, cool off, and pretend we’re not already mentally packing.
Lunch is ordered in, the afternoon is blissfully low-effort, and soon we’re rallying for our final dinner of the trip. Funny how holidays seem to revolve around sightseeing, people-watching, and the relentless pursuit of the next great meal.
Tonight’s pick: Italian. Forketta delivers on all fronts – warm staff, knockout food, and a decor mash-up of Indonesian charm and Italian flair that somehow works. If terrazzo tiles and teak wood had a love child, it would live here.

We’re thoroughly entertained by our waiter Zack and waitress Nia—a duo that feels part comedy act, part warm hug. Zack dives into conversation, declaring his undying love for Premier League football (Man U, of course) and his passion for learning languages. He insists English is easy, though we wisely sidestep the minefield of “there, they’re, their” and let him roll on with tales of his Irish and Liverpudlian mates. His favourite accent? London. Matthew’s face lights up like he’s just been personally endorsed by the Queen.
After demolishing burrata, pasta, and pizza, bellissimo in every bite, we say our goodbyes to Zack and Nia, already plotting our return. With food this good and entertainment this charming, how could we not come back for another round?
As we retire home, packing and attempting to finish off the remnants of the food and drink in our fridge and plot our plan of attack on tomorrows journey home, already planning for some bangers and mash when we get back home. With a flight arriving late, and work looming the very next day, we try to focus on the great time we’ve had and not the countless emails awaiting our return Monday morning.
Bali has delivered its usual blend of magic and mayhem. We’ve soaked up the sun, dodged the odd travel hiccup, and collected enough stories to keep us laughing through the inbox storm. Until next time……same sandals, new stories.