One day when I was cleaning a closet in my San Francisco apartment, the Balinese batiked drawstring bag that I'd carried everywhere on the island surfaced. I held the soft, incense perfumed cotton bag to my cheek, closed my eyes, and was back on the island again: Clanging gamelons, croaking frogs, yakking geckos, melodious birds, kites ornamenting the skies, Made knee deep in a rice paddy seeing me in my upstairs window and waving, "Hi honey! You hungry? I make Nasi Goreng!" men lounging in the open air platforms smoothing the feathers of their pet cocks, Balinese women sauntering gracefully under offerings atop their heads, taxi drivers calling out, "Transport?" followed by, "Are you married?" the smell of jasmine,frangipani, cloves, and incense, festive parades blocking traffic, ruffled umbrellas tilted over religious icons, temples poking up in the most unlikely places, jogging in the Hash House Harrier Runs through out-back Indonesia, the sun low in the sky reflecting off the water between the tiny rice sprigs, huts with rounded thatched roofs, men bathing together in streams, fresh off-the-boat grilled tuna every Thursday night at Nuri's, stepping over tiny palm leaf offerings, wearing only sarongs, sleeveless cotton tops, flip-flops, and forgetting why I ever wore makeup, leaving the windows open and never being cold, weaving my motorcycle around ducks and school children and gridlocked cars, swimming around and around hypnotically in  warm, clear pools, surrounded always by lush gardens with striking batiked leaves, gold fish ponds, the sound of running water everywhere, and the tranquility radiated by the locals and the foreigners on the island.

Bali and San Francisco. 

I love them both.

But I can no longer afford to live in San Francisco year-round, and I can not afford to leave it for long periods, for it is in San Francisco where the work to support the life I want to live, is.

After a 3 month media sabbatical, I've been disconcerted by the cries of "War! War!" coming from every television network and by our president who spouts various renditions of "Retribution against the evildoers!" America, it seems has gone public with its self-assigned role of sergeant at arms at large. But most shocking to me is the unquestioning manner in which Americans are following in lockstep, uncomprehending of any view other than their own, and unconcerned as the rest of the world looks on in horror. I am less proud than ever to call myself an American. And less free to say so.

But about the time I begin to think,  "That's it, I am out of here," I'd find myself adoring San Francisco all over again. One day, for instance, I was motoring my Alfa Romeo, up steep California Street, top down on a crisp, bright winter day, tuned into KFog, swerving around cable cars, limousines, and bicyclists with ease, and slowing down for a peace march. I pulled into Whole Foods Market where I browsed though miles of aisles of wine, gourmet cheeses, fresh sushi, daily baked bread, and organic fruits and vegetables. At the deli counter, I ordered a burrito, where a lengthy inquisition ensued.

Rotisserie chicken, beef brisket, or vegetarian? Refried or black beans? White rice or cilantro?  Monterey jack or cheddar? Guacamole, sour cream or both? Onions? Jalapenos? Spinach or lettuce? Mild or spicy salsa? Whole wheat or flour tortilla? After collecting the log-sized burrito (at $5.49, one of San Francisco's few remaining bargains and ladled fresh made saffron yam bisque into a plastic pint container to take home. I then got into the checkout queue just in time to hear a tall female cashier announce to another employee, "You know that new girl Andrea? I tongued her when I kissed her goodbye at the company party."

I live in San Francisco, which is not really America, but an island of individualism and noncomformity - traits once regarded as distinctly and positively American.

When I left last year, San Francisco was staggering under blows to its major industries, technology and tourism. But San Francisco, is a city of rushes and busts and she'll rise again.

Bali too will bounce back. Tourists will be drawn back into her magical fold, as they realize that terrorism is random, and the likelihood that it will occur twice in the same place is slight. The Balinese will continue their lives of spiritual rituals and celebrations, not that they ever stopped.

So how does one decide where and when to be an expatriate? Does it take a calamity or a momentous shift (perhaps an earthquake in my case?) to shake loose and just go? Is it as simple as, "Just step out the back Jack, make a new plan Sam, no need to be coy Roy, just set yourself free...?"

Or one can take a multigrain tortilla, spread on some San Francisco, toss in a handful of Bali, and sprinkle on some Brazil, roll it up, and eat the whole enchilada?