The gifts of friendship,
travel and good health

Two years ago to the day, I emerged from the intensive care unit following surgery to remove a tumor – 17 inches long, 15 inches wide and 14 inches deep – that had invaded my left lung and nearly choked the life out of me.

I am the most fortunate of souls.

And my luck has gotten even better.

My good friend, Brenda Foehrkolb, won a trip to Singapore in a drawing on the "Martha Stewart Show." And I'm her guest.

It's good to be alive. Actually, it's magnificent.

First stop, Frankfurt

Because Singapore is far, far away – 9,583 miles from Philadelphia – we are breaking up our trip, pausing for two days in Germany. And since Singapore is in southern Asia – in the neighborhood, so to speak – we will press on to Bali.

On our first stop, we stay at Hotel Villa Florentina, a brisk walk from Frankfurt's main train station. A boutique hotel, Florentina fulfills the three Cs – clean, convenient and cheap – with a welcome fourth C – charm.

After a long flight, Brenda and I stretch our legs, walking the mile or so to Frankfurt's stately opera house, dining at a cafe on the bustling square before heading back to the hotel.

Wringing words from my brain, tucked away during four years of German class at Palmyra High School, I ask for the key to Ziimmer vier und dreissig. That's Room 34, liebchen.

The next morning we go to Heidelberg, a medieval university city a 45-minute train ride away on Germany's superb rail system.

Charlotte Frey, our incomparable guide, is waiting for us.

With limited time, a personal guide is a pragmatic luxury. Frau Frey, an American who has lived in Germany for decades, adroitly leads us through Heidelberg, where Mark Twain wrote A Tramp Abroad.

Over Linzer torte and coffee at Burkhardt's, a cafe frequented by students and professors, she tells us that Heidelberg is a two-hour train ride from Paris.

"You can get off at the Louvre, tour the museum, have a wonderful lunch, go shopping and take the train back," she says.

Heidelberg is on the Neckar River, where Brenda and I board a solar-powered catamaran, drink cold, crisp lager and glide past Philosopher's Row, a cluster of mansions where tennis star Steffi Graf resides.

We visit the student prison, where naughty undergrads would plead to be jailed in the 19th century. For the first three days it was bread and water. After that, it was wine, song and lots of spirited painting on the walls.

Heidelberg's castle was in ruins when Thomas Jefferson measured its room-size wine cask.

But you can still walk its grounds and part of the interior.

Do place your foot in the boot-shaped impression on the walkway, which ensures you will return to Heidelberg and be happy your whole life.

Do not knock yourself out taking the 315 steps to the castle. The tram ride is included in the five-Euro admission price.

Steamy Singapore

We arrive in Singapore at 6:30 a.m., when it is already 90 degrees outside.

Brenda coins a phrase that describes relentless heat and humidity: Singapore hot.

As part of her prize, a driver escorts us to Raffles, the legendary suites-only British Colonial-era hotel.

A smiling manager informs us that Brenda has been upgraded to a suite in the Palm Court.

Our accommodations are splendid, including a sitting room, dining area, bedroom with two king-sized beds, dressing room and marble bath with a soaking tub and stall shower.

Each suite also comes with a butler, on call 24 hours a day.

We quickly unpack, then head for the Auriga Spa at the Capella Hotel, located on Sentosa, an island in the South China Sea accessible by cable car.

Capella is a lovely blend of old and new with bungalows dating back to colonial days, as well as a contemporary annex of hotel rooms. Villas are nestled in the rain forest. (Stewart stayed in a three-bedroom manor house.)

I indulge in a blissful, 90-minute massage in which a tiny masseuse crawls on my back and rolls hot stones down my spine while birds twitter in an adjoining open-air courtyard.

The masseuse inquires about the 18-inch scar that swooshes from my left shoulder blade, beneath my arm pit, circling my rib cage to my breast.

"Were you in a terrible accident?" she asks. "No," I reply. "I was ill. But I had an operation and I'm completely well."

Singapore Slings

For years, I have been an advocate of popping into a great hotel for a drink or a small repast. We have sipped Bellini in the lobby of the Gritti Palace in Venice, brunched at the Bel Air Hotel in Beverly Hills and taken tea at the Empress in Victoria, British Columbia. You can't ask for better bling for the buck.

Brenda and I pop into the Writer's Bar at Raffles, where Rudyard Kipling, Somerset Maugham and Joseph Conrad enjoyed a drink, to listen to the hotel's celebrated pianist, Jimmy McKissic.

The server hands us menus, which list wine prices starting at $38 a glass.

I summon all my nerve and make a request. Are there any less expensive wines available?

The server's stunned expression tells me no one asks this question at the Writer's Bar. She dashes off and returns with the sommelier, who suggests we try the Long Bar, Raffle's casual watering hole.

"You can get wine there starting at $25 a glass," he says.

Our heads high, Brenda and I retire to the Long Bar, where we enjoy knee-melting Singapore Slings, priced at $25 a pop, within our heck-we're-on-vacation range.

Of spice and squid

Singapore is clean, safe and prosperous, a city state of 5 million souls where there is a rule for everything.

No chewing gum. In fact, selling gum is illegal. You queue in designated areas for taxis, which are scrupulously regulated.

There are even rules for street food. Vendors are restricted to a small section of Chinatown, where the air is laced with the aromas of frying.

Over four days, Brenda and I eat our way across Singapore, sampling spicy shrimp and squid with rice in Chinatown. We sip fresh green coconut water in Little India after shopping for exotic fabrics on Arab Street.

A dynamic fusion of Chinese, Indian and Malaysian cultures, Singapore is a fabulous food town.

We tuck into lush fried lobster at Shang Palace, the beautiful Cantonese restaurant at the glamorous Shangri-La hotel. (We understand Hillary Clinton enjoyed the jaw-dropping, self-serve global buffet.)

Our most memorable meal is at Wild Rocket, a hipster bistro tucked into a backpack hostel in the secluded Mount Emily section. Chef and owner Willin Low redeveloped such Asian classics as sea bass with fermented shrimp dip when he was studying law in London.

Brenda and I are impressed by a stunning series of small plates, including homemade tofu, crisp outside and creamy inside, served over a "century egg" with a savory olive-green yolk.

Gift horses

Our adventure at Raffles includes dinner in the classy hotel dining room, a much-anticipated event that includes such lackluster courses as three tender slices of bland chicken.

We are responsible for the $200-plus beverage tab, including water, but the $450-plus bill for food is on the house.

Brenda and I are grateful. But it doesn't live up to our expectations.

Apply that same mind-set to a free trip. Be thankful – yes, rhapsodic – for your good fortune.

But be aware you could wind up with the least desirable flights and the people responsible for making your arrangements may drag their feet a bit. After all, you are not a paying customer.

If we had it to do again, we would ask for a list of flight options and be more assertive in pressing for a more favorable itinerary.

(I also highly recommend traveling with Brenda, whose sunny personality smooths any bumps in the road. And Singapore Airlines is so efficient it takes a bit of the sting out of flying coach.)

Because Bali is on our dime, we don't mind pushing the envelope. A friend cautions us to steer clear of Bali's famous Kuta – "filthy beach, drunken Australians, plastic bags blowing in the breeze," she e-mails – so we opt for the mountain jungles of Ubud, the ultimate getaway in Eat, Pray Love.

Neighbors recommend the Four Seasons Sayan, a resort on the banks of the Ayung, the sacred river of Bali.

In researching the site, I learn the resort is offering a free third night when you book two nights.

If I make the reservation with my American Express platinum card, we will get free breakfast, afternoon tea and an upgrade from a room to a villa with private plunge pool. But no free third night.

So I phone Amex and speak with a travel rep.

"I would like to have it all, the upgrades and the free night," I say. "Would you please call Bali and ask if that can be arranged?"

The next day, my Amex rep rings me back.

Of course, you can have it all, cherished card holder, she says. What else we can do for you?

Bali high

If the rest of Bali was like the airport at Denpasar no one would go there.

Brenda and I are headed for customs when a guy in a uniform commandeers my rolling bag.

"Bag check," he says

We soon learn he is one of a swarm of predatory porters. By now, another porter has Brenda's bag and it costs us the equivalent of $12 each to get our luggage back – roughly five times the going rate.

It is dark when we board the SUV to the hotel. Our driver takes us through clogged streets, past noisy bars. After about 20 minutes, the lights of Pizza Huts and Dunkin Donuts fade as we climb into the mountains.

The Four Seasons is pristine and tranquil, with thick foliage and small shrines that are an important part of the religious culture of Bali, home to Indonesia's Hindu minority.

Brenda and I loll in our pool and drink gin and watermelon juice. We eat porridge and fish for breakfast and feed carp from our dinner table near a roof-top lotus pond.

"How are we ever going to go home and make our own coffee?" Brenda asks.

Because I am so attuned to the state of my lungs, I have given them names.

Lucky Leftie is the smaller, trying gamely to fill the void created when my lung was sliced in half to remove the tumor. Mighty Rightie, who had been carrying most of the load for years, looks like the lung of a swimmer who has crossed the English Channel, underwater.

High in the Balinese mountains, I am eager to put Leftie and Rightie to the test on a bike trek.

On an overcast afternoon, I set off in a group: an Aussie hotelier and his girlfriend; honeymooners from Atlanta; newlyweds from Japan; our guide; and me, the only rider over age 35.

We pedal through the village, weaving past strutting roosters and whining motor scooters, the dominant mode of transportation on the island.

As many as four people share a scooter. A young mother perches behind her husband, bottle feeding their baby. Two old men balance a wooden table on their heads.

We pick up a muddy path, six inches wide. The trails crisscross shallow rice paddies, dotted by huts and surrounded by jungle.

It is tough going and there are stretches that are so muddy we must get off our bikes and carry them to firmer ground.

I am sweating, breathing hard and smiling like a small child on Christmas morning.

We climb off our bikes at a wide spot in the trail near a shrine to sip water and drink in the verdant serenity of the fields. The Japanese bride forms a rectangle with her fingers.

"CAM-ER-A?" she inquires.

The universal translation: Would you take my picture? And I'll take yours?

We snap each other's photos, then pedal on past villagers tending ducks. Even in this rural setting, the earth is littered with broken flip flops, plastic cups and rags.

Paradise tossed.

Back at our manicured resort, I ask a woman on the staff about the litter.

"It is our big problem," she says. "Here at the hotel they are teaching us not to use plastic bags but it is hard for people to change."

Indeed.

We head home with fond wishes that the gentle souls of Bali will succeed in reclaiming their island's natural beauty.

But while there's breath, there's hope.