Smack dab in the center of Bali, high up in the mountains where the air finally cools and the mist rolls in like something out of a dream, you’ll find Pura Ulun Danu Bratan. It’s the kind of place you’ve probably seen on a postcard or a screensaver—temple towers rising straight out of a mountain lake, reflections trembling in the water, a shrine to Dewi Danu, goddess of the lake. The whole scene looks impossibly serene, almost too perfect, until you get there and realize, like anywhere worth seeing in Bali, you’re not the only one.
It’s touristy—of course it is. Tour buses line the entrance, selfie sticks stab at the sky, and somewhere in the crowd, there’s always an American voice asking if there’s a McDonald’s nearby. You roll your eyes, take a deep breath, and try to look past it. Because if you can, the place itself is still staggering. The carvings, impossibly intricate, tell stories older than any of us. The colors—the reds, the deep greens, the stone worn smooth by centuries of rain—hit you in a way that no Instagram filter ever could.
This is the paradox of travel: the most beautiful places in the world are also the most overrun. And yet, somehow, standing there by the water, I didn’t care. The temple itself seemed untouchable, like it was laughing at us all—at the guides with their umbrellas, at the tourists with their matching hats, at the endless parade of cameras clicking. The temple has been here for centuries, and it will still be here long after we’re gone.
And maybe that’s what made it special for me. Because I wasn’t just there alone, fighting through the crowd with my own cynicism. I was there with someone I love. Someone who made all of it—tourists, noise, chaos—fade into the background. Together we stood by the water’s edge, watching the temple glow in the soft light, as the mist drifted down over the lake. For a moment, it felt like the world slowed down. Like the goddess herself was watching.
Travel isn’t always perfect. In fact, most of the time it’s messy, crowded, and a little disappointing. But every once in a while, in places like Ulun Danu Bratan, the beauty cuts through the noise. And if you’re lucky, you get to share it with someone who makes the whole thing matter.
