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I spend a very long time sitting on the floor and sifting through bins of glittery baubles, staring hard to decide between one hunk of rock and another.(No boyfriend in the world would be patient enough to sit through this sorting process.) When I put a pile of chosen crystals on the counter, the Indian man shrugs and gives me a great deal."The rocks are my children, so if I don't want to see them go I ask for much more," he tells me—perhaps a great salesman tactic, but one that made me smile.

This is excellent news, as I love caloric things and dislike sharing.

There's only one open spot inside the bus, next to a grandma sitting across a little table from her grandkids, so while couples who board with me must tromp to the open roof deck for sun-blasted seats, I sidle in with the family and cheerily plug in my headphones for the audio tour.

Midday, I decide to depart from my red, double-decker chariot for lunch in Stanley Bay, a cool seaside town.

I wander in and poke at some singing bowls, too shy to ask about prices.

But the owners—a boisterous Indian man and a sweet, smiley Aussie who became friends in Ireland many moons ago—come jangling out from behind the counter to show me how to hold the bowl and wooden mallet, how to strike and then circle it to produce the resonant vibration.

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