Pineapple: Memories from a Jakarta Journey

Introduction – The Sweet Start

Jakarta wasn’t on our original bucket list. But like the taste of pineapple — bold, unexpected, and just a little tangy — it surprised me in the best ways. I came for the adventure, maybe for the food, or perhaps just for the change of scenery.

What I left with was a mosaic of memories: the chaos of traffic, the quiet of morning prayers echoing through the alleys, the colors of batik swaying in shop windows, and the smoky scent of cigarettes lingering on street corners.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was vivid, loud, sweet, a little strange — and in the end, unforgettable.

Day 1: A Midnight Landing and a Pineapple Plan

We arrived in Jakarta just past midnight. Immigration was smooth, but finding our Indrive driver turned out to be more challenging than expected. The pickup area was confusing, and the language barrier made things harder. Messages got lost in translation, and for a while, we weren’t even sure if we were talking to the right person. But our driver stayed patient, calm, and kind throughout — circling back, staying in contact, and helping us find our way. That quiet persistence became our first taste of Jakarta’s warmth.

At Hotel O Gambir, however, any relief quickly faded. The room was unclean — the sheets were visibly dirty, and none of us felt comfortable staying there. We were drained, but sleep wasn’t an option. So, we began searching for a better place. We found a new hotel, booked it, and finally sleep came.

In the morning, we stepped out to buy water and a few basic items from a nearby convenience store. That’s where I saw it — a small container of chilled, pre-sliced pineapple. Bright and sweet-looking in its clear packaging, it felt like the kind of thing that could start our day off right. I picked it up without a second thought.

On the way back to the hotel, we passed a street cart selling mi goreng. Without hesitation, we bought some for takeaway. That ended up being our breakfast — warm noodles eaten back at the hotel, shared over low voices and half-packed bags. After that, I opened the pineapple and offered it around. We finally ate some — just a few bites, but it was good. Cold, refreshing, and somehow comforting. Still, a lot was left. I packed it back up.

After breakfast, we moved to our new hotel. There, we stored our luggage and waited for one of our friends — the secret we had to keep the whole day. He had quietly arrived in Jakarta ahead of the others, and we were planning to surprise them the next day, on our first official itinerary. For now, he stayed with us in the hotel, tucked away as we played along with the plan.

Once settled, I opened the fridge in our new room and finally placed the pineapple inside — half-eaten, but still riding along with us. After a full day of being carried around, it had found a place to rest. Half-eaten, half-forgotten — but still part of the story.

After a bit of rest, we finally headed out to Pantai Aloha, where we spent over three hours. The beach was warm and calm, a soft escape from the early chaos. We wandered slowly, took photos, and let the day find its rhythm. From there, we went to Taman Wisata Alam Angke Kapuk, a peaceful mangrove park. But we were running behind. We only had time to take a few photos and quietly admire the surroundings before moving on.

We returned to the hotel to freshen up before heading out once more — this time to Sarinah Mall. It was a comforting contrast: bright lights, familiar shops, cool air, and a slower pace. We walked around, exchanged money (note: always count your cash before leaving the counter), and let the evening ease us into a calmer headspace.

More than just fruit, the pineapple had become a symbol of the day. Something we carried, shared, and put aside — a simple reminder that even the smallest things can hold meaning when they follow you through a day filled with movement, missed sleep, and quietly memorable moments.

Day 2: The Pineapple Waits, the Plan Unfolds

Our second day in Jakarta began the same way the first had — with a midnight arrival. This time, it was our other friends landing at Soekarno-Hatta, just as exhausted and disoriented as we had been the night before.

Earlier that morning, seeing their exhaustion, I took the pineapple out again.

Yes, the same one I bought from the convenience store on Day 1. Still sealed, still chilled from the fridge. I offered it for breakfast — something light, sweet, and easy.
“Pineapple, anyone?” I asked, hoping it could finally find its moment.
There were polite smiles, amused looks, but everyone was still groggy and not quite ready to eat. So the pineapple went back into the fridge.

Though none of us were fully rested, there was a different kind of energy now — the kind that builds when something special is about to unfold. Because today, we had a secret.

One of our friends — the one who had quietly arrived a day earlier — had been staying in a separate hotel to keep the surprise intact. The plan was for him to pick up our group first, then head to Taman Mini Indonesia Indah (TMII), where the others, still unaware, were already on their way.

Of course, the morning didn’t go exactly as planned. His first ride canceled. The next took too long. Time slipped away from us again. But eventually, he pulled up to our hotel, we all got in, and headed to TMII — hearts thumping, hoping the surprise would still land.

When we finally arrived, the second group had already entered TMII. They were sitting on benches just near the entrance — chatting, resting, waiting for us to show up. We slipped through the gates casually, trying not to look suspicious, trying not to laugh.

And then, they saw him.

One by one, their heads turned. Confused expressions shifted into disbelief, followed by the kind of loud, chaotic reaction we had imagined all along.
“Wait, what?!”
“No way!”
“YOU’RE HERE?!”

It was a perfect storm of gasps, shouts, laughter, and stunned silence. We didn’t need perfect timing — we just needed that moment. And we got it.

Inside TMII, we walked through pavilions representing Indonesia’s provinces, peeking into miniature houses, gardens, and museums. It was sprawling and hot, but fascinating in its detail — a quiet, cultural introduction that asked us to slow down and look closer.

From TMII, we headed to Thamrin City Mall. Our mission: buy batik for the next day. We split up, called out across racks, and helped each other decide. Somehow, choosing clothes became another memory — more about laughing over patterns and helping each other than actually getting dressed.

Later that evening, we made our way to Sabang Night Market, expecting a vibrant food scene. But the place was quieter than we imagined. After a few aimless minutes, we ended up at Kopi Co Acung.

The place was packed. Loud. Joyful chaos. We squeezed into a table, ordered plates we hoped were right — guessing our way through the menu — and let the atmosphere pull us in. We had thought we were a noisy group, but this place humbled us. Conversations layered over one another. Dishes clattered. The air buzzed with life. Our dinner was rich, comforting, and made better by the soundscape around us — a kind of warm disorder that made you feel like you belonged.

Instead of booking a ride back, we walked. The streets narrowed. The lights softened. We moved through Jakarta’s quiet back alleys — slipping into a version of the city not made for tourists.

Almost every home had a television on, and nearly all of them were tuned into the same thing: football. Some families watched from inside, while others sat just outside their homes, gathered around their screens. We passed by in single file, occasionally and unintentionally blocking their view — and yet, no one seemed to mind. They smiled, nodded, and let us through with a kind of patient generosity.

The exciting twist? They were watching a Philippines vs. Indonesia game.

There we were — Filipinos walking through narrow Jakarta streets — unknowingly interrupting a national match. The irony wasn’t lost on us. It made us laugh quietly to ourselves, humbled and grateful for their kindness.

The scent of cigarette smoke lingered in the air — faint but constant, weaving through the alleys like part of the neighborhood itself. Scooters glided by, just close enough to brush our arms. And through all of it, the city felt personal, close, and strangely familiar — like we had stepped into something real and unfiltered, and been welcomed without question.

There was something grounding in that walk. Something honest. Something true.

After arriving back at the hotel, we decided to finally give our tired bodies the rest they deserved. We booked a home service massage — something local and comforting. As soon as the massage began, it was as if all the exhaustion from the past two days melted away. Muscles relaxed. Minds quieted. And for the first time since we arrived in Jakarta, we had a good night’s sleep. Our last night in the hotel, and finally, the rest we’d been waiting for.

And somewhere in the corner of the mini-fridge, the pineapple still waited — now quietly blending into the background of our stay. It had long lost its freshness, but we never quite let it go. We had carried it, offered it, tucked it away, and forgotten it — but never discarded it.

In a way, that pineapple was like this day: messy in parts, slightly delayed, sweet in unexpected ways, and richer because of who we shared it with. We didn’t always get it right, but we held on — to plans, to people, and to the little things we didn’t want to lose.

Day 3: Batik, Bitter Heat, and Bittersweet Goodbyes

We wore batik that day — our little tribute to the culture that had welcomed us for the past two days. It wasn’t just about blending in; it was about being present. Feeling part of where we were. Maybe even showing a little respect through fabric.

As usual, we went out late. But this time, it worked in our favor. We arrived at Pantjoran Tea House about 15 minutes before it opened. The doors were still shut, so we passed the time taking photos in our batik under the soft morning light, the streets still quiet and still.

When the restaurant finally opened, we stepped inside excitedly and placed our orders. We were a large group, so the food understandably took time — nearly an hour — but it didn’t feel like waiting. We filled the minutes with photos, laughter, and wandering around the place. And when the food came, it was worth every second. Flavorful, comforting, satisfying.

Then came a surprise — a birthday cake.

I hadn’t expected anything, and yet, there it was. A cake, a candle, and the effort of friends who had already given me so much on this trip. I was deeply moved. The gesture melted my heart more than the heat ever could. Thank you, friends — for thinking of me, for making it matter.

After our slow, joyful brunch, we walked through Chinatown toward Kota Tua, expecting something more vibrant, perhaps more lively — but it wasn’t quite what we imagined. Maybe we were already tired. Maybe the heat just dulled everything. The walk was quieter than usual, though not without complaints — little groans, sighs, the occasional “Are we there yet?” But we kept going anyway, half-laughing through the discomfort. We were already there, and the traffic was too heavy to hail a ride, so walking was still the best option. Or at least, the only one.

We stopped briefly at a nearby mall, mostly to escape the heat. Some of us grabbed Starbucks, and we caught our breath before heading back out into the sun.

Eventually, we made it to Kota Tua. There, we tried Café Batavia, ordered drinks for takeaway, and took in the scenery. We also looked around for souvenirs, but found little of what we had hoped for. So we decided to head to Monas next — and that’s when things got hectic again.

On the way to the train station, we stumbled upon a souvenir shop tucked in one of the corners we had missed earlier. Suddenly, we were shopping. A lot. Bags filled up quickly. Our hands got full. It was too much to carry onto a train comfortably, so we opted to book a Grab instead. But it was rush hour. The roads were heavy, and we had to split into two cars.

When we finally reached Monas, the heat was brutal. The walk from the drop-off point to the monument entrance was long and exposed, and it took everything out of us. Worse, the other group had been dropped off even farther away. It took time — too much time — to reunite.

By then, hunger had faded into exhaustion. I tried to inquire about how we could access the restaurant inside Monas, but it was packed. Long lines. No space. So we gave up on lunch altogether.

Still, we were there. So we took photos. Made the most of it. Smiled even as our bodies begged for rest. It was one of those travel moments where you’re not exactly enjoying, but you’re grateful anyway.

From there, we hopped on a bajaj to Jakarta Cathedral. The ride was breezy and nostalgic, a small relief from the day’s heaviness. At the cathedral, we took some photos and stepped inside to offer a quiet prayer. Despite all the movement, that moment of silence felt like a pause button — a brief, sacred calm in the middle of everything.

Back at the hotel, while we showered, packed, and prepared to check out, I took the pineapple from the fridge — still unopened, still waiting. We hadn’t eaten it, not really. We had carried it around, talked about it, joked about it, even offered it more than once. But in the end, it remained with us more as a presence than a snack.

Since part of our group was staying another day, I transferred it to their fridge.
“It still looks fine,” I said, half-laughing, half-hoping. Maybe someone would finally eat it. Or maybe it would stay there a little longer — like an inside joke, like a reminder of everything we didn’t plan but somehow still made space for.

That pineapple had become more than fruit. It was a companion to the chaos. A quiet constant in our whirlwind days. And now, as we zipped up our bags and touched up our makeup one last time, it stayed behind — waiting again, in someone else’s care.

We girls finished getting ready and rolled our luggage down.

Our last stop: Artesian Bar at The Langham Hotel.

It was our soft landing before departure. We sat there, letting the night settle in around us. No longer rushing. Just being. The glow of the bar lights, the city behind the glass, the laughter still in the air — all of it felt like closure.

Then, the time came.

The girls were airport-bound.

We didn’t say much, but everything was felt — the kind of goodbye that sits quietly in the chest and takes a while to sink in.

Bittersweet Goodbye

Just like the pineapple I bought from a convenience store near our hotel, not everything from this trip could come home with me.

I carried it with me on our first day of touring, planning to share it with friends — a small, sweet break between stops. But when we found out it wasn’t allowed inside the place we were visiting, I had to store it away. Still, I didn’t throw it out. Somehow, it stayed with me — back to the hotel, across busy days of exploring — always untouched, but never forgotten.

By the last day, it was still there. Unconsumed, yet full of meaning.

Now, every time I see a pineapple, I remember that quiet detail. It stayed with me the whole trip, just like the memories — carried around, sometimes overlooked, but never really left behind.

Jakarta was like that pineapple: vibrant, unexpected, and still with me, even after I had to let it go.

Epilogue: What Stayed

Travel has a way of revealing things you didn’t plan to find.

We set off expecting fun, photos, and food — and we got all of that. But in between the late check-ins, canceled rides, and laughter echoing in noisy hotel rooms, some moments quietly stayed.

It wasn’t always smooth. We were often tired, slightly lost, or racing the clock. But somehow, we kept moving forward — together.

And somewhere between the street stalls of Sabang and the soft lights of a bar on our last night, I realized: it wasn’t just about the places we saw, but how we held space for each other amid the messiness. That even when plans shifted, even when we missed things, we were still there. We still showed up, for each other, for the trip, for the moment.

The pineapple didn’t make it home. But the stories did. The laughter did. The reminders did — of warmth, spontaneity, and how beautiful it is to simply be part of something shared.

Some souvenirs aren’t bought. They’re carried quietly, like this one.