I required about nine seconds to fall under the island's spell. Its appeal flows not so much from the gorgeous backdrop of cloud-shrouded volcanoes and black and white beaches but from the divinity that infuses every action of the Balinese. These are peace-loving people who have been squashed, throughout history, by the Javanese, the Dutch, and the Japanese—and are now shoehorned into Indonesia, which took control of the archipelago from the Dutch in 1950—while still managing to develop their unique culture.

Gods are everywhere, the Balinese believe, so offerings—small green coconut-leaf trays cradling flower petals, brightly dyed cooked rice, even a cigarette or some coffee—are arrayed everywhere. Many Balinese think rituals like this have helped them heal from the attacks. (On an island where tourism drives as much as two-thirds of the economy, getting on with life is imperative to both business and mental health.) Somehow these charming tableaus contributed to my sense of security, too, and the saturated-with-spirituality culture held out the tantalizing promise of a vacation that would rejuvenate the soul.

I divided my time between two Four Seasons resorts: Jimbaran Bay, on the southeast coast, and Sayan, west of Ubud, the cultural capital. Jimbaran Bay is bigger, beachy, and especially popular among Mexican honeymooners. Sayan, favored by the Japanese, is a postmodern architectural wonder clinging to a hillside above the Ayung River. The resorts were 83 percent occupied in September, compared with 56 percent in September 2003—an especially impressive figure given the entry of luxury competitors like Uma Ubud, a new boutique hotel. At both resorts, days quickly fill up with Indonesian cooking classes, Balinese massage at the spa, and rafting or surfing excursions.

Beyond these pleasures, my trip's transcendent experience was a karma-cleansing ceremony performed at sunset on the beach at Tanah Lot, one of Bali's holiest temples, on my last night on the island. I sat cross-legged in my sarong on the dark sand, meditating with Indian Ocean waves in the background. Then a soft-spoken priest dressed in white and gold performed a prayerful ceremony that began with my sipping and spitting out holy water, continued with the application of rice and flower petals to my forehead, and ended with the tying of a white string around my right wrist, signaling my karmic restoration. It was touching and mysterious and strangely empowering.

I didn't want to leave—a far cry, of course, from not wanting to go in the first place. How did I get so comfortable? Altered perception brought on by instinct, not intellect, perhaps. Since the bombings, the larger hotels have established checkpoints with security guards. It's an odd sensation to pull up in a Land Cruiser at the Four Seasons and be greeted by exceedingly polite, uniformed men who use mirrors to check the undersides of the vehicle for bombs. I can't say how foolproof this routine is, but it's very visible and, if nothing else, fosters a sense of security. And sometimes it's just about the feeling.