"If possible," Riri continued, "I want to talk to people who actually live within the palace grounds. Not just guides or ticket officers, but those who were born and raised under that culture."
Romo nodded. "Good. We can explore a different perspective—how culture is passed down, preserved, and maybe... also compromised with the times."
Marlon added, "We can bring questions from simple ones to existential, like: is it still relevant to live by traditional customs in this highly digital era?"
Riri smiled. "But slowly, okay? We shouldn't just ask, 'What is the meaning of life according to a palace servant?' or else we'll get kicked out."
The three of them chuckled softly.
The air in the room began to calm. Outside, the city seemed to rest too. Only the occasional motorcycle and the ticking of the wall clock witnessed their plans for the next day.
A new day awaited, and the Palace was ready to welcome them with centuries-old wisdom.
That morning, Jogja greeted them again with gentle simplicity. The sky was clear, like a blank sheet of paper waiting to be written on. The air was slightly humid, but not harsh. The leaves of the trembesi trees swayed slowly, as if greeting anyone passing underneath.
"The morning air here feels like... the city's apology," Marlon said, taking a deep breath. "So peaceful, it makes you forget you once lived in a rush."
Riri chuckled softly, "Maybe you're just being dramatic because you didn't have breakfast."
"We're going to the Palace, Sir," Romo said politely as they climbed into a becak. The driver nodded and pedaled slowly, as if he knew his passengers needed silence more than speed.
"Every city has a heart," Marlon said, staring straight ahead. "And I think, for Jogja... its heart is here. At the Palace."
"And this heart is still beating, not just displayed," added Riri.
At last, the grand gate of the Palace came into view—Gapura Gladhag Pangurakan, with pristine white walls and classic Javanese carvings. Above it, dark blue and gold ornaments formed a royal emblem that was majestic but not intimidating. Two guardian statues stood on each side of the gate, silent yet firm, as if still carrying out their duties from centuries ago.
Passing through the gate, they stepped into a shaded area. The road changed into small stones and packed earth. On both sides, symmetrical Javanese architectural buildings stood—the wide joglo roofs, large wooden pillars carved delicately, and polished cement floors that felt cool to bare feet.
The moment they entered, the atmosphere changed instantly. It was as if they hadn't just moved places, but moved through time.
The inner courtyard stretched wide, covered with soft white sand like powdered sugar. A stone path ran through the middle, leading to the main Palace building with typical Javanese architecture: teak wooden pillars finely carved, a tiered tajug tumpang roof, and a cold marble floor reflecting the morning sunlight.
"This... is not just a residence," Riri said softly, her eyes scanning around. "It's a small world with a different perspective." She whispered, "This place doesn't shout history, but you can feel the breath of the past from every corner."
In the main courtyard stood Pendopo Bangsal Kencana, a large wall-less pavilion supported by beautifully carved teak pillars, with a layered roof and golden ornaments. In the center of the pendopo was a small stage commonly used for classical dance and gamelan performances.
In the distance, the soft sound of Javanese instruments played slowly. A palace servant was sweeping gently, dressed in traditional uniform: batik cloth wiru, beskap jacket, and blangkon. His face was calm, his movements rhythmic, as if the sweeping was part of a long prayer.
"Look," Marlon said, pointing, "these people move in their own rhythm. No one is in a rush, but everything is certain." He added, "It's like... a world living on its own time. Unaffected by outside noise."
Romo said, "Because that's Javanese philosophy. 'Alon-alon asal kelakon.' Slowly, but surely. Not hurried, but not stopping either."
Around the main building were smaller buildings: open pavilions with gamelan instruments, rooms for paintings and heirlooms, and a small museum holding collections of ceramics, spears, and traditional clothes. The distant cooing of turtle doves came from cages hanging on the terrace.
At the edge of the courtyard stood a large banyan tree guarding the entire complex. Its trunk was thick, leaves lush, roots hanging down to touch the ground like prayers that never cease.
"This tree is like the heart of this place," Romo whispered.
"A symbol of balance," Riri replied. "Roots going down, branches reaching up. Like a person living by values."
To the right, they saw the pendopo where dance practice was held. Several young women were practicing classical dance with slow, meaningful movements, accompanied by gentle gamelan music. In the distance, an old man sat on a rattan mat watching.
"Every movement has a name, philosophy, and meaning," Romo said quietly. "Dance is not just to be watched, but to be contemplated."
"So this is a home, cultural center, spiritual place, and museum... all in one," Marlon murmured. "Like... a human body. There's a heart, a head, hands, but still one whole."
Riri added, "And each part has its own rhythm. But they don't collide."
To the west was the Batik Museum and the Royal Carriages. Several old gilded carriages were displayed inside a large glass room, with intricate carvings reflecting the status and glory of past kings. Meanwhile, to the east were smaller rooms with portraits of previous Sultans, complete with historical notes.
Riri said, "Every Sultan seems to have their own character. But what I see... they all look gentle. Full of dignity, not harsh power."
Marlon said, "And that dignity still resonates today. Even from the palace servants."
They continued walking, passing a small garden behind the main building. There was a lotus pond, some sapodilla trees, and stone benches for people to sit and reflect. A small child ran chasing butterflies, followed by his mother's quiet laughter.
Romo said, "Imagine... generations change, eras shift, but this place remains a space reminding us that life is not just about speed, but balance."
Marlon said, "This isn't a dead museum. It's... a big house still breathing."
The three of them sat on a long bench near the pond, allowing themselves a moment of silence. A gentle breeze passed by, carrying the scent of old wood and damp earth. Somewhere in the distance, a small bell rang, probably a signal marking a certain time in the palace servants' activities.
Riri said, "When we go back to Bandung tomorrow, I'm definitely going to miss this atmosphere."
Marlon said, "Me too. But... more than that, I'll miss the slow pace we experienced here."
Romo said, "And hopefully, we can take that slow pace with us. Because maybe... that's what makes Jogja special."
They walked toward the pendopo and sat on one of the wooden benches by its edge, letting the calmness settle quietly in their hearts. No loud noises, no pressing ambitions. Just slow footsteps, light smiles from the palace servants, and a kind of peace that can't be explained but can be felt.
"We need to talk to the people here," Romo said, writing something in his small notebook.
"Yes," Marlon replied, "I want to know... how they maintain all of this. Not just the buildings, but their spirit."
Riri gazed at the large banyan tree. "And maybe... we can also learn how to take care of ourselves."
The sun was rising higher, turning the soft morning light into warm rays touching the Keraton's marble tiles. Under one of the small pavilions, Marlon, Riri, and Romo saw a palace servant arranging ylang-ylang flowers into a brass container. His movements were slow but steady, as if following his breath.
Marlon glanced at Romo, signaling him. Romo responded with a slight nod.
The three of them approached slowly.
"Excuse me..." Romo greeted politely, bowing slightly.
The servant looked up. The elderly man with a gentle smile immediately replied, "Please, what can I help you with?"
"We're from Bandung, sir..." Riri continued softly, "conducting research on social life and morality in the community... We're trying to understand how values like goodness and wrongdoing are applied in everyday life."
The man didn't answer immediately. He finished arranging the flowers, placed them on a tray, then slowly sat cross-legged on a pandan mat in the corner of the pavilion.
"Sit first," he said, pointing to a spot opposite him. "Let's talk here. But forgive me if I'm not as eloquent as people from the university."
Marlon sat cross-legged. "That's exactly what we're looking for, sir. Not theories... but reality."
Riri added, "We want to know how people here—especially palace servants—live their lives with values like sincerity, patience, and devotion... in a world that's getting faster and noisier."
The servant chuckled softly, "Wow, that's a heavy question for a midday who hasn't eaten lunch yet."
They laughed along, the atmosphere warming, losing its awkwardness.
"My name is Karto. I've been a palace servant since I was thirty. Now I'm just past fifty," he said, sipping tea from a clay cup. "If you're truly serious about learning, come by my house this afternoon. It's behind the Keraton, not far. Talking here is tricky because of all the people passing by."
"That would be great, Pak Karto," Marlon said enthusiastically. "We didn't expect to meet a palace servant willing to share his story."
Pak Karto smiled softly, his eyes as calm as dew.
"I can't tell you everything. But whatever I know, I'll share. Maybe you'll find something on your own from our conversation. Just don't rush to look for it."
Riri glanced at Marlon and Romo, then nodded.
"Then, see you this afternoon, sir?"
"See you this afternoon. Take the alley beside the town square, go in a bit. Ask people about Pak Karto's house—the one who guards the gamelan pavilion. They'll know."
Romo stood and pressed his hands together in front of his chest. "Thank you, sir. We really appreciate this."
Pak Karto returned the gesture. "You're welcome. Sometimes, a journey comes when you're not looking for it."
They left the pavilion slowly. Yet their steps felt lighter, as if a new door had just opened amid the silence of the old city.
After bidding farewell to Pak Karto at the Keraton pavilion, the sun had climbed, spreading the soft heat typical of Jogja's midday. Their stomachs began to protest with small noises that couldn't be ignored.
They walked a short distance from the square, then entered a simple, shady stall sheltered by an old sapodilla tree. The menu board read: Gudeg Mang Joyo – Since 1983.
Riri sat down first, fanning herself with a folding fan.
"This is one of the places I've been looking forward to since Bandung," she said excitedly.
Marlon dropped into a plastic chair with a puzzled look. "But why is the food here so sweet? I mean, it's like dessert taken seriously as the main course."
Romo chuckled, "You're just realizing that?"
Marlon took a spoonful of gudeg and tasted it.
"Hm. Imagine this—this is gudeg... sweet. The chicken is cooked sweet too. The spicy beef skin stew is a bit hot, but also sweet. Only the rice is neutral. It's like eating rice with a spiced sponge cake."
Riri joined in, scooping her portion.
"I've been thinking the same. In Bandung or Banten, food is salty and savory. In Jakarta, there's still some spiciness. But the further east you go, the sweeter it gets, right?"
Romo leaned back on the wooden chair. "That's actually an anthropological question. It might be due to geography, agricultural culture, or maybe... a historically formed 'taste politics.'"
Marlon raised an eyebrow. "Taste politics?"
"Hmm." Romo nodded slightly. "Think about it. In Central Java, especially Jogja, there were many kingdoms. Sweet food might be associated with luxury. Sugar and sugarcane weren't cheap ingredients back then. So when common people could make sweet dishes, it was like a way of 'sharing the luxury,' their own version."
Riri chewed slowly. "It could also be because of the refined Javanese culture. The strong is subdued, the spicy restrained. The food reflects the soul of the society."
Marlon took another bite of the spicy beef skin stew, pondering. "But this is interesting. Let's make a flavor map."
He grabbed a tissue and jotted down with a pen:
Sumatra: crazy spicyJakarta-Banten: salty-savoryWest Java: balanced, lots of fermentationCentral Java: gentle sweetEast Java: sweet-savory with a bit of spiceBali: savory and fragrantSulawesi & Eastern regions: back to spicy!
Riri looked at the notes and giggled.
"Indonesia's flavor map... according to Marlon Rumi's stomach."
Romo laughed along. "But it's interesting. The flavor patterns could reflect the mindset of the people. In the West, it's strong, straightforward, full of chili. The further east you go, the gentler, more structured, and complex the flavors become."
"Like politics," Marlon joked.
"How come?" Riri asked, frowning.
"Yeah. There's also a 'politics of taste.' In Jakarta: blunt and direct. In Bandung: first a subtle jab, then criticism. In Jogja: silent, but it sticks."
The three of them laughed.
Romo nodded while taking his last spoonful of gudeg. "So... should we study the history of sugar?"
Marlon answered quickly, "If we can do it while eating es dawet, then let's go for it."
They had finished lunch. Plates with leftover sambal krecek and gudeg broth were being cleared by the stall owner, who smiled warmly. The atmosphere was still cool; a small sapodilla tree above them sheltered them from the increasingly hot midday sun.
Marlon leaned back in his chair and looked up at the sky visible through the leaves.
"Hey... something just crossed my mind," he said softly but caught their attention. "Could the sweetness in Central and East Javanese food be related to the Dutch?"
Riri turned her head. "What do you mean?"
"Well, the Dutch used to plant tons of sugarcane here. Especially during the forced cultivation era, if I'm not mistaken. Sugarcane was one of the main crops that people were forced to grow."
Romo nodded, growing interested. "Yeah, I read about that. Around the 19th century, during the Cultuurstelsel system, the locals were ordered to grow sugarcane, coffee, indigo... but sugarcane was indeed dominant in East and Central Java."
"That's it," Marlon continued, pointing around like a sudden history professor. "If sugarcane is abundant, it will eventually influence food culture. Sugar becomes cheap or at least part of everyday life. Sweetness ends up in all kinds of dishes, from savory to snacks."
Riri nodded slowly. "Makes sense. Like... abundant resources shape culture. Just like in Sulawesi, where lots of fish means fish dishes are common. In Padang, abundant spices make the food rich in flavor."
"But it's also ironic," Romo said, staring blankly for a moment. "Sugarcane that used to symbolize exploitation and suffering now shapes identity and culinary culture."
Marlon smirked slightly. "Like many things in history. Culture can grow from wounds. Even from colonialism, gudeg can emerge."
Riri sighed but smiled faintly. "Sweet, but bitter."
Romo looked toward the street. A horse-drawn carriage passed slowly, jingling its small bell.
"Jogja is indeed a peaceful city, but its history isn't as simple as the taste of gudeg."
Marlon nodded. "Agreed. And sometimes, from something as trivial as food flavor, we can trace long trails of history, economy, and national wounds."
Riri stood up and grabbed her bag. "Let's get ready. This afternoon, we're going to Pak Karto's house, right?"
"Yeah," Marlon replied, "Who knows, maybe we'll get a sweeter story from behind the palace... or maybe one more bitter than this gudeg."
They walked again along the small streets around the palace, continuing their conversation that never lost its flavor.
Afternoon crept slowly; the sunlight tilted westward, leaving a golden glow in Jogja's sky. The streets near the palace felt quieter, more intimate. Narrow alleys with brick walls and potted plants in old buckets revealed everyday life—simple, yet warm.
Marlon glanced at his phone's notes. "Pak Karto said his house is behind the village hall, the second alley from the soto stall that operates in the afternoon."
"This one?" Riri pointed at a narrow alley barely wide enough for two motorcycles to pass.
"Yeah, let's just go in. We'll ask the neighbors," Romo answered, hesitant but leading the way.
As they entered the alley, they passed an old man watering plants.
"Excuse me, Sir," Romo greeted politely. "Can I ask where Pak Karto, the palace attendant who lives behind the palace, is?"
"Oh, Pak Karto…" The man smiled. "His house is the dark green one with a mango tree in front. Not far. Don't hesitate, just go in. He's used to guests."
"Thank you, Sir," Riri said, bowing slightly.
They walked further down the alley until they found the house—a simple dark green house with wide wooden windows and a rattan chair on the porch. The mango tree stood firmly in front, its leaves lush and fruits still young.
As they approached, the door slowly opened.
"Oh, you're the guests from this morning?" Pak Karto greeted warmly. He wore a long-sleeved striped shirt and a batik sarong. "Please, please come in."
They entered a simple but clean living room. The scent of wood, jasmine flowers, and tea gently filled the air. On the round wooden table, small cups of wedang secang and plates of colorful geplak sweets were served.
"Wow, treated like honored guests," Marlon joked as he sat down.
"This is wedang secang, typical of Jogja. Usually served to soothe the heart and body after a tiring walk," Pak Karto explained as he poured drinks for each of them.
Riri tasted a bit and smiled. "The warmth is different. There's cinnamon, ginger, and... what's this? Cardamom?"
Pak Karto chuckled. "Yes, all of them. A recipe passed down from ancestors."
Romo nodded politely. "Thank you very much, Sir. We feel truly honored."
"Oh, I'm the one who's happy. When will young people come here again, wanting to learn about culture and history from the palace attendants' perspective," Pak Karto said as he sat cross-legged facing them.
Marlon smiled, looking at his two friends. "Pak Karto, if you don't mind, we'd like to have a long talk tonight. About Jogja, the palace, the life behind this calm city."
Pak Karto looked at them one by one. "Of course, kids. But remember, Jogja's story is like batik—its lines aren't always straight, its colors not always bright. But from that, beauty can emerge."
They all nodded slowly, in unison, as if understanding that tonight, what they would hear was not just a story... but a legacy of the soul.