Balconies and motorbikes in Goa

These are the colors I can see: bright green, shining yellow, whitewash white, dusty red, and spotless blue. That's what Goa looks like -- or at least it's the view from the balcony of my room here. Z and I are staying on the top floor of a small house just a pathway's walk from the beach. Once we walk down that path, we come to the beachside restaurant (specialties: freshly caught fish, fruit juice and, strangely enough, noodles) and to the small collection of beach chairs that look out on the white sand and the perfect blue-green ocean.

If we don't want to look at the ocean, we can enjoy the fantastic collection of tourists. They come in all shapes, sizes, languages, and swimming suit preferences. And if even the tourist-watching fails to entertain, there's always the possibility that Z may take me for a joyride on the back of his rented motorbike. Yesterday we drove out through the fields and small towns, all the way to the backwaters and the villages of our part of Goa. We flew past pristine Portuguese churches and rows of shops selling elaborately-designed fabrics to foreigners, and in the evening, we drove to the almost-deserted beach just north of Colva to watch the sunset. Every night, we sit with my parents for hours at some beachside restaurant or other, consuming long dinners of fresh fish and vegetables, talking and laughing late into the dark when the stars have come out and already proceeded across the sky in arcs.

So that's Goa. The next few days may bring a trip to Gokarna (literally, "cow's ear") to soak up a very different beach scene, this one populated by Israelis and Hindu pilgrims. After that, it's down to Kerala for the boat rides and spice markets, and all of the restaurants there that make my mother so happy: it wouldn't be a family vacation if we didn't return to Kerala at least for a day or two.