Intrepid Dreams

Benaulim Beach, Goa

This morning, after a refreshing swim in the sea and a long walk on the beach, I returned to my hotel and asked to have the hot water turned on in my room for a shower. Pratap, the manager, and a few of the waiters were distracted. "What's going on?" I asked. "The third test match between India and Pakistan," I was told. (I think it's cricket.) A radio was turned on; everyone was very excited. Surej, the headwaiter, explained that Gangooley is not out for 200 runs. "Oh," I said, not having a clue of what he was talking about. "How nice."

While there is a perfectly good shower-head protruding from the wall in my spacious tiled bathroom I prefer to take an Indian shower: From a spigot lower down on the wall I fill a large bucket with warm water, now diverted to the pipes to my room, which I ladle up with a small plastic pitcher and pour over my body, bending, ladling, splashing myself again and again with total abandon.

I shampoo my hair, rinse and condition it, and continue the ritual of scooping up and splashing fresh warm water over myself. The used water runs down into a drain in the floor. In my opinion this way of washing is so much more sensual and satisfying than standing still under a shower―and, for those who care about conservation, wastes no unnecessary water.

After my shower I discovered the electricity had been cut, a regular occurrence in India, arbitrary, without warning, for no known reasons. The power was out for about an hour, but I didn't mind; I'm used to it; I knew it would come back eventually. While I dressed I thought about what I want for lunch.

Oh, the choices are so rich and varied. My favorite dish lately is seafood biryani, which is one of the chefs many masterpieces, but I'm also tempted by fried calamari and chips, or chicken tandoori with boiled vegetables and salad, but fish tikka is also an option, or vegetable masala with buttered garlic naan... My only problem is deciding what to eat.

Only a couple of days left before my return home and I'm soaking it all in, enjoying every blessed moment. Life is so sweet here; this place is paradise, un-crowded, unspoiled, clean air, clean sea, perfect weather, good people, excellent food; there is time to think, read, go for a walk, stare at the sea, talk to strangers, do nothing at all.

The tourists I meet here are the sort that go out of their way to find out-of-the way places; I've met people who will be my friends forever, travelers like me, dreamers, intrepid wanderers: a young couple from Toronto traveling around the world, a couple from Brisbane, a Swiss family, Finns, Italians, English―special people with fascinating stories who have stumbled across this place and, like me, return again and again.

A lady from South Africa told me she has brought fifty pairs of underpants with her in order not to have to wash them; she throws out a pair a day. All I could think of were the young Indian room-boys who empty her trash bin each day; imagining them fondling her knickers, smelling, touching, admiring, trying them on…

Her boyfriend, an Australian, is a car collector who keeps his vintage Morgans in his bedroom. Some people come here to do nothing more than drink the cheap booze of Goa, a German man sits on a beach chair all day doing Soduku puzzles, a Danish fellow is writing a book, an English couple have left everything behind and become nomads, a Scottish bartender is here to get healthy, an Irish lady has run away from her husband, a middle-aged French lady eyes young Indian men on the beach…

I met a handsome Swedish sea captain, with tattoos of ships on his arms, who invited me out to dinner the other night. After our delicious meal we strolled down the beach to a shack where we had drinks under the stars and listened to live music performed by a group of young Goans who played like the Beatles. The captain has invited me to visit him in Stockholm, which I think I will do. I wonder if he'll kiss me before I leave.

I've read a dozen books on this journey, including two extraordinary ones by Nobel Prize winner, Orhan Pamuk, who writes brilliantly about Turkey, and now I'm dreaming about Istanbul. I want to exchange my apartment in West Hollywood for one in Istanbul for at least a couple of months, visit the country, learn Turkish, meet people, take my time, write something worthwhile... Maybe after I visit the Captain in Stockholm I'll fly down to Turkey… then a stopover in Brisbane on my way back to Goa…

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p.s. billy says the tabla player didn't smile because sitting in the lotus position his legs had fallen asleep.

some have asked how i deal with my lack of hair? i use kohl and pencil black lines around my eyes and pretend i want my hair like that.

home tomorrow!