Monday, November 29, 2010

The Beaches of North Goa


After everyone in our little group recovered from their ailments in beautiful Palolem, we all hopped in a taxi and took a trip 2.5 hours to Anjuna, in North Goa.  We have spent the last five nights literally beach hopping from one town to another, never sleeping in the same place twice.  Every Wednesday, Anjuna is home to an enormous flea market where you can find anything Indian “souvenier-ish” that you could possibly dream of taking home with you.  It was marked as a “must not miss” in our Lonely Planet (it is simply referred to as the LP on the travel circuit), and it is one of the events that Missy and I have been talking about since our plane ride to India.  Both of us have an appreciation for antiques and digging through bins of junk for that one golden gem, so we had looked forward to the flea market with great anticipation.  The place was another world.  Anjuna, as it turns out, is home to people I like to call “real hippies”.  The Westerners that have planted roots in Anjuna are people who were hippies in the ‘60s.  It’s like trying to picture your parents running around in gypsy skirts and pigtails, selling handmade quilted vests.  The flea market was a ball of a time; we had the opportunity to listen to live music as the sun went down over the Arabian Sea, dig through fairly inexpensive trinkets, and admire old Indian artifacts.  I was definitely in my element at the flea market, but as for the rest of Anjuna, the vibe really threw me off.  Anjuna is lined with beach shack restaurants that play trance music and flash red and white lights that remind me of a haunted house on Halloween.  I would not know this for a fact, but it seems one cannot truly enjoy the beach bars and restaurants here, unless you partake in large amounts of illegal drug activity.  And, judging from the offers we received by simply strolling down the beach, I do not think that would have been difficult to achieve.  I thought I had seen it all in India, but Anjuna beach offered something else.  The combination of wealthy Indian tourists, Westerners, cows, goats, wild dogs, and then weird hippy trance parties was a little too much for Michelle, Missy, and I after our glorious time in peaceful Palolem.  So, in the morning, we woke up, jammed our belongings in our backpacks, and headed for Baga Beach.

We had heard mixed reviews from other travelers about Baga Beach.  Some told us to avoid it all together as it was so crowded that you could literally not see the sand; and others proclaimed it an essential stop for a fun night out.  To be honest, we hadn’t been “out” since sharing beers with our train station friends in Darjeeling.  What better place to spend American Thanksgiving!?  We decided to honor the American holiday by spending our day eating our way through Baga.  In all reality, this really is not that different than any other day, but today we had an excuse to be especially excited about the prospect of mealtime.  We started at a delightful place called Lilla’s CafĂ©, where for breakfast we consumed sandwiches, slushes, and an assortment of cakes.  After two hours of lingering around the baked goods counter, we decided to head out and see what the infamous Baga beach really had to offer.  DEAR GOD.  It was like Miami on steroids, minus Cubans, plus Indians.  There were thousands of Indian tourists crammed into any space that was possible to fit a body.  We were immediately swarmed by people offering us beach chairs, boat rides, free beer, anything to get us to spend money at their beach shack as opposed to the other four thousand.  The ten minutes we spent on the surface of Baga beach was more than enough for all of us.  So, what did we do instead?  We went back to our hotel, put on our swimsuits, and slipped undetected into the pool area at the hotel across the way from where we were staying.  As our families at home were gathering around candlelit dinners, eating turkey, and guzzling copious amounts of wine, the three of us illegally confiscated the best seats available at the nicest pool on the block.  (It should be noted, that with Michelle’s arrival, also came a new vigor and mentality for Missy and I.  We were no longer budget travelers, but spoiled vacationers.)  After wasting the day away like true vagabonds, we made our way to another dining facility for our second round of Thanksgiving deserts.  As we gracefully shoved crepes with ice cream into our mouths, we made an executive decision to get dressed up, go to a nice dinner, and then see what the Baga nightlife was all about.  You cannot possibly understand what a treat this was for Missy and I.  We have literally been wearing the same four things every day for 2.5 months.  I did not even know myself with jewelry around my neck and mascara on my eyelashes.  Missy kept saying, “I don’t even recognize you!”  (That does not say much for my all-natural look.)  Our Thanksgiving dinner was nothing short of fabulous.  We headed to a beautiful restaurant called J &K’s, where we closed the place down with two bottles of red wine and fifteen courses of food.  The closest I could come to my mom’s Thanksgiving dinner was grilled pomfret fish and mashed potatoes.  It wasn’t turkey, but it was scrumptious.  Before our meal, we all went around the table to share what we were thankful for in 2010, and then we toasted to a healthy and happy 2011.  Although I missed my family immensely, it was a love-filled and happy Thanksgiving Day, thanks to two indescribably wonderful friends.  We ended our night in Baga’s “clubbing district”, where we spent a total of 45 minutes dancing to the lyrical genius of Miley Cyrus and Justin Beiber; a perfect end to a perfect Thanksgiving.

Although we had an epic 24 hours in Baga, we were ready to move on.  The next stop on our North Goa beach tour was in the town of Candolim.  Michelle decided that for her last evening with us, she wanted to treat the group to a fancy hotel room.  Her hotel of choice was tucked into a quiet neighborhood, ten minutes from the beach, and it looked and felt like a room from an old French movie.  The bathroom in our suite was larger than most of the hostels Missy and I have stayed in on this trip.  In fact, the bathtub in the bathroom was larger than most of the rooms we have stayed in on this trip.  Jackpot!  We spent the morning checking out the upscale surroundings in the neighborhood.  We made our way towards the beach, where we stumbled upon the fancy Taj Resort.  Since we had already made a hobby out of using the amenities at hotels in which we were not staying, we decided to go in and have a peek.  We had to fill out paperwork and have our bags checked just to get through the main gate.  I made a beeline for the spa, where I spoiled myself by getting a $30 haircut and head massage.  Makeup, fancy hotels, and spa treatments…I really do not know who I have become in Goa.  We spent much of the rest of the afternoon lounging in our fancy French style room, reading books, playing with the free Wifi, and napping.  We ended our day with a taxi trip to the town of Old Goa, a city which in its hay day, had been compared to prominent cities like Lisbon.  For some reason, Missy had high expectations for Old Goa; expecting it to be a sort of Charleston nestled in the South of India.  It was sad to see the poor state that it is in now.  Besides two churches and a small museum, there is not a lot to be seen in Old Goa; much to Missy’s disappointment.  The evening ended with the three of us lounging in our pajamas in our hotel room, watching the VH1 special featuring J-Lo’s personal narrative about her career.  We were all so engrossed with the story of J-Lo’s life, that someone could have easily entered our room, walked directly in front of the television, and stolen all of our belongings.  We almost ate our dinner off the floor of our hotel room so that we could finish the program, but we realized how ridiculous that would be of us; plus, we all know she marries Marc Anthony and has weird looking twin babies.  

Our last day with Michelle was spent parked on a beach with books in hand.  It was such a treat having Michelle with us for our week in Goa; she was a splendid traveling companion and she brought out the classiness in us that we forgot existed.  We will miss her immensely for the remainder of the trip.  Now, I know most of my blog posts thus far contain some sort of description about horrific Indian transportation.  But, the encounter I am about to describe has definitely been our worst.  I swear.  On our last day in Candolim, and exactly one hour before our sleeper train was scheduled to depart for Kerala, we decided to check what station our train was actually leaving from.  We assumed, in true Missy and Alysa fashion, that our train would depart from the closest station to us in North Goa.  This was, of course, not the case.  In a frantic wave of nonsensical movements, we managed to flag down a taxi driver, explain to him in our best Hinglish that our train was leaving from South Goa in exactly one hour, and then demand from him whether or not we could possibly make it.  One phone call later, and with two vehicle changes, Missy and I found ourselves sitting in the fastest car in India.  Our driver claimed that he could get us to our station in 45 minutes; a trip that had taken us 90 minutes just four days earlier.  I asked him if his seatbelts might actually work for once, but he burst into a cackle of laughter.  During the ride, my hands went numb, and I was very close to writing a note to my loved ones, containing my final thoughts of this life, and taping it to my body.  On several occasions, Missy and I closed our eyes, grabbed hold of the door handles, and braced for a head on collision.  The trip was truly horrific, but the man did get us to the train with ten minutes to spare; which we used to buy Kit-Kat bars from a local vendor.  In hindsight, we definitely should not have tried to make the train.  Lesson learned.  We are off to spend ten days in beautiful Kerala.  Only two weeks left on our Indian adventure…

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