Palolem, Goa: Beach and Food

Palolem is a little capsule, buffered from the rest of India. Not all Goa is like this. I've been on beaches where wearing a bikini would have been a death wish. Not here, though. The Russian grannies and the French students lie in the sun in their suits. Few look twice—why should they?—except a group of young Indians who have come especially to gawk. They keep their distance, though.

The beach is lined with hotels and restaurants from one edge of the sandy crescent to the other. One hotel is much the same as the other. Cracked tile, a bit of mildew, sandy tiles, some mosquito net. Nothing fancy, but at the beach you don't need much. A roof to keep the sun off and someone to bring cold drinks seems enough.

The restaurants are also much the same. They serve grilled fish, fresh, but a little overcooked, alongside a few Goan dishes. I try ambotik, xacutti, vindaloo, and Goan sausage. They are good enough for me, but a Goan auntie would likely complain.

Each table comes with its own dog to provide company, and, if needed, clean up any scraps that fall. The morning dog rivalry resumes after dark. One evening as we sip aperitif, a smallish white dog comes trotting along, following a plump, unhappy lady. All the dogs around us rise up, barking, even snarling, until the intruder has run away. Our dog for the evening is a female, a mother. She barks briefly, for form's sake, it seems, and then lies down to sleep on our toes. We debate giving her a bit of fish, but fear the consequences of bones. And where are the cats? Surely with this much fish about, cats should be prowling?

Later I find them, skinny and sand-colored, above our heads, living on the roofs. They must jump down once in while to scavenge, but they are very quick. In the week I am there, I never see one on the ground.

Palolem, Goa: Morning

I walk early in the morning, leaving my room just before dawn. By six thirty, the sky is just light and the air is still cool enough that I am glad to be wearing sleeves. The beach is far from empty, though. Hung-over tourists trudge across the sand, regretting the boat trips they booked the day before. Boatmen cast about for more passengers. Women with men's shirts over their saris pick up bottles and smooth the sand in front of their hotels. It's the hour of the dogs, who wake and stretch, greet their favorite friends, and bark at the non grata. Further down the beach, a group of North Indian men do calisthenics in preparation for a football game, enjoying an hour of freedom before their long workday. The waves lap closer, tickling my toes, wetting my cuffs. Everything is covered with sand, and no one seems to mind.

Picturing India: The Darjeeling Limited

The Grand Budapest Hotel's elegiac nostalgia left me wanting more. Cue The Darjeeling Limited, Wes Anderson's “precious” 2007 release, which is not a film about India. It is American. The main characters are so self-centered, yet they manage, by the end, to shed their baggage and love each other. The fairy-tale setting is hardly needed. It's beautiful, though. I love to watch the opening sequence. It's unreal, just off-kilter enough to make us believe it might be true, and then remind us that it isn't. Look past Bill Murray’s grandfatherly worry and mad dash at the still, clean, imaginary India. The sun-bleached buildings, the colors of the clothes are right. Yet there are no hooting buses, no “Horn OK Please” trucks, no crowds, at least not by Indian standards. The immaculate cream-colored bullock stands stock-still. There is no scrap of trash in the gutters, Murray's taxi races past no open sewer. The railway station — spotless. But it’s almost India. It's a film that lets you dream about how India could be, if only.

Palolem, Goa: Arrival

The flight from Banaglore arrives at little old Dabolim Airport just before dusk. The baggage claim area is disorganized, ill-suited for a very mixed crowd hoping for relaxation. People mill about, uncertain where, or if, their luggage will appear. Mine does, but it seems others on my flight are not so lucky.

I negotiate a ride from the pre-paid taxi window in the baggage claim area, and a driver appears. I follow his plaid back, struggling to keep up, jostled by slender men pushing carts stacked high with bags. They do not care whose ankles they bruise along the way. The driver glances back at me. Stuck in a crowd of trollies, I cast him a dirty look. When I finally break free, he takes the handle to wheel my luggage around a corner, then leaves me to wait while he gets the car.

Our drive to Palolem is long and dark. Snack stands and barber shops stand out, beacons of light in the night. Mostly, though, the road is unpopulated, and barely lit. The air carries hints of what might be seen, were it light: sewer canals, salt flats where fish dry, and, once, a fragrant forest. But perhaps it's best that it's too dark to see. The heat of the day is past, and Goa's black air is soft and cool, mysterious. When we turn for Palolem, the roadside bursts to life. A man is getting a shave in a pink-painted barber shop. A group clusters around a stand, drinking tea. Vendor's stalls loom, full of T-shirts, brass trinkets, silver earrings, and mounds of fake spices and teas.

As we approach the arch that leads to the beach, touts crowd around the car. They hope I want a room, but are disappointed. Already booked. They point me in the right direction and leave me to tote my bags down the beach alone. I am in Goa.