It the good old days when the head hadnt seen the horror of a single grey hair, and the waistline was the stuff that could double as hairpin bends on the track of lurvvv, we would go to Goa pretty often. As in every three months or so, we would look at each other with lust and longing over the bed and with unspoken tacit agreement pull out our sole duffel bag and throw in three sets of clothes and my contact lens case and sunblock and drive off through the Western ghats to land in the land of sun and feni and lazing blimplike through the day on sunbeds, and ingesting illegal limits of beer and vodka and rum and cola.
Things, as you, dear gentle reader, know, have changed drastically since. For one. Our packing now comprises enough bags to clothe a small African nation. If the small African nation comprises three foot tall midgets prone to wearing Spiderman or Ben 10 decals on their ensembles. And many bottles of water. And bags full of junk food. Wafers. Chips. Etc. A bag full of medicines. You get the drift. Therefore spontaneity is perhaps the last factor in the decision making process which also involves the very important point of do we have television with working Cartoon Network and Nick in the rooms. A question which needs to be posed to the person on the other end of the phone line taking the bookings. And also the very important question of whether we have a kitchen which will be accommodating enough to send up masala dosas at dinner time. Having got these important things out of the way, one got down to packing one’s infinite bags. The toy bag. The medicine bag. The snacks bag. The food bag. The clothes bag. And the single duffel bag with clothes for us. That, ironically, is still the same bag it was all those years ago. Yes, I will be carrying along clothes that cover up a bit more. Low slung shorts do not go well with C-Sec scar and stretchmarks plus navel stretched to black hole of infinity proportions.
So it is with great trepidation that one sets forth, knowing that one has not packed one’s teensiest minis and shorts and tank tops but huge all forgiving mottled hued mamma tops and capris and shorts that end decently at kneelevel so as to not induce mass barfing session on said beaches. Though, one must add, the corpulent mountains of pink roasted flesh in bikinis emanating unbathed stink on the beaches of Goa are one zillion times more barfworthy than one could ever hope to be.
At least one is bathed brown unroasted flesh all dressed up and not quite as mountainous. The husband has a favourite past time on the beaches of Goa. Lying down, post swim in the sea, beer by his side and hyuck hyuck at the monstrosities that insist on parading themselves in G strings. I on the other hand have a grudging respect for such immense self confidence. What self esteem! Had it been me, I would have been going around offering personal apologies to every soul on the beach for being an assault to public sensibilities.
I am going there solely for the sea food and the pigging out. I swear when I get back into the car on the return trip home every single time, the damn vehicle tilts unbecomingly in the side I sit. All that fish peri peri and prawns vindaloo and balchao zips straight past the gullet to land, dusting space for the molecoles on the broad benches that call themselves hips, and spread out their mats for a good snooze in. Must remember to load the car down with awful luggage on the husband’s side of it to balance things out.
I also must remember to take thick hat. Not one of them flimsy straw ones that let vile sunrays in through gaps in their weave. Also mosquito repellant. Also infinite kilos of sweat proof and waterproof sunblock to slather onto every inch of self that will only help in bronzing my skin to perfect nutmeg brown tones, while the husband will just turn lobster red and peel off happily within the day and then be back to usual degree of pinkness.
And it will be interesting, now that I am off alcohol and am no longer going to spend the days lying wasted, in alcohol induced haze on beach, to see whether I find the place as interesting and relaxing as I used to. Given that I can bet my last sola topee on the fact that I will be spending all my day doing the minute mile behind the child.
And it will be nice to take to take the kid to spots on the beach and point out, look here son, here’s your pappa and mamma’s favourite snogging place before you were born.
It will be nice to revisit Goa as parents.