Good days, bad days

I’m sitting in the shade. To my right is an older Russian woman singing a song to her infant granddaughter. It’s repetitive and oddly soothing. Somehow not knowing the words’ meaning makes for a more peaceful tune. Just across a little break made up of palm fronds and woven mats is the sound of the Arabian Sea. There’s a breeze. The shade is from a grove of palms; I’m also working my toes into a very fine sand. Not hungry. Not thirsty. Already had a short nap. Thinking about a swim, but not just yet. Saw via the Office of Retirement Services website that my pension is finalized. And so, I’m retired. And I wonder: How can it possibly get any better? Woops, wait a minute! A young woman just came through the beak from the beach in a bikini with a sheer sarong draped around her waist. I wave; she smiles. OK. NOW how can it get much better? This place is pretty alright. It’s a small village in the state of Goa called Agonda. This whole state was settled by the Portuguese way back when, and has held a number of European traditions. Like drinking booze, eating red meat, and praying to a Christian God. Mind, it still feels like India—there’s still cows walking the beach—but the vibe is a bit more chill. We’re here for a couple more days before heading off to Hampi. So, I gotta give it up for Rebecca. She’s been a proper trooper. Yesterday she agreed to take a bus here from Panaji, in the north. It turned out to be three buses. The third one scooped us up off the side of the road, had us toss our packs to the open spot next to the driver, and proceeded to pack up into the standing-room-only bus. I protested that we’d wait; catch the next bus. But the dude running the show was insistent, so we shrugged and climbed on in. Then it got really interesting. In the next half hour, we must have stopped another four times, each of which loaded on another six or seven souls. No one got off. No way would you have convinced me that bus could have held another twenty people. It was tight. Around that time, I look back at Rebecca, and there’s a pale green shade creeping up her cheeks. “You OK?” “No!” “You gonna throw up? Cause, you know…that would be bad.” “Shut up.” And then a miracle happened. Not like a parting of the seas, but almost. A young girl stood and made her way to the bus’ door. It was like she just blended into the wall of flesh and re-emerged at the door, and there was her empty seat, right in front of Rebecca. “Go. Quick!” She gave a sideways glance at the grandma to her left, and lunged for the seat, snagging it by the cheek of her ass. The prospect of vomiting in tight quarters can make the most generous soul into a real asshole. She caught a bit of a breeze from the window while ignoring the crooked look from granny, and managed to keep herself intact until we were dropped at a lonely intersection and found ourselves walking the last five kilometers to our guesthouse. There was some grumbling, but for the most part, like I say, a trooper. But one needs days like that to fully feel days like this. I’m just about ready for that swim. After the swim, a cold shower and a walk. Then take the scooter into town for a couple of cold beers which we’ll enjoy over a game of cribbage. The place next door makes a good tandoori chicken over charcoal; I’m thinking that will be about right as a way to end the day. And that is enough gloating for now. Actually, that’s enough gloating forever. ~Mike