Well, Delhi was less than stellar. A stay in the most mediocre hotel in the airport area. Plus, I think Delhi has become unmanageable. When I stayed there for a few months in 2013, with 16m population, it felt big but manageable. This time it felt out of control. We ended up walking through the narrow roads of a slum district, and, in the aftermath of a rain, we weren’t sure if we were walking through mud or cow shit. We ended up going to a mall in the area with the rich hotels and having an excellent lunch.

Dalma having lunch.

In the evening we went to Delhi airport. If we thought Sydney on Boxing Day was mayhem, be prepared for a whole new level. On Facebook, Dalma wrote:

Delhi airport: we will create an environment that will drive you in a murderous rage but put out signs instructing you to be courteous. Na-fuckin-maste.

I think that says it all.  The flight was efficient and we eventually arrived at our Hotel in Goa. I had napped on the plane, and I could see Dalma was beyond exhausted. I waited up to take delivery of the  bikes, which eventually arrived. The new Himalayan is big and beautiful. The Guerilla is nice, but not to my taste. More on that later.

In the morning, I went out for a walk this morning as Dalma slumbered. I wandered sussing out the cafes, knowing that I’d have to find her a coffee eventually. Goa is very sleepy on a Sunday morning and I passed a few cars and motorcycles put-putting past. I found several cafes that were good options, but eventually settled on one–a 24/7 cafe–that, as is my special talent, turned out to be a mistake. At 7am, I headed for the hotel with two sorry little coffees that didn’t even fill the cups. I sheepishly presented them to Dalma who was too classy, or possibly too tired, to do much more than make grateful noises.

After a while we went out and were disappointed in a second cafe named xPanse, which stood for xPansively Shit. After a sip of the bitter and watery coffee-like-substance presented to us, we looked at each other and walked out. Dalma left a scathing review. I can’t usually be bothered, but she does get a bee in her bonnet now and then.

We presented ourselves at another place, Fika, which turned out to be sensationally good. It was actually a hotel/coworking space/cafe. The waiter, Ahmed, invited us back in the evening for a jazz performance. Sure, we said, with certain snobbish misgivings from yours truly, who can be an asshole with jazz. Replete with excellent coffee and breakfast, we went in search of the Latin Quarter.

Goa was, as you may know, dear reader, a Portuguese colony until 1965 when the Indians pointed out that having a little part of India as a vestige of an empire was fundamentally insulting and likely the result of small dick syndrome. The Portuguese, with some ill grace packed up and left. But Goa is consequently a melting pot of cuisine and architecture. A lot of the run-down colourful buildings remain in an area called Fontainhas. It’s called the Latin quarter. On the way, we passed by the gleaming and beautiful white Basilica de Bom Jesus. If you’re going to build a building to a creator deity, at least make it a decent one.

The Basilica de Bom Jesus

By now it was heating up to some 32 degrees. We wandered around the colourful buildings in a listless fashion. We were struck by the number of houses that had “Do not photograph” or “Don’t use as a backdrop”. I mean, fair enough. This is these people’s houses and they have the right not to have their houses photographed. I mean, I’d object if hundreds of Indians tramped by my house photographing it and me. However, the signs were happily ignored as Indians took photos in door ways and with the yellow, white and red houses.

We needed a drink. We headed to a famous bar called Johnny’s, but it is a small place and was already overflowing. We found another that looked actively contagious, and gave me a glass with someone’s lipstick on it. But the beer was cool as I drank it out of the bottle after surreptitiously wiping it with hand sanitiser.

We caught an auto-rickshaw. These black-and-yellow three-wheeled taxis are everywhere in India. They are uniformly ancient and rickety, as if this is part of the test to pass registration. “Oops, looks like your vehicle doesn’t roar like a demented lawnmower and bellow blue smoke. Please take it to a mechanic to resolve these issues.” This one had no motor to run the windscreen wiper, but rather a lever that must be moved back and forth. That must be fun in monsoon, I thought.

In the night, we went for a stroll on the beach, went to a recommended restaurant named Mama’s place, and then went to hear the jazz. Dalma watched me with eyes aglow as I listened. I tried to avoid being a tiresome jazz critic. Really, they were quite good. A bassless trio where the pianist’s left hand pulled double duty, so to speak. I was impressed, having listened to jazz in odd placed. But then India has a long history of jazz. Mumbai had many bands throughout history and Teddy Weatherford nded his career there. Replete with excellent local beer and music, we headed for home. I was impressed. I’d stayed up late. I was winning the war against jet lag.