Patnem Beach, Goa

  Even just a couple years ago, Goa was known as party central. The authorities have cracked down on many of the illegal activities by now, trying to somewhat redeem or even reinvent Goa's image. We headed to the southern – calmer – part of Goa anyway, right after most of the NYE crowds left and the prices plunged down considerably.

  The bus dropped us off at 5 AM on a deserted street corner in Canacona, with a couple of stray dogs for company. We then headed to Palolem Beach, and waited at a 24 hour bar for daylight, with some slurring revelers who did not realize that the party ended hours ago. After a quick look, we decided that Palolem was still too much of a party scene, and headed to nearby Patnem, where retirees come for extended stays. How appropriate – we haven't truly partied since Kathmandu.

Dinner anyone?

Our daily visitor

Home for almost a week

  Patnem is a lovely little town, with a vast stretch of golden beach. Homesick at times, we were able to at least indulge in some Western comforts: still a hut but with a nice bathroom, great service, privacy, especially at the beach with no gawkers (a relief for me), and some really amazing food. Almost every day, we gorged on mouth-watering fish and seafood, Goan spicy specialties such as fish vindaloo and crab xec xec, and, believe it or not, some of the best Italian pasta this side of the ocean.

  When we took some time off from our busy schedule of sunbathing and gaining weight, we rented a scooter and spent 3 days driving up and down the coast. Some of the beach towns and cities are even lovelier than Patnem. Panji, Old Goa and Margao, for instance, have many Portuguese accents, something we expected out of Kochi but didn't really find. We visited Margao more than we wanted, though, when we had to come back twice more to secure train tickets for the next leg of the journey.

  At least I got to learn how to drive a scooter, with my brave bf behind me. 

  I did not feel confident enough, however, to enter the bigger roads, where only one thing matters: the size ;). So bicycles give way to motorized bikes, bikes to rickshaws, rickshaws to cars, cars to trucks, trucks to crazy buses. All stop for one thing and one thing only – the cows, which wander as they see fit. On top of it, everyone (except for the cows naturally) seems to be in a great hurry, so it gets a bit scary on a one lane highway, when (coming at you) you see a bus passing a car that's passing another car. Uff, even writing that got complicated. On top of that, you have to keep an eye out for the police. In India, rental companies don't bother with such small details like license or insurance. We got stopped five times, our white faces too much of an incentive. Once, we got a ticket for no helmets. At least the nice gentleman gave us a receipt for the fine, which helped us out on two other stops. Another time, the officer had an issue with Pawel's motorcycle license, even though other checks thought it complied with the rules. He started threatening us with a 950 rupee fine (only about $20, but exorbitant considering the local prices) and a court day. P nonchalantly mentioned that he'll check with the embassy on the rules, since they seem inconsistent, and all of a sudden there was no problem. Corrupt much?

  Mentally regenerated, we move on to Rajasthan to soak up some of the region's history, with a change of trains in noisy Mumbai. After two days of travel, tired and dirty, we step off the train, not sure what to expect. Surprisingly, it's quiet. It's clean. Udaipur – India's purported Venice.