Witaj 2012!

So here it is, the New Year, and I celebrated it in the same way I have for the last three, in bed by 10 pm with a book. Go ahead be disappointed in me. I feel amazing. I walked out onto the beach this morning, waded through the heaps of fresh trash embedded in the sand, and ordered a bowl of fruit while I watched as people put in their morning orders for beer, eavesdropping on my haggard and dehydrated neighbors swapping stories about what they did and did not remember from the previous evening. “Do you remember going skinny dipping?” a middle-aged woman is asking an older man in his swimming trunks. “Well… yes.” He answers sheepishly, and then I decide my book is a better story and stop listening.

I don’t mind the party people, not at all, but they, on the other hand, get so bummed if you’re not partying, too. So last night, instead of upsetting everybody with my sober book reading on the beach, I retreated to my breezy room, got under the mosquito net that makes me feel like a princess, and rang in the New Year with Pi Patel and his Bengal tiger. Today, my French neighbor woke up at noon, peeked into my room, knowing I had stayed in for the New Year, and said that I was “the most incredible girl.” I was about to get flattered, when he went on. The rest of what he said was rather vague, but didn’t sound like a compliment anymore. At a loss for his plausible intent in communicating this, I began to explore the meaning of the word incredible… I’m not credible. All my silly book reading and quiet nights in bed minding my own business has rendered me beyond believability. I think his implicit meaning was that I’m a bit drab.

The evening was not entirely without exploration. Goa was blowing apart fireworks all up and down the crescent curve of Palolem Beach. From my room I could hear the explosions and the screaming from hundreds of people and I was like, I’ve gotta get out there. I left my cozy princess den and went out onto the beach, into the fireworks, screaming, pit fires, crowds, and liquor bottles, and I was like, I’ve gotta get outta here. The Indian locals have added their numbers to the western tourists’, and have brought with them massive amounts of non perishable food stuffed in crinkly plastic bags, bottles of liquid soon to be empty, and home cooked food soon to be eaten on paper plates with plastic forks, the remnants of which are thoughtfully left recumbent on the sands of the Goan beach, in place and ready for their early morning sunbathing. Just yesterday it was a serene and splendid book reading paradise, perfect for an incredibly drab princess to while away the day on, in bed by 10. Now this princess is incredibly incredulous. I almost started trash collecting on my own this morning, but the beach is so long, and there were still hundreds of people with soon to be garbage in their hands, bags, and hearts. Once again I retreated to my room, beneath the comfort of my mosquito net, which makes me feel pretty.

The Goan beach cleaning crew (women in saris with baskets of trash, that they whisk up with straw brooms, on their heads) is actually extremely efficient. Every evening the beach becomes littered with all kinds of trash, and every morning it is practically pristine again. The New Year celebration has left them with a big job to do. I think they took today off. They deserve it. This reminds me of one of my most favorite things about India: One of my most favorite things about India is the unstoppable way in which the women wear their beautiful, colorful and sparkly, saris. I’m so accustomed to seeing the world decked in bland jeans and t-shirts. When you see these woman in their flowing fabric, shining like diamonds, you imagine they’re on their way to The Ball, or The Oscars, or a huge Bollywood premier. In reality they’re just going about their daily business and wearing this finery in a very unfussy way while they cook dinner, wash the dishes, take out the trash, herd the goats, and harvest their fields. Amazingly, they always appear to be immaculately clean. Now that is something truly worthy of the title incredible.

Last night there were a bunch of western girls all done up in saris for the celebration. Try as I may to be open minded I always chuckle quietly to myself when I see stuff like this. It strikes me like it does when someone who is learning a foreign language goes straight for the swear words. They carry the most impact, but the nuance of their meaning is usually misunderstood and the speaker ends up sounding a bit clownish, rather than sophisticated or skilled in that language. I think the symbolism involved in fashion and cultural style is a language even more complex and subtle. I approach it cautiously, but sometimes jumping headfirst can be a good education. That’s why I only chuckle quietly to myself.

I’m boring. It’s OK with me. I wish it were OK with the rest of the world. My days of wreaking havoc on the party scene and my liver are long gone. Try as I may to get into it again, I just cannot. I don’t even know if I was into it when I was into it. Maybe it was just more of a necessary exploration that I can now confidently cross off my to-do list. Check. It’s the holidays, and people are being very kind and open, I’m receiving constant invitations to join the tables of people dining, drinking, and chatting, and in no kind of snotty or aloof way, I have been saying no. I am completely happy to just sit and think, or not think, watch the world, or zone out, and not have to worry about being anything for anybody. I guess I’m mentioning it because I always feel a twinge of oddness when I decline an invitation. Behind the kindness of the invite there is something more, a look of skepticism, a sense of something is not right here, are you really all alone??

The other evening a little girl summed up this common interaction in a very childlike and straightforward way. I was at a beachfront table reading with some tea. It was a beautiful night, with soft clouds in the sky that were holding onto the colors of the sun as it was setting behind a little island covered with palm trees. There were people all around me having dinner with their friends and families. Being surrounded by the communal buzzing of people and their doings felt warm and cozy. I felt solid, and calm, very happy to be right where I was. The girl was at the next table with her parents. She suddenly and very directly came to me and said hello. There was a slight hesitancy in her demeanor so I asked her a few questions about herself. After I knew her name and where she was from (Anoush, India) she got to the point. “Why are you sitting by yourself?” “I’m reading my book.” “Don’t you have any friends?” “Yes, but I also like being alone sometimes. Don’t you like being alone?” “No!” I think it’s a pretty good, uncloaked, summary of the conversations I have with adults. I don’t like being alone so I find it disconcerting to see you here, being alone. Come be with me and stop making me feel lonely.

The evening moved on and the night stayed warm. There was a small boy in red and blue underwear on the beach. He was practicing stick-fighting moves with steadfast determination. He had a bamboo pole that was three feet too long for his purposes. With every twirl of the pole the end went raking into the sand, impeding its potential to be life threatening or fear inducing to any imagined or real nemesis. Undaunted, he stared straight into their eyes, ineffectually swinging his staff through the air, and into the ground. I walked farther down the coast and watched as dogs defended their territories against stray scoundrels who had forgotten to respect the invisible barriers, and some scoundrels who bravely sauntered through, shielding themselves with the protection of their newfound tourist friends, confounding the would-be defenders. On the south end of the beach there was a little girl going crazy practicing dance moves, at the end of her parent’s dinner table. She moved spasmodically and confusedly, clearly trying to imitate something she had seen Beyonce or Justin Timberlake doing, but getting all the moves mixed up in a tangle. Nothing new to her parents, they ate and talked, paying her no mind, but a few feet away stood a fascinated Indian man, an awed and unmoving smile stuck to his face. The girl noticed and danced with enhanced passion for her appreciative audience of one.

I walked a bit more and sat near to a couple of young girls in pretty dresses who were playing with some glowing neon toys their parents had bought them from a wandering beach vendor. One girl had the kind you toss into the air; it spins with light as it comes floating to the ground. The other had a laser pointer, the kind that cats and dogs love to chase. She was relentlessly pointing it into the sky, with no result. It didn’t do anything. You couldn’t see the flash of the green touch upon any cloud or sea bird, quite boring. Her friend, becoming impatient, started trying to yank the laser from her hand. After a small and girly scuffle, the toy changed hands, and the new owner began to flash it around on the sand, quickly making circles and light trails. Excitement. Action. The original laser pointer yanked it back and doggedly resumed her uninspired pointing, straight up and unmoving. I couldn’t figure out why she thought that was the thing to do with it. I sat there perplexed, until finally it occurred to me that maybe she was sending out signals to alien life forms, saying hello, wondering how many light years it would take her point of light to land on the surface of a star that lives beyond the reaches of our sun’s rays, contemplating infinity, the mysterious and inexplicable nature of our universe. Maybe. Sometimes dreamers seem boring when we set them next to flashing lights and circles of action, but I thought she was incredible.