To go-a or not to go-a. That was the question. For the ad fest there this past weekend.
I think the highlight of my trip was lunch at this restaurant called Tate’s in Colva. At about 2, with the sun dappling through the trees, I sat down to a fruity mocktail and a “French Baguette Pizza slice” after a stressful morning of bargaining and sand-sliding-under-feet-ing.
During my previous trip to the fest, in 2007, I was part of a biggish contingent and much merriment, leg, nose and swimsuit pulling had taken place. But it left you with absolutely no alone time.
This time, I was one of four, the others being Squid, my boss Nina and Peanut.
Peanut (named because of size of his brain) is Hiroshima’s…..well, he’s not smart enough to be Hiroshima’s anything. But in designation, is slightly above her. But she rules his ass. And whoops it too. And how.
For reasons I won’t get into here, Peanut was sent to India’s biggest ad fest. Pointless really. For example, this sublime piece of conversation between him and me – who were staying at a far away hotel as befitting our lowly drone status – in a cab, on the way to the hotel. Peanut sees a board that advertises “Well-appointed rooms”.
Peanut: ha Ha HA! So funny! See that? (nudging me)
Me (thinking “just one more nudge mofo…”): What???
Peanut: Well appointed rooms! WELL. APPOINTED. ROOMS!
Me (wondering if I’ve already lost my mind in the Goan heat, dammit we haven’t even reached the venue yet): So?
Peanut (joyfully): Who the HELL would APPOINT a ROOM? hahahahahahahah!
Me (after a beat, realising he’s serious): HAHAHAHAHAAH! OMG!! YOU ARE TOO FUNNY!
He was still laughing two days later. Regrettably, he assumed I was laughing at the board and not him. Pity.
So anyway, I didn’t really want to be with any of them. So I sort of took off on my own. Forgoing the pleasure (hah!) of going to the fest on Saturday, I just walked up and down Colva, paying too much for clothes and earrings and restoring the faith of Goan shopkeepers in the gullibility of touristkind.
Having had breakfast there, I decided to go back to Tate’s for lunch. Completely empty, Tate’s has autographed photos of Hollywood stars. Who’ve possibly never been to India. But have really good secretaries and mail services. Tate’s has really good food. I’d taken along a book called ‘Kill and Tell’ (Sorry Hottai, chick lit.) Presumably that’s what readers will do to the author after they buy the book. Pathetic. Gave up on it within the first 10 pages.
When my lunch arrived, I decided to eat it with my left hand. I’ve always been a complete right-hander, to the extent that in school, when asked “which is your left hand?” I actually raised my right and pointed at my left. After a weird, Sholay-esque dream a few years ago where I didn’t have a right hand, I’ve been trying to use my left hand more.
So at Tate’s, I picked up knife and fork and proceeded to spend an entertaining 45 minutes trying to eat a Subway sandwich sized single half baguette loaded with melting cheese, onions and tomatoes and some green things. Being a vegetarian, I normally assume stuff is safe to eat in Goa if I can see green. Goans don’t bother adding anything to vegetables. “Why waste masala no men?”
Fifteen minutes into my left-handed foray, a dog wandered in. Obviously familiar with the place, the dog sat down with a very hopeful expression. Which slowly turned quizzical as I continuously made an ass of myself. He barked several times. Quick short barks of “WTF?” and “Waiter! There’s a moron in my restaurant!”
The waiters stared for a bit, then gave up and started to discuss, this being Goa, football and fish. In that order. At a certain point, I there was a fierce argument on which fish, should fish ever play football would be best at scoring a goal. No clear winner was established.
I watched the sunshine make patterns on the lawn outside, a cat that slept for more than an hour on the stucco railing of a balcony, and which being Goan, didn’t even bother catching mice in its sleep.
The waiters murmurs of “Mad or wot?” “Foul men! That was a foul!” echoed behind me somewhere.
The dog decided he wasn’t in the mood for pizza or stupid women, and lay down for a siesta.
I sipped my lime-mint-something else-drink. And for the first time all weekend, sighed in contentment.
Ranting in the Streets 