End Of Season In Goa

The heat is overwhelming, the humidity soaring and thanks to God a nice breeze is blowing under the thatched beach restaurant. The sea’s a soup, just as I like it, with gentle waves that sometimes deceive me and suddenly submerge me. The season is over and few remaining tourists are struggling between short walks and refuge in the shade, quenching their thirst with anything available: water, beer, fruit juices. The breeze is back and I enjoy the sound of the backwash. Smell of omelette and the strawberry seller’s voice talking with a Norwegian lady. I’m tempted to take some pictures to post on Facebook to show to friends the end of season atmosphere, to be compared to that of high one. The restaurant boy is dismantling the hut, literally pulling away pieces of dried palm leaf that make up the roof.

I’m hot, my skin burns, and have a headache from damp, which always begins at nine in the morning, when the sun is already scorching. My cheese omelette on toast is delicious and the breeze returns, benevolent and mitigating, blowing on my salt burnt skin. I take a full breath and drink soda with lime which takes me back to life with its dioxide bubbles that gurgle down my throat and the tang of lime. I’m closing my house and slowly putting all things in the trunks. I almost finished with clothes, sheets, towels and fabrics; a few more things are drying in the garden and I’ll close it this evening, to start with the kitchen one: pans, dishes and appliances. It is exhausting working with consistency in this heat, and I often stop under the fan or lie down in bed, under the fan.

Only birds, dogs and squirrels echo in the air, with some bellow embellishment, when a herd goes by. Sometimes even the constant chirping bothers me, but they too must feel the heat. My headache is constant. I’m too old for this climate without air conditioning and the comfort of civilization where I come from. The breeze turns into wind, the damp has covered the sun and two policemen are patrolling the shoreline, short for high tide. There comes a young Indian tourist, she brings music and sympathy. She collects shells. We exchange two words and glances. I perceive the parallel universes that will never touch; infinite life incessantly flowing along endless rails of infinite viewpoints. Beauty is all over. I love it so. I’d rather get lost in nothingness than apparently be safe in a box closed universe. This is the infinite, like it or not, it never ends and never even begins. I love it and let myself go to it with a smile. All this is just for the arrival of a young lady with music; out of season, but inside everything. Two unknown tourists’ hearts and a hut by the sea. My movie. Headache is back; the breeze is always more humid and there’s no way out.