There is so much I would like to write about.
I would like to write about how my Better Half and I nearly got dropped off in the infamous Bombay brothels by a sketchy cab driver. I would like to write about the sheer number of people here. I would like to write about the rooster that talks to the milk man, and vice versa. I would like to tell you about how I took an overnight train to Goa, and counted more cockroaches than I did passengers.
I would like to tell you all that, but I am in a room that is currently 40 degrees above and I feel like I might just die.
So instead, I will give a little piece of advice: Do not get talked into having a "legit" massage by a Goan local, even if it only costs you about five bucks. Because even if your BH has a pleasant time and gets a massage therapist who seems to know what they are doing, you might not.
You might, in fact, be asked to strip down to nothing, get covered in oil by a woman in a saree, and then have an excruciating "massage" that leaves you in more pain than you have experienced throughout your whole trip. She might massage you so hard that you literally slide across the plastic table. You might be so covered in oil that when you finally get up from the table, you hear a loud sucking sound. This might make you gag. And the style of massage might be so different from back home that you start to wonder why the woman is slapping your face (but if you ask, you will be told it is to remove tension). In the end, you may actually be doubled over with laughter, and have to tell the woman that you are ticklish so you don't insult her carefully honed skills. You might laugh the whole way back to the hotel. You might laugh yourself to sleep.
Just a warning, folks.
Okay. I need to jump in a pool. And I need to disinfect myself before I have more time to think about my massage ordeal.
Cheers from Goa, which is 98% awesome. Only a week and a half left until I am home free.