Muchi and me came up with another one of our convoluted theories. Goa is our very own Desi Vegas. A place where people are expected to be remarkably drunk and blonde. When half of VNIT makes a beeline for the land of the excise free stuff, you can expect some monumental piles of crap to hit the fan.
The repercussions of 6 beers for 100 bucks are, needless to say , being felt horribly in college right now. Our temple, Facebook, is overloaded with 1,00,00,000 pictures of flabby people lounging in the sand and posing with flashy rented bikes. The rumours of hook ups and the unnecessary graphic detailing employed by the callous majority can turn a person off making out for life. In true VNIT style, the amount of bitching about the chuddy-buddy-friends-f0r-life that you travelled with could prolong the Gossip Girls series for the next 40 years.
I'll be nice and refrain from posting a lame pic. I have had it with Goa, a place I used to love, right down to its weirdly nice fishy smell.
Wait, I started this off as a nice post, where the tiny roads and coconut trees waving down from church steeples had their say. I was supposed to focus on the pancakes , the moonlight on the beach, karaoke and hot guys. Stupid, repressed, pissed off feelings. Goa used to mean eavesdropping on Konkani conversations, writing on the sand and eating doce. Now, I'm probably never going there.
If you do go, make sure its a SAS type of commando op, where the hoi-polloi are blissfully unaware and can be simply eliminated if they get annoying.
Game plan for next holiday: Karnataka.
This is it man. After years of having my dad going all sappy when it comes up, I think I'll give it a shot.
Its very Roots, but what the hell. Maybe someone there has my awful nose. The Goan bit of me is sulking.