Back dated post (Well, clearly.)
The build up for New years Eve is such a killer. All that expectation, all that fear of failure.
The first part of the evening was excruciating.
I mean, I was sober.
With my parents.
We went to a restaurant in Goa called La Plage, which we had already eaten at two evenings out of five – It’s managed by 2 very attractive French women (Older, of indeterminate age. 45+ I should think.) who were very touchy-feely with all their patrons.
They made everyone feel like they were supremely important. Case in point: My PhD bawa neighbor (I’m just going to call him PhD from now on) was convinced one of the ladies was trying to hit on the ex because her hand lingered in what was assumed to be a highly suggestive manner.
The PhD’s and the ex’s thoughts, whatever the context of the situation, jump straight to sex. They both have uniquely one track minds. All I saw was a woman who knew how to do her job beautifully.
Ordinarily La Plage was excellent. Unfortunately they had succumbed to the New Years eve temptation – The greed had gone to their head and were massively over booked. So much so that we didn’t see dinner for 2.5 hours. I was nearly gnawing on the table by then. Starvation rarely adds to the convivial feeling.
Our PhD neighbor’s younger brother and his girlfriend also joined us for dinner, but since they seemed to be either on drugs or coming down off them they were in no position to contribute to any kind of cheer.
Our plan was to eat, watch the fireworks on the beach, then ditch the folks shortly after midnight and find some wild party. Dinner came just before 12. Mine was inedible. Half the patrons left their plates to watch the fireworks. We couldn’t leave the folks until 2 and I was sober until then.
YES! FUCK YES SOBER! STONE FUCKING COLD SOBER! Man I was irate.
Eventually the folks left and the ex managed to strong-arm us into a party, just by looking furious and saying with a thunderous frown
“We were just in here 5 minutes ago! Give us a stamp!”
I saw the man’s face. It’s an expression I’ve had many times on mine. It’s resignation and a desire to avoid a confrontation. He was clearly thinking,
“I know they weren’t here 5 minutes ago but I can’t be dealing with this at 3 in the morning. Just give them a stamp.”
The party was rubbish. I mean, it might have been fun had I been un-sober. But rave music is intolerable even on vast quantities of intoxicants. Sober it was excruciating.
I told PhD and the ex I’d had enough. Screw this night, I was going back to the hut to smoke the measly amount of mal I had managed to scrap, beg, borrow and steal together from kind, charitable souls.
Then just at that moment, coming out of the darkness of the beach, like a saviour, like Jesus, was some Bawa that PhD happened to know. We greeted him so joyously he might as well have been Jesus. (Or Zarathushtra, which would be more fitting, but the name is such a mouthful.)
“Do you guys want to party?”
Yes! by god yes! We do! We really really fucking do!
After that the night picked up.
We found other people we knew at another party with many more intoxicants.
We didn’t really have any other friends in Goa and sort of tagged along with this one group, which I must admit, felt a little uncomfortable. I don’t like satelliting around a group of friends. (But I’m uncomfortable naturally so that doesn’t count for much.)
I think my major tip while tackling the Goa party scene is to carry a roll of toilet paper in your bag. I wish someone had reminded me.
The loo was….*shudder*. I can’t even bear to remember it.
We rolled off back to our huts and I immediately had a shower and stiff scrub.
Sigh. All my stories seem to end in poo.