Day 26 - A Third Time in Goa
I go to the same spot for sunrise and sunset. I borrow my teacher's scooter. My teacher is younger than me, but he’s an exceptional musician. I like having a teacher that I live with. I feel like I’m following the footsteps of mankind. I take his red scooter; it’s dusty and unkempt. He tells me to be careful with it, though it doesn’t seem like he’s particularly careful with it. It’s no problem, I say. I take the scooter and drive on tiny, winding roads to the spot. This is where I watch both the sun’s arrival and departure.
When you arrive at the spot, you descend a hill. Then you must cross a bridge that feels like it was
built for dwarves. It is made of brick, or it at least carries the pattern of bricks. Thick white zigzag lines mark the boundaries of each brick. The zigzag lines are thicker than the standardized ones seen in the States. The width of the mortar lines makes a remarkable difference in the impression it makes.
The bridge is tiny in every other dimension. It arches only slightly. The walls of the bridge go up only to your shins. There is a single boat that resides next to the bridge. It is the kind of bridge you might find at a mini-golf course in the United States. But here, it is not a gimmick; it serves a real purpose. It is a fairy tale bridge that leads you to a fairy tale world on the other side.
The bridge leads to a long patch of land that juts into the river. It is like a line drawn into the center of the river. When you are walking down the line, you are surrounded by glassy water on every side. On one side is a church painted pink. On the other side lives a Jungle Book forest where monkeys make deep sounds.
When the sun fades, the glassy surface takes on the color of the sky, blushing red and purple. Isn’t it curious that the sun offers its favorite colors only during birth and death? I sit here and dote on the land.