Tat-n-Tale

It has happened. I threw my nonconforming ideals to the wind and got my very first tattoo. Having debated this for sometime, I always felt unsure of what to get and where to put it on my body. I did, however, trust that I would make the decision on this trip.

At first, I asked Sebastian to sketch some symbols, creative designs in an attempt to incorporate my essence. I considered things that I hold closest to my heart, such as life and love, peace and truth, family and travel. Ultimately, nothing he drew inspired me enough to permanently mark my skin. (DISSED!) In passing, without much conscious thought, I mentioned wanting to find a guru while in India who would give me a symbol that would later become my tattoo. That cherished morning at Yoga Magic, when I discovered the heart patch lying upside down on the dried up lawn, I knew I had found it. It was a sign, my omen from God, the answer to what I was seeking. My tattoo is the union of three hearts, two small ones embedded within a larger heart. Three hearts in one representing the mind, body, spirit connection. It symbolizes what I embody and manifest and share with everyone, love, my divine essence and what I know to be the truest thing in this life. My root belief in the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. A reminder of the magical day I danced with God, the day my soul moved to a different beat, connected on a deeper level. A symbol of my beloved India and how I feel on this trip, with all the adventures and the freedom and change that resonates in my being. An emblem of all that I was, all that I am, and all that I will grow to be. I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve and now it will forever be imprinted on my skin. Plus, three is my favorite number.

In the days that followed, we check out several different tattoo shops until we find the perfect one. We befriend Andy, the British expat owner of a shop located on the beaches of Anjuna, Goa. Covered in ink, he has been an artist since he was twelve years old. The parlor is gleaming clean, with all the needles individually wrapped and sanitized. We book an appointment for our final day in Goa since swimming and tanning is prohibited for a minimum of three days. I consider backing out, but as the due date approaches, I know I am going through with it. I am committed.

Already tattoo savvy, Sebastian goes first. He selects the word “origin,” written in Malayalam, the language of Kerala, across his left forearm. After Andy disinfects his arm and shaves the hair, he transfers the sketched pen image onto his skin to ensure its proper placement. The tattoo guns begins buzzing, reminding me of a dentist’s drill. My skin crawls, my jaw tightens up. I watch Sebastian, gritting his teeth, nostrils flailing every time Andy hits a sensitive spot. Forty-five minutes later, it is complete and looks tribal, fierce, intense. Hardedge black letters with a delicate touch, we both immediately love it.



My turn. I go through the same process of disinfecting, of transferring the sketch onto the perfect spot. I choose my back, under my shoulder blade, off towards the side of my body, somewhere in between my bra line and waist, touching my lower rib. I lay in a half fetal position as Andy begins his work. The initial piercing of the gun stuns me and I am tempted to quit. As he creates the outline, I feel the tip of the needle burn into my skin. I draw on my strengths as a fighter, my calming mentality as a meditator and courageously bear it. Every few seconds, he stops to observe his work while refilling the ink, giving me a chance to breath and refocus. Thirty minutes of feverish pain and it is finished. Stunning, so perfectly symmetrical, in the most beautiful location. It is truly me, my essence, manifested in art, now on my body. It was not until after he started did Andy confess I chose one of the most painful spots to get a tattoo. Appropriate for me, for when I do something, I never take the easy way!







We celebrate at a beachside bar watching the sunset, drinking cold beers as we scrutinize and study our new tattoos. We gush excitedly over how great they look, despite the slight burning pain. I am in shock that I actually went through with it. Taking stock of the moment, of literally marking this moment, we kick back and allow the magnitude to set in, humbled by how fortunate we are and how amazing life is. We sense its coming to a close soon, but we will never forget this experience. Every time we look at our own individual tattoos, we will be transported back to the beaches of Goa, gazing out into the Arabian Sea, relishing the sunset and in the sharing of life.

The Perfect Day

After several days of sunbathing, we wrench ourselves off the beach and head out for an adventure. Originally planning to tour Old Goa, a section of town with numerous buildings and churches, we decide instead to visit Fort Tiracol, in the neighboring state of Maharahstra, as recommended by some Goan natives. Rising early and sharing a small pot of French pressed organic Indian coffee, we straddle the scooter and set off for an unknown expedition. The spontaneity thrills us, the excitement of uncharted territory intrigues as we travel through picturesque scenes. I look out into the endless blue horizon of sea, a shade darker than the sky, so soothing and inviting. A quick turn of my head and I am staring at tiny villages and towns bustling with people, all surrounded by the blossoming life of trees and undulations of grassy fields. Families walk to church, aging women sell fresh fish on street corners, random cows graze along the road. I hold onto Sebastian, squeeze his ribs tightly every time we hit a bump. My cheek squishes as I rest my head on the nape of his neck. A gentle kiss as he drives, I taste the sweet combination of coconut and salt, remnants of our long days at the beach.

We ride for the better part of an hour until we reach a jetty at Kerim beach. A free ferry awaits, a rusted royal blue double storied boat that smoothly transports us across the Terekhol River, separating the northern most section of Goa from the bordering state of Maharahstra. A brief uphill ride, we reach our destination, Fort Tiracol. Through the black iron gates, towering over a green manicured lawn and a fence of blooming trees is the immense 16th century structure. Perched hilltop to overlook the Arabian Sea, Fort Tiracol is an astounding architectural achievement. With its scaling heights, this former defense sentinel is in glorious isolation. Invaded by the Portuguese, they rebuilt it in the late 1700s in defense for Goa and later, this stronghold aided freedom fighters during the Goan liberation. Currently, it serves as a heritage hotel and a multi-cuisine restaurant.

Through a dark marble hallway we emerge into a charming courtyard, with the century old Church of St. Anthony, opened only on rare occasions, situated in the center. The entire edifice is bright, pure white with trim of ochre yellow and midnight black. Climbing large steps, we reach the restaurant, which serves authentic Goan and Portuguese food as well as its infamous, majestic views. Completely awestruck, never did a sight appear so perfect. The eternal blue sea, alive and rippling, reflects the sun’s brilliance. Waves create uneven sandy shores of foaming white suds. Full and towering, curving palm trees with massive green leaves stir in the swirling breeze. There is not a single cloud in the sky to interrupt the incessant overflow of blue. Sebastian and I are dumbfounded, small in the presence of such sheer magnificence. Wonderment abounds as we step into ramparts, peeking out little portholes at the panoramic seascapes.



We sit on the veranda, at a glass table under a pointed edge umbrella and share a deliciously light brunch. Fluffy egg omelets, fried bananas, and coffee savored as we relish the spectacular view. In amazement, I watch the Terekhol River flood into the Arabian Sea, merging without end or beginning, an ongoing flow of water. Despite the old gun-enclosures, the stark white walls intensifies the structure, seemingly more pure and tranquil. The most exquisite thing is the silence, the piercing, beautiful lack of noise that ever grazes my ears. I am too far away to hear the breaking waves or the children laughing playfully. There are no squawking birds, barking dogs, blaring horns, or human speech which plague every moment of every day. Incessant chatter is stopped and what remains is an energetic stillness, conveying immense depth, a hushing peace. We stay long after the meal is finished, drinking in the sublime experience.

Enthralled, we continue on our journey through Maharashtra to the Ganesh temple at the Redi fort. Not found in any of the travel books we have been pouring over, it too, was suggested by Goan locals. Almost lost, we attempt to follow maps of unnamed streets and hidden roads. Luckily, with the guidance of a friendly pedestrian we follow a dirt road in the backcountry land until Sanjay stops us, a mid-30s man with a warm smile dressed in a red flannel shirt and beige shorts, motioning us to park our bike and follow him. It seems a bit peculiar, heading into the forest alone with this stranger, but I trust my instincts and begin walking. After a short distance, we climb over a crumbling wall to visit the Ganesh temple. It is nothing as I expected, looking more like a deformed rock than the infamous elephant god. Beyond closer expectation, I make out the hands and trunk set deep into the stone. This statue was found in the Redi mines after one of the workers dreamed about it and asked for the mine to be searched. When the mines were eventually dug, the Ganesh idol was uncovered and has become a holy sight for Hindu worshippers.

Sanjay suggests we hike up to the Redi fort that overlooks the appropriately named Paradise Beach. As we begin the ascent, I find a long branch begging to be used as my walking stick. We trail Sanjay as he leads us through the decrepit fortress, untangling thickets of brush to clear a walkway. From the exterior walls into the central compound of the fort, we navigate the once mighty bastion, which has now devolved into a marriage of nature and crumbling human construction. Banyan trees hug the walls, creating webs of branches in varied directions. An empty, steep well causes my stomach to turn as I cautiously peer down over 200 meters. We duck under low curving doorways, leading us into old rooms where soldiers stood guard. I sense that people have died here, for we feel the sacred, hallowed ground under our feet. Eventually, we arrive at the fort’s apex, which provides us with the spectacular view of Paradise beach. Sharing an unripe green mango, we stare out into yet another perfect scene. Upon the descent, Sebastian and I both agree that the charm of the Redi fort is that it is left alone, allowing nature’s growth to inhabit the once functioning and operational edifice. The government does not invest money to clean it up or restore it to the original state. Rather, it remains untouched, a jeweled secret for only a select few to enjoy.












Before heading back to the beaches of Goa, we stroll along the gentle shore of Paradise beach. To my great surprise, it is littered with shells, ranging from tiny intricate spirals once carried on hermit crabs’ backs to smooth white halves of a broken clam’s home. Immediately, I start combing the sands, creating an overflow of treasures in my cupped hand. I am taken back instantly to the annual family vacation I took as a child to St. Thomas. I recall it so vividly. My dad rests on a lounge chair, eyes hidden behind brown shades, hands behind his head cradling it as he sleeps. My mom tans while reading a big, thick hardcover novel. My brother swims in the ocean, snorkels all afternoon looking at fish. I spend hours on the beach under my terrycloth visor, protected by a huge white t-shirt my mother insists I wear to avoid sunburn. I collect countless buckets full of shells, big and small alike, in all shapes and colors. I set aside a special pail for my favorite ones, the really great finds.


And now, as I squat down in between my legs, a world away from the Caribbean where this long lost hobby began, I am a child again, digging and searching for the ocean’s jewels. I gasp at every great discovery, running into the water to wash of the traces of sand. I find an old, crushed plastic cup and begin piling up my riches, knowing full well that I am bringing these back to New York. Their new home will be my apartment, a reminder of a time I quickly have forgotten, yet able to recall with such love and clarity.

Thankful to Sanjay, we climb back on the scooter to return to our shack. Initially, I am reluctant to sacrifice my adored beach but the adventure proves to fulfill my love for unplanned, organic quests into unfamiliar soils. I am reminded that stepping into the unknown, trusting the mysterious direction I embark upon will always be rewarded with unforgettable gifts, memories I will cherish when I think back on this amazing Indian journey.