Goa and I first met in college.
It was loud. Chaotic. A full-blown college trip energy.
We shouted over EDM in overcrowded shacks in Baga and Calangute.
We took blurry photos we swore were iconic, and thought being sleep-deprived in a club was too cool.
Goa then? It was like going on a first date with a loud and sweaty mansplainer.
On my next trip, I wandered south.
South Goa was like meeting someone who actually listens.
Agonda whispered instead of screamed.
Cola Beach looked like it hadn’t been discovered by Instagram yet.
There were no raves, just waves and my existential crisis floating in the backwaters.
That’s when I started really falling for Goa.
Not for what it offered—but for what it didn’t yell at me to do.
Then came the “we’re in a long-term thing” phase.
I wasn’t a tourist but not quite a local.
During the pandemic, I lived in Reis Magos for a few months.
There were no clubs, no shacks—just grocery runs, bargaining at the fish market and the painful realization that the morning walk window in goa is smaller than your exes attention span.
I discovered the best coffee in quiet Panjim cafés.
I went to a mall. In Goa.
I didn’t even know they had those.
Turns out, real love looks like air conditioning
and bulk-buying mosquito repellent.
Goa doesn’t surprise me anymore.
And that’s the best part.
It doesn’t need to perform.
Neither do I.