“The Girl Who Crashed Into a Spice Shop”
A love letter to Palolem Beach, Goa — 2014
It started, like all good stories do, with a little chaos.
I had landed in Goa for a wedding—but what unfolded was something far more magical, a month-long romance with a place that felt like a fever dream dipped in spice and sun.
Day one: I rented a moped for less than the price of a bottle of water. A total steal. Until, of course, I drove it straight into a spice shop. No, seriously. Imagine vivid bursts of turmeric and cumin exploding into the air like confetti. Red chili flakes scattered like glitter on the sand. A woman stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, stunned—and then, laughing. The entire town knew me after that. The girl who crashed into the spice shop. Goa had officially welcomed me with open arms and a cloud of masala.
We checked into our beach hut—one of dozens lining Palolem’s crescent shoreline, stacked above barefoot cafés and candlelit restaurants playing reggae and soft Portuguese ballads. The huts were humble, but waking up to the sound of waves lapping the shore just steps from your bed? You can’t script that kind of magic.
Our host, Gandhi—yes, really—lived just behind the huts with his wife and two kids. One room. Four people. Infinite warmth. They invited us into their world with the kind of generosity that makes you reevaluate what it means to live richly. It was humbling, and beautiful.
Palolem was a sensory overload in the best way. The smell of fresh seafood grilling on open fires. Sari shops shimmering with mirrored embroidery. Cows wandering casually down the beach like they owned the place (and honestly, they kind of did). Every day melted into the next. Morning chai by the water. Lazy afternoons eating dal and rice at my favorite shack on the strip—comfort food that wrapped around my soul like a hug from home. Sunset yoga classes on the sand. And nights that turned into jungle raves and silent discos, where strangers became friends under starlit canopies and the occasional laser light.
One night, deep in the jungle, I swear I spotted Robert Sheehan from Misfits—or maybe it was the hashish talking. You didn’t hear it from me, but Goa had that kind too. The kind that made conversations deeper, stars brighter, and every beat of the music feel like a heartbeat.
On quieter days, I wandered. I explored old Portuguese colonial towns with sun-washed facades and azulejo tiles. I visited temples tucked in the hills, where marigold offerings and incense smoke curled into the air. I remember standing barefoot at the Mahadev Temple in Tambdi Surla, moss-covered and ancient, feeling like I had stepped out of time. The echo of chanting monks, the rustle of palm leaves—Goa had a rhythm. A spirit. A heartbeat all its own.
And perhaps the most surprising part? People kept telling me I looked like I belonged. My features, a mix of Indian and Portuguese roots, made me feel both seen and at home. As if Goa was whispering, You’ve been here before. You’ll come back again.
Ten years later, I still think about that trip. About Gandhi and his family. About the woman whose spice shop I redecorated with my moped. About how that month cracked something open in me—freedom, maybe. Or just a deeper understanding of how beautiful it is to be lost, and found, all in the same breath.
One day, I’ll go back. Not just to Palolem, but to all of India. But for now, that memory lives in me like a postcard soaked in sunlight—creased at the edges, but never fading.
“Something Shifted in Goa”
There’s a certain softness to the light in Goa.
Not just the golden haze of the sunsets—though those were unreal—but the way the sun lingered, as if it, too, didn’t want the day to end. Every morning, I’d wake up with the beach still quiet, dew clinging to the sand, and the sky painted in slow-moving brushstrokes of lilac and coral. No filters. No noise. Just me and the sea breathing in sync.
And the water—God, the water. Warm, silkier than anything I’d ever felt. Not shocking or biting like most oceans, but welcoming. Like it had been waiting for me. I’d float for what felt like hours, staring up at the palms swaying overhead, letting the salt cleanse not just my skin, but whatever heaviness I’d carried with me from home. Something about being submerged there made me feel… new. Lighter. Like I could leave parts of myself behind and not miss them at all.
Goa wasn’t just beautiful—it was alive. Even the air felt charged. The fruit was sweeter, the air thicker with jasmine and spice, the conversations deeper, like no one was pretending to be anything. Even time slowed down. Everything just was. Present. Honest.
I remember one night, walking back from dinner, barefoot with sand between my toes, and the moon was huge. Like a white-gold spotlight. The beach was quiet except for a few guitars strumming in the distance. And I felt this overwhelming stillness—not emptiness, not loneliness. Something else. Something that cracked me open and whispered, You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
It’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t been there. But something really did happen to me out there. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was subtle. A shift. A rearranging of my insides. Like all the pieces of me finally sighed into place.
I didn’t come back from Goa with souvenirs. I came back with something better: proof that life can be soft. That healing doesn’t always look like a big breakthrough—it can look like rice and dal under a tin roof, or a stranger calling your name because they remembered your smile. It can sound like waves, or silence, or your own laughter echoing off a scooter you probably weren’t qualified to ride.
Goa changed me. Quietly, completely.
And I think I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.
