Its early in the morning. I am sitting next to a little boat at the beach, meeting sunrise. At this hour of day there isn't heat yet, and barely any people are around right now.
The first thing I felt coming out of a plane at the airport in Dabolim - melted moist air, which disappeared hundreds of, unknown to my nose, different smells. It was a mix of fruits boiling in the heat, burning garbage, red dust, cakes, the masala chai and curry. The air here smells of freedom. People send the vibe.
Goa has a special magic. One, who ceases to distinguish the widespread debris, skinny cows, the smell of burning plastic, the lack of service as well and civilization, and starts to notice the atmosphere of the place, risks to get into something called "the Goan Syndrome". No one can explain what it is. But everyone knows: it is not treated. Leaving at the end of the season, you can swear on the heat, mosquitoes, garbage, roads and Indians, but later on you will find yourself tenderly looking at pictures of a cow stealing your corn, or monkey running with your bananas. Here is a bright light flash - on the night of the trance party, or here you're enjoying the scrambled eggs, prepared by an old,caring Indian grandmother. In this photo you are on a bike or eating a lobster... and playing with the neighbor's dog,who is your friend. Thus, you always smile - it is this causeless happiness to wake up every morning exactly at this point of the planet. Now you are trapped.