... but I can see why they like Goa.

For starters, getting around is ridiculously easy. The intrastate bus system is quite good, and cheap and... dare I say it... on time. The train station is in Margao, in South Goa; an express train covers the 23 km journey north to Panjim pretty quickly, and for 15 rupees a head. We got to the Panjim station this morning just in time for an express to Mapusa, the main bus center (5 rupees). From Mapusa, we were there — again, just in the nick of time — for the hour journey (8 rupees per head) to Arambol, a quiet, not too hippied, not too touristed, mostly undeveloped beachside village way up near the northern end of Goa.

Our first day in Goa though, was spent in the capital, Panjim. Walking through Panjim doesn't quite feel like India. There are enough bars to seem English, enough of the West overall for young women to wear jeans and tight tops, and enough Portugeuse for lots and lots and lots of good grub.

There's not much to see in Panjim though, well, save for the 40-rupee beers on restaurant menus. Claudia wanted to see Old Goa, known mainly for its churches and cathedrals. We wandered over to the bus station, crossing a footbridge and passing a cybercafe called "Byte Me", to wind up haggling with a rickshaw driver in the queue at the station. "How much to Old Goa?" I asked.

"100 rupees."

"What? Our bus driver said we could go there for 70."

"No no, it's 100... Old Goa is far, 12 km away." (Oh btw, rickshaws in Goa are supposed to charge about 8 rupees per km... but Old Goa is actually only about 9-10km away.)

Claudia: "12km? It's 10. 80 rupees."

"No no, 90."

"Let's take the bus Ant."

"No no, bus only leaves once an hour" (really, once every 15-20 minutes) "And it's crowded. Soooooo many people."

Claudia just looked at him and said, "I've taken buses before."

We started to walk away (a very handy haggling technique), when from behind us we heard "Okay. 80." That's more like it.

The rickshaw ride was quite nice: 10kms of riverside highway, heading east towards Old Goa.

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Old Goa is known for its cathedrals and religious ruins, so we plodded about all afternoon, looking at churches, cows and dead saints. St. Francis Xavier is interred in his own Basilica. Instead of 6 feet under, he's about 10 feet up, in a glass-sided coffin on top of a rather elaborate funeral monument. You can see all of him but his right arm... which according to Let's Go was his baptismal arm and as such is kept in Rome. Right. Perhaps this means that when Nolan Ryan dies his body will be buried in Texas, but his pitching arm will be moved to the Baseball Hall of Fame, but I don't follow baseball so can't really say for certain.

We wandered and wandered, up a hill to explore the ruins of a cathedral for St. Augustine. I don't know what caused it to become a ruin, but imagining what it must've been like, is mind-boggling. The grounds covered an area about the size of a football field (American football that is); the cathedral was certainly a major part, but by no means the only one.

Heading back to town had some challenges though: no rickshaws. Only taxis, which tend to be overpriced. A driver approached, but we waved him off, wanting to give it a bit more time. I spied a rickshaw, parked across the main road. We started walking towards it, wondering if we'd get 80 rupees again or if we'd have to pony up 100... when a loud honking stopped up.

A local bus pulled up and stopped; "Anthony" (as in the saint, not a personal greeting) was stenciled on the windshield. "It's a sign," I said to Claudia. A man hopped down, looked at us and said, "Panjim?" "Yes!" we said. "4 rupees each." We clambered in, and were back at the bus station in less time that it took the rickshaw to get us to Old Goa.

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Now we're in Arambol. You've heard it described before, and have seen it before, on postcards and in travel-agent brochures for package holidays: pristine beaches, sparkling blue water, yadda-yadda. But it really is beautiful, and while I would't call it "pristine", it doesn't need to be. It's quiet, not too developed (the biggest hotel is 3 stories, and isn't on the beach but set maybe a quarter-mile away).

Finding a room wasn't easy. After walking a few kilometers, first on a dirt trail then on the beach, in the sun and under full pack, we weren't relishing the thought of climbing up hills to see rooms. After rejecting two, the guy asked why. We were nearly at the crest of a big hill, and the path to get there wound and wound. "Mate, if we have more than 2 beers, we'll never make it back," I said.

Our room is right above a bar though, so we'll make it back just fine. There's a wee bit of beach (which Claudia's already talked about)... though I do admit that part of my decision about the room was made when I was standing on the balcony and watching 3 girls in the water: 2 bikini-clad, one more, ahem, au natural.

The water is warm, the sun just right. The rocks are dramatic and begging photos and, well, maybe some poems. The beach curves like a crescent moon. There's also a guy selling pipes, right below our room. I'm sure they're only for smoking legal blends of tobacco, and that those funky leaves were just a mess-up at the factory; these were intended to be Canadian maple leaves on patriotic pipes, but oh well. These things happen.

Young guys walk around with their arses hanging out of pants that don't seem to fit their hips. Girls wear bikinis; it almost feels like the west. Beer is cheap — and plentiful. There are boat trips and walks, and I can already see why some people — from the 60s, when Goa was a hippie haven, onward — just never, ever leave. Claudia will, I'm sure, be dragging me kicking and screaming to Mumbai.