The monsoon is far less scary when they turn on their windshield wipers or for that matter when they have them. For abandoned rusted tankers in the water, Goa is #1. For non-abandoned rusted tankers, Goa also does well. Many are carrying iron ore to China. The Portuguese colonial churches are eerily like colonial Brazil, yet no one lives in old Goa any more. My guide claims the state of Goa is 45 percent Christian. My hotel practices Restaurant Apartheid and won’t let me sit with the Indian customers. They try to talk me out of eating the Goan foods ("don’t you want the chicken breast Sir? Very nice pastries…", etc.). The white pumpkin curry is amazing. Goa is far less densely populated than I had expected; the major city has only about 80,000 people. One meal experience can involve being served by eight different people, none of whom ever stand more than ten feet away from you and each of whom you must say goodbye to. Need I compare this to Bordeaux? Cashews are the gift of choice. When it stops pouring, which does happen occasionally, women flock to the beach in beautifully colored saris. My taxi driver looked quite a bit like me; I believe he has Portuguese blood as I do. I have read that the state of Goa has the highest per capita income in India; this appears to come from the entire distribution and not just from the peaks. Malcolm Gladwell books are seen everywhere, as is Freakonomics, which has Angelina Jolie on the cover. There is less here than I had thought but I’ve ended up liking it more. Next is Hyderabad, and back to work.