Final Fire Fiasco and Farewells

We transcended into the realms of enlightenment as yogi alumni over a final flicker of remedial flame before levitating celestially over the hot afternoon sand to the sea for a farewell party and some well received cocktails. The following few days consisted of some fond and emotional farewells. Opening the lumbar spine and hip joints for a month leaves you feeling somewhat fragile. Wrenching myself from Rachel was as painful as tearing off a tenacious fabric plaster, however I entrusted her with some salient items as insurance that she would  have to meet with me again in real life in the future...

On Christmas eve we ate at Space, the second best vegan jaunt in Agonda, which does however serve the most moist and delectable cakes perhaps in southern India. These arrive within a paltry hour of ordering, dragged to the table by the stoic Indian gentleman who skuffs his raggedy flip flops the 10-12ft to our table often bringing the wrong order. But they are nonetheless, most certainly worth the wait. Before Kaiser left bound for Sweden she had promised her landlord at Tutti Huts that she would crack some cardamons and learn how to make curry with her. So for the afternoon we hung out in the kitchen, really only assisting with the peeling of a few garlic cloves, but skillfully avoid the scorching midday heat and frantically taking recipe notes over a few cold Tuborgs. After sinking some goodbye mojitos and a final few rounds of incredible Nepalese momos, steamed parcels filled with your choice of spinach, cheese, seafood or vegetables, the final few of us headed to meet Deepak and the other 300 hour course yoga students for some Bollywood dancing. We rolled around the room raucously full of rum, and before I knew it I must have arrived in bed and sunk into a deep, fully-clothed slumber.

Christmas Day began laudably with the best fluffy tomato and three cheese omelette and cup of coffee in town, at our beloved Budan, run by an amiable young Indian from Kashmir who recently split from his English girlfriend but offers a cheerfully prophetic outlook on life, love and chance. We'd been hitting up Budan with habitual regularity at precisely 10:05 after a quick jog down the road on our breakfast hour for the only real Italian hit of liquid energy, in order to tackle the sonmiferous onset of two hours of Anatomy or Philosophy class before lunch. Imi, London based lawyer, left Goa for the Southern shores of Kerela at noon and I dropped her at the airport 2 hours North, before heading upto Mandrem and Arambol beaches to suss out a magical retreat for a celestially calm New Years. In danger of subscribing tragically to the irritating elitism often employed by travellers somehow subtly feuding over the validity of their personal experience of a place or people, I must report that i found the North to be an unpalatable mash of Russians in minuscule budgie-smugglers, lecherous holiday makers, and loud and pretentious white draped resorts blaring bland house into the long, and featureless busy beaches. But, as a qualified yogi bear I say this of course without judgement or prejudice, and simply turned quietly on my disgruntled heel and migrated South once again - submitting to stay nestled comfortably in the calmness of the cove of Agonda instead. My taxi driver for the 3 hour journey, who concluded the 7 hour round-trip that day, was a delight, and bought me an orange. So the day was not lost, and I had myself an obscure but juicy and delicious Christmas present at the last minute. 

Boxing Day was far more successful as I rented a bike and resorted to a day of rinsing around South Goa soaking up the sights. I visited Sam, Mama Agonda, at H2o on the beach to deliver a Christmas present and seek a co-pilot. Unexpectedly, I was fortunate enough to find three. Trying to covertly evade Sam's two dogs Happy and Cookie in a back exit stealth mission turned out to be less than successful. We found them already waiting for us at the bike, and so with slightly more corpulent Cookie in the cockpit, and Happy gathered up like a baby in Sam's arms we proceeded perilously to bless ourselves in a local temple, and scale the fort ruins of Cabo de Rama. Despite all intents and purposes,a scaped leg and a minor exhaust scorch, we arrived back in one piece around dinner time. 

The rest of the week consisted of resplendent early morning yoga sessions directed by my beautiful Bulgarian course mate Irena, long strolls to our favourite restaurants up and down Agonda, and increasing excitement over Jack's impending arrival. It's a shame the week's drop-in classes were already divvied up between two other graduates, otherwise I would have liked to take a class, however I instead poured my creativity into a New Year hour long sunset practice that I was composing to unleash on a poor unsuspecting Jack. I will miss Agonda so much, and the local and Northern Indians who make a living from the tourist industry. The innumerable high fives and hellos that come with a walk through town, the silver smith Gollum who was unnervingly well-practiced in riddles, the happy family who mock our friendly greetings with an exaggerated 'heellloooo' of lofty falsetto tones every morning, the friendly internet man who lets me dunk rich teas into my grubby Nutella pot as I check my finances, and everyone else who makes me smile on the 3km walk. Especially our home stay restaurant owner Danesh (a.ka. Dennis, or Dirty D as we call him) with whom I may well be betrothed and set to marry on January 15th.

I will be sad to tear myself away.

Teacher Training Tenacity

We acclimatised quickly to the intense physical exertion, mainly because we generally had no time between assiduous astanga primary series repetitions to dwell on our limitations. And as these things always seem to go, the hours melted into days, and the days dissipated into weeks. But this is not to say that we did not make a point of frequently, and with vehement fervour, associating with our less than lugubrious lot. Blood, sweat and tears aside, each moment was a blessing and we frequently meditated on our gratitude; be it sat in lotus with eyes closed, dristi on the third eye, or alternatively when stationed uncomfortably in the back of a crowded rikshaw careering through the jungle, or when languidly leaning in a land of pillows at one of the million beautiful restaurants on the Agonda beach, or bobbing in the warm sea under the benevolent bowing of the sun. A numinous highlight was experiencing the serenity of yin yoga (a slow sinking of the body into postures using the help of gravity and relaxation) during a tropical thunderstorm in the electricity-less shala guided by candle light. Not a second went by without having first been wrung of every last kilojoule of good energy and appreciation.

As we learnt more and more, my preferences quickly began to lie in the logic of yogic philosophy. We even attended additional classes on Saturday afternoons as Keshava our yogic monk was overly prone to digress on a runaway path of lengthy jokes which invariably highlighted a particularly poignant philosophical analogy most often incorporating stark contrasts between some opulent king and his inadvisable penchant for Lamborghinis?! These lengthy gags were tendentiously delivered in remarkably subtle English language grasp, but inevitably coloured with dialectical nuances and the famous Indian head wobble. Satsangs were sort of open evening seminar gatherings which gave us the opportunity to relinquish our torturous straightened spine postures of class, and sink comfortably into yoga bolsters and blankets poised ready to fire questions at Keshava.

Throughout the month, Keshava confirmed that yogis have been living alongside a timeless and divine philosophy closely akin to the psychological, philosophical and scientific discoveries of today. Yogis ascribe to an ancient understanding of the building blocks of Space and Nature so simple and graspable. There is no anthropomorphic deity to be spoken of, and the lofty heights of divine creation lie simply in the singular consciousness of Universal energy, of which we all take a small piece for our existence on Earth. This energy, like a recycled hand-me-down family garment, obtains relevant samskaras or emotional and psychological scars of existence which stay bonded with the individual through reincarnation, until samadhi or enlightenment is achieved. This concept was the final piece in the puzzle during a deeply investigatory final Saturday afternoon satsang, and is the only aspect not fully congruous with my current understanding, but I appreciate the idea and can sense its accuracy in practice. And admittedly, the course syllabus didn't stipulate unfaltering revelation and enlightenment as a direct consequence...

Sunday's off were spent on a myriad of utterly breathtaking beaches. A fellow yogi, friend, and inaugurator of the world's first boxing-yoga class (a really exciting new and upcoming hardcore style of yoga I'm definitely going to be learning back in England) has a friend who has lived in Agonda for 7 years, and who quickly became our more than qualified guide. Sam speaks relatively fluent Konkani, the South Goan vernacular infused with cockney spice and arranged us the most incredible trips clad with bags of freshly made sandwiches, sliced mango and Nutella and rich teas. This got us off to a fantastic start! A half hour rickety boat jaunt North found us marooned on Spring Beach. A tiny secluded cove shaded by steep jungle infused cliffs which made you feel like a long lost castaway. The following weekend we sunbathed alone on Turtle Beach where the river meets the sea, and we enjoyed a delectable array of fresh fish for less than a fiver...  It almost makes you feel bad.

Aside from resplendent trips and sumptuous snacks, Mama Agonda has been sorting me our with Surf detergent, a divine lemon and honey body scrub, organic lemongrass mosquito repellent and other impeccable items for my inventory. I have taken to conserving time and resources but washing my hair and clothes in one single fluid motion. During this transaction I am quickly and concisely fulfilling one of the yogic Niyamas which comprise the second arm of astanga yoga, namely Saucha or cleanliness, as I stand shakily in a bucket in my bathroom haphazardly scrubbing my head whilst pommeling my clothes in Surf underfoot like a studious grape stomper at the crush. The days are won by small pragmatic feats such as this when the body and mind are exhausted after 8 hours of classes, and any extra task for the continuity of life becomes a precipitious battle.

Lokassamastassukino bhavantu

Just a brief report on week one to let you know what our bodies and minds have been through so far. Wednesday 28th Nov kicked off at 6:30am with a pranyama class with Keshava, educating us on best methods of controlling (yamas) our energy, the vital life force (prana). On an individual level, this is epitmosed in the act of respiring most successfully. Simply inflating the lungs with deep, shallow breaths, does our incredible diaphragms an injustice and wastes the absorption of oxygen at our alveoli. With air pressure of 1.03kg/cm² on Earth, it's just a case of dynamically contracting and expanding the abdominals to create space and allow the greatest volume of air to flood in and offer us life. It also makes you a bit light-headed, which is fun. 

This technique comes in very handy during sunrise astanga practice. We run through a complete, and hectic Suyanamaska A series, or sun salutation, of which I have only completed in increments over many weeks at previous yoga schools... Practicing it in its entirety is a different kettle of fish. Cue a multitude of progressively difficult asanas (postures) and bucket loads of sweat... But it has been inspiring to work at high pace, completing a cycle in 2 hours. All this before 10am. 

This is remedied by the discovery of Salisbury based, eloquent and mellifluous toned, Rachel, sister from a different mister. She is the fricking balls. We haven't officially gone as far as facebooking our relationship, so she may not see this for many a moon. When you do: you da bomb. I've never met someone with such dapper received pronunciation and such a preposterous gangster impression.  Although she studied Classical Music in Bristol, I am as of yet unsuccessful in forcing her to serenade the class despite several awkward public attempts. I do however, get a sense of her vibes during morning mantras, and I'm sort of hoping we can get her pissed enough during our momentous graduation (fingers crossed, we have mid-terms next week...) and I can initiate a sing song. In true  British style we've flocked together like birds of a feather in the face of adversity, to talk outrageously fast, quite posh, and laugh at the French.

 

Another banana pancake fiend. Match made in heaven? 

I didn't give much thought to the clientele of a Goan yoga retreat, fearing more the physical aspects in the preceding months, but the group is full of such epic people from all over the world, I feel blessed with luck and love! But safe to say, Rachel is a flipping diamond, is supportive of my awful blog (although she's yet to see it) and has been tenaciously working out my abdominals further still both in and out of class in hysterical laughter. During our lunch break my course mates and I saunter smugly into the sea, and gorge gargantuan meals along one of the many beautiful beach places, spending a meager £1-£2 on filling our bellies and finding out about all our wonderful course mates. Boxing professionals, photographers, drama-therapists, lawyers, masseurs, and the off few who have quit their jobs, lifted anchor and sailed East like me. Bliss. 

I haven't, however, sat cross-legged on the floor for any notable length of time since Reception, when we'd coat our hands in PVA glue to peel it off like an unwanted shed of skin during story time. This may have distracted us from the crippling pain. That, or our soft bones. Now, almost all 206 scream out in agony after 5 minutes on the tiled shala floor, where we spend about 10 hours a day. Meditation is unimpressively tricky in such environments to say the least, and without the normal pain-free lapse to the other side, I keep percuiliarly finding myself revereting in my mind's eye to the grassy hill she runs around in during the opening scene of The Sound of Music. I literally have no idea whay, but there are worse places to be getting RSI in my knees I guess.

 

Course cash. Each note is the equivalent of about 10p. Makes you feel like a big don though. 

On Saturday, to celebrate an imminent Sunday off, we decided a walk to the 'best restaurant in Agonda' , a cheeky half hour jaunt out of town. I contracted another 1,000 or so mosquito bites of course, despite bathing in Jungle Juice prior, but the sights were worth it, I think. Innumerable and huge eagles soar above the jungles like common crow, I really can't get used to the scenery. Cows wander idly down the road like royalty, in sublime ignorance of the agitated horns of passing vehicles. I'm sure they rankle the locals, but they can do nothing about it as they're sacred creatures and as a Sampoorna Yoga student astutely pointed out: ॐ Ooommmm is  simply Mooooo backwards - making them the World's certified biggest chillers.

 

Mansion. India style.

 

   Another cow.                           Best Shop in town.

The food was insane, literally the best vegan slop I've ever eaten. Much of the time I was'nt entirely sure what the pallid slop actually is, but the juices were vibrant and delicious and the food was outstanding. We ate to near ruin for about 3.50.

On Sunday I met an amiable German on a stroll who guided me through the thick jungle to Butterfly Beach - a secluded cove several stops round from Agonda accessible only by boat. Or, one treacherous trip through the thickets. After several thorn bushes in my hair, a formidable scrape to my right knee; the final furlong was in sight. Walking down a wider stretch  of semi-hospitable path, feeling slightly deflated to have not spotted any spiders from afar. Then, suddenly, in front of us we spot (almost too late) an enormous Giant Wood Spider hanging terrifyingly about 2ft abut head height across the way. Nephila maculata is found from Japan all the way down to Australia and throughout India. Although not lethal - it's bite is poisonous and apparently painful due to it's deplorable fangs.It belongs to the golden orb weaver family, which is why its silk is yellow, and this silk is the strongest of any spider. Their disgracefully large webs sometimes catch small birds or bat. Makes me miss the cockroach. 

Banyan tree belnoging to the fig family - National tree of India. The branches take new roots and keep on living and regenerating for thousands of years.

Thus ends week one, in utter exhaustion, sheer panic, and stifling heat. 

I am loving it way too much.

Gorgeous Goa

As it had been years since I frequented the rickety frames of a Eastern tuktuk, I foolishly decided to ride one from Margao, the main train/ bus station in Goa, to Agonda beach, my home for the next month. The severe lack of suspension coupled with dubious, if not downright dangerous, driving style of my ballsy driver has potentially left me with several slipped discs. Perhaps not a great prelude to a month of intense physical exertion, buuuut you live, you learn.

Fernando Rodriguez, ostentacious tuktuk operartor, comes from a line of potentially 5 generations of Portuguese Goan settlers from what I can gather, I generally only understand one in every fifteen or so words, but he is very jolly, and a great host for my inaugral journey into the state. Although, I was somewhat preoccupied by the eight enormous webs cradling sizeable, dark masses I've spotted strewn sometimes maybe 8ft wide through the plumage of a muddle of tropical trees in great expanses of lush jungle, inevitably containing a million untold terrors.... My crazy colleague Charlie was perhaps right, an umbrella may not have gone amiss when passing through such terrain.

After about an hour and a quarter, or twenty crippling kilometers, I checked into my basic room at Fatima's and checked out the stuunning beach about 100m from my door. I swam blissfully, bobbing about by my myself in an unbelievably quiet and serene expanse of fine sandy goodness, fringed with palm and banana trees, then took a stab at hooping (which lasted no more than two-three hundred seconds in the scorching heat), before it was all too much and i took a well-deserved nap.

                                   
At 5pm, all the 200hr yoga teacher training students met in the guesthouse restaurant for an initial meeting with Deepak, the equivalent of our yogic guru for the month - who turns out to be pretty good fun. We ate a delicious vegetable curry whilst discussing the evils of mass food production in the West. 

But now, time for bed. Here ends the smooth and painless gliding of my joints and the effortless contraction of my meagre muscles. We rise at dawn! (ish).

7am marked the beginning of our yoga journey, and Sampoorna marks the occasion with a 'Homah' or Fire Ceremony. This practice offers thoughts and emotions to the Divine oneness of the Universe. And so we sacrificed the impurities of our lower nature into the Fire of Awareness and look forward to accessing our higher beings with the ultimate goal being Samadhi - enlightenment. A tall order for the month, but I'll give it my best shot. Keshava the yogic monk chanted mantras from about 6:30 until we finish around 8am which was pretty mental. 

Om Srim Hrim Klim Glaum Gam Ganapatye Vara Varada Sarva-janum Me Vasamanaya Svaha
Seek the Bessings of Supreme Consciousness manifested in the form of Ganapati, embodiment of auspiciousness, remover of all obstacles, dispeller of Sorrow, and who fulfills all desires.

The ceremony was beautiful and we tossed various items into the flames to mark the spirituality and materialsm of our goals, purifying ourselves and the enviornment of the shala where we will practice yoga (the fumes also being great for alleviating mozzy attacks, double win).

The rest of the day consisted of introductions to Anatomy, Asanas (yoga poses), Ashtanga, Alignment and Philosophy classes. The whole day was aweomse, inspiring, full of a great international broth of yoga disciples, beautiful weather, a glorious sunset, fantastic food, and only ever so slightly marred by the early discovery of my very own resident coackroach. Which fell within a millimeter past my face from the top of my bathroom door this morning., invoking a cartoon leap into the air of atleast 3ft. I can obviously no longer sleep with the light off in this place. Ever. First lesson in Philosophy: never harm another living being. Damn. 

Fine dining

So yesterday morning was more of a struggle. Travel arrangement casualty number one.... I wake up at 7:17 in my scrotty little room. My train just left. Damn.

So I wistfully wander the streets trying to locate a travel agent, tip toeing around laid out locals snoozing on the pavements, to find Mumbai barely rises before 8:30am. There's only one thing for it, much more much needed sleep...

I woke at 11:20 in a reasonably foul mood, partially plagued by the 9 Vesuvian bites on my ass (great, malaria and it's only day #2), by the waste of money (tuppence for the 380 miles in question, to be fair), by the missed sun rise infused train journey, and the unexpected extra day in beautiful Bombay...

The view from my 'Delight'ful bedsit

But these things are sent to try us, and since I am on my gap yar spiritual journey of yoga and meditation in Indya literally, I thought forgeeetttaboutit! And though I do have a niggling thought that; had I got through to Jack before bed last night he would have inevitably told me to most certainly not rely on my trusty, but now disgraced, Casio (furious you were right there big guy...), sweet karmic reverberations did, as a result, have me serendipitously stumble across the lovely Pooja. A beautiful and open minded bio-med student turned incredibly talented seamstress. We converse at length about the similarities and differences between our cultures, but mainly to be honest about food. It turns out i haven't had anything near enough authentic Bombay culinary excellence, so I am fortuitously whisked away to meet friend Carpesh at a cool place a little further North call Onk Kake - Punjab for Hey! Younger Brother - and so begins my brief introduction to Indian eating...

I must try paani puri - which turns out to be those curious little crispy spheresI've been seeing piled high on the road sides, which are 'sweet and at the same time sour and at the same time salty'. Bhaji actually means vegetable, daal is curry and sukh means dry. Wow, and as an intriguing side note; my dictionary knows that starbucks better appears as Starbucks, but it knows nothing of bhaji or daal. It is definitely missing out.  I had the sneaking suspicion that local UK curry houses aren't perhaps fully demonstrative of the fragrant spectrum of sumptuous Indian offerings, but I am sort of still constantly surprised. 

We eat roti dunked in a myriad of delicious sauces, navigating precariously but joyously with our hands until I can barely move. And then comes some rice. For the main aspect of the meal. Dear lord! After we finish (well, as much we can, all for 1.80 GBP!) and have a quick group snap; I practically roll out the resturarnt, turgid with Thali, bid Pooja and Carpesh a fond farewell and stroll back to watch the sunset at the Gate of India before my train to Goa. Within about 2 milliseconds I am spotted again, the only white skin amidst a mass of dark shades. They are currently occupying a considerate 4ft perimeter, with the occasional handshake thrust upon me. Oh! Strike that, they've closed in.....

I had to pack up my shiz and bail, as the fury of photos became slightly alarming. I've got a wicked photo of a wall of intrigued Indians snapping a photo of me...I'll put it up soon. And oh yea! Pooja answered the ginger barnett mystery. It's henna! Which makes more sense... Sort of.

                              

The bus sleeper bus was pretty sweet and I slip into a languorous laid back lethargy snoozing fairly immediately. Two hours later I wake up, and we're still not even out the city! How I slept through the relentless beeping I literally do not know. Over the next 14 hours I sleep mostly, and we stop several times to let people out and the only sound to break the night's silence is the occasional obstreperous hocking up of a filthy loogey, favourite pass time of Indian dudes it seems, before they pelt them out the nearest window or onto the floor. Nice. I guess they say better out that in, but in this instance I'd be inclined to disagree.

Ironically, the only awesome apostrophe I've seen so far was spotted around this time:

    d'not spit

An interesting twist on the omission of a letter, but each to their own! What I am growing to like about the culture is they it all their own way; apostrophes, half built houses, highly questionable driving methods, strained looking power cables clusters, the cheeky extra half hour on the time difference. I kind of like it!

Oh! Remind me to mention the bats next time! I made it to Agonda in Goa, and have had the induction with some other epic yogi bears, but insufficient hydration perhaps, coupled with intense cooking from the sun beckons my weard head to sleep. Peace out.

Mumbai madness

So the flight was fairly chilled. The meals got progressively better as we ventured East. The first between London and Doha; a myriad of suprirsingly succulent fruits, yogurt and some sapid, sloppy sweet crepes. 

Followed many hours later by a paneer tikka massala between Doha and Mumbai with delectable dashings of piquant pickles and some enigmatic almond gloop. A rather tasty prelud to the next few months. Then came the long overdue realisation that long haul flights come with complimentary booze... Cue several pops at the Chilean merlot, which partially impaired my ablity to absorb the yogic anatomy anthology I have in my inventory.

Luckily for me, an amible Spaniard on his fifth trip to India, to inaugrate a repspectable route of reliable mango retail between Mumbai and his motherland (they have the best in the world in India it turns out - can't wait), helped me discover some stashed immigration cards behind an unmanned desk - as of course, I'd missed inexplicably missed that mandate during the flight

After a 2 hour snooze on an uncomfrotable marble block, I rose wearily at day break to take on the trek into town. Skillfully circumventing the undulating sea of taxi touts, despite the alluring allusion to 'speed' promised in semi-legible, shaggy vinyl on every spare inch of the beaten chassis, I bounced forth on good advice from a severely good-vibes guru from the airport, to bump shoulders with Bombayians on the barborous public transport.

During a tense exchange experienced when asking for advice from the belligerent bus ballot bloke on the 308, I found salvation in a beautiful Indian girl who gave mevague direction in broken English and directed me to the front 'ladies only' carrige. I felt more at ease in the company of females. Most were travelling in small family cohorts and here I was more likely to steal a surreptitious smile, once the short-lived scruitiniy is over and she suddenly realises that are simply someone's harmless sister or daughter.

Touchdown in town, sweating to the nines. Even the meagre 11 kilos on my back has become somewhat of an immediate burden due to the wall of heat which sweeps over the city as the sun rises. So it's an uncharacteristic quick decision, motivated by a desire to shower with a level of immediacy, following some guidance from a tiny ginger gentleman (a staggering proportion of Indian gentlemen opt for this perplexing shape), to lodge at the Delight Hotel, a delightfully overdressed description of what turns out to in fact be; some ridiculously rudimentary rooms. But passable no doubt.

                             

                                  

                                  

                                                                      Creepy puppets at Gandhi's house.

I learned that Gandhi's real name was Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, and Mahatma means simply the High-Souled one, or Venerable in Sanskrit which came to be his name naturally in honour of his services to the people. It was so interesting to learn about his many acts of peaceful civil disobedience in favour of India's independence and think about the implications from within the country. And I had randomly learned shortly before that Mumbai is named after Koli Goddess Mumba, or Maha Amba, the Great Amba, who was patron of salt, the subject of one of Gandhi's epic marches. 

              

The rest of the day is spent battling the crowds during a Jain holy day, agreeing to accompany a tiny native called Ashak on an auspicious expedition of the city, and trying to avoid the attention of a mass of misguided Mumbaians at the Gate of India, who seem convinced I'm some sort of glorious, glamarous celebrity and insist on photographing me with every member of accompanying friends and family units. Worst things have happened at sea. 

I ate at the infamous Leopald's Cafe, a location of the 2008 Mumbai bombings, and featured heavily in Shantaram as the criminal convene for the cities baddest. They do a lovely garlic naan incidentally, and I saw no obvious drug deals. Spot of shopping, then bed!

First impressions of India? Aflame with radiant sunshine, gorged with 11.98 million friendly faces, scented by the ambrosial agreeability of inscence billowing out of every entrance, with a reprehensible landscape wrought in relentless realms of rubbish, all accompanied by a deafening cacophany of incessant car horns; I can't help but conclude that the attack on the senses is simply sublime. 

Still, southward bound to the beautiful beaches.....