I am writing this on the beach in Goa, lapping up the tropical sun and listening to the Arabian Sea crash onto the fine, warm sand. I know it was damn hard to leave the European winter behind! For those who aren’t familiar with Goa, let me divert slightly. Without sounding like an 80’s holiday brochure, I’ll give you 80’s pop culture instead: Southern Goa is paradise; think Duran Duran video (Save a Prayer) or that original Bounty advert. Coconut trees line the bay, swaying in the breeze to cast shadows on the sand. It is a kind of layman’s version of the Maldives; an idyllic holiday destination for a fraction of the price. Actually our hut right on the beach with frontline view of the ocean costs five pounds a night (but you ain’t seen the state of the plumbing).
There is of course a very good reason for me to be here. It’s where I met the love of my life, J, the man fifteen years my junior but in every single way my equal. We decided that under the circumstances (which will be revealed in a later column) we wanted to come back where it all started and have a kind of ‘second honeymoon’.
Yes indeed, here we are, exactly two years, two weeks (and many a detrimental break-up, make-up) later, falling in love all over again. Only this time it’s better because it’s not just fantasy, it’s based on real life. We’ve gone through the initial in love phase; when you look at the other through sunset-inspired, palm-tree framed specs and we’ve come out the other side, still wanting to wear those wacky shades. We’ve been through the “I can’t be with a man/woman like you” remarks and the diabolic arguments in the middle of the night, bringing you so close to blood-thirst you begin to understand why most murders are domestic (or at least you begin to sympathize with those who check themselves into mental institutions). And now we’ve come out the other side with hearts a-burning and the wisdom that we must always try hard not to hurt each other. All flames have been rekindled, all areas. And to top it all off those exciting sexual sparks that go off at the start of all chemical combustions are back.
So now we’re thinking about a shotgun wedding, Indian style. I’m picturing us leaving a cobalt-blue Goan church surrounded by smiling locals (they’re complete strangers of course, but entirely sincere). We are wearing flowing robes and have garlands of flowers strung around our necks. Little kayal-eyed girls in bright yellow and pink saris throw jasmine blossoms over us and in the distance a band is playing Hindi hits. Now don’t get me wrong; I was never one of those Muriel’s Wedding types, in fact getting married was always bottom of my list, coming long after parachute jumping and riding off into the sunset on a white unicorn – on my own. And it’s not a desperate measure because I will hit 40 this year either. More so it is because I suppose, deep down I’m a romantic and if I’m going to get married, I’d rather it be in a quirky, unconventional way. But alas, India picked up bureaucracy big time during the British Empire days and our lovers spontaneity is somehow lost on having to fill out residency forms (can we really claim we’re living in a straw hut on the beach?); trying to come up with four native witnesses who can definitely claim we’re not already married (how much would it cost to bribe that one-legged beggar?); numerous trips to the courts in the municipal capital (where I hear there’s a malaria epidemic) and a very dodgy, rupee-hungry local lawyer. The first visit to his office was like something out of Dickens meets Dahl layered with mountains of dust. Then on top of all that we have to wait two Sundays to see if anyone files to oppose the matrimony. For Chris sake, why don’t we just get the next plane to Las Vegas where you can do it in five minutes? I’ll keep you posted on the proceedings.
By Claudia Spahr
For more information and an excerpt from her latest book go to:http://www.andrewlownie.co.uk/authors/claudia-spahr/books/so-what-if-hes-younger
