Tuesday, 3 September 2013

Spain's 3rd View

Spanish Caravan
From Madrid to Segovia and on to Toledo, We hitch a ride to remember
The minute my trip to Spain was confirmed, silly smatterings of that song from way back when started running through my head—you know the one: “Oh, this year I’m off to sunny Spain…yeah viva España…” I was clearly not “taking the Costa Brava plane” as in the song, but travelled instead in perfect comfort on Turkish Airlines, which works rather well as a gentle and geographically logical transition from Asia to Europe. I was not going there to “chat to a matador in some cool cabaña” either, but this was not going to come in the way of great anticipatory glee.
Spain is many things. It is bound to be. In its heyday as a global power, its conquistadors and armadas spread their tentacles far and wide, and those tentacles did not return empty. Many, like neighbouring Arab countries, the Romans and the French at various points, lusted for a slice of this Hispanic land and left behind their imprints too in some successful and some not-so-successful forays. With its long history, its constant and continuing presence and influence in the world of arts and culture, the list of must-dos and must-sees is bound to be very long.
But when life is short and the visit shorter, if you can’t do the full-course meal (metaphorically speaking), do it the ‘tapas’ way—many plates of many things, delicious samplers that leave you replete. It seemed appropriate to start our Madrid visit with just this—tapas (now speaking literally). Our excellent guide Joanna (who left England twelve years ago in pursuit of flamenco—and Spain—and stayed on impenitent) trotted us down to La Trucha, where we regaled ourselves with an array ranging from swordfish and Iberian ham to fried peppers, asparagus and of course the standard, and in this case decidedly delicious, tortilla. Washed down with highly satisfactory jugs of sangria or full-bodied Spanish wines. We wove our way down more cobbled streets, past the National Theatre on Plaza de Santa Ana and through the enormous, rectangular Plaza Major thronged by tourists and lined with traditional shops and cafés.
At the café El Ñeru, we watched waiters expertly pour cider from a great height into the glass to air the cider and then finished off with macaroons and truffles at the Mercado de San Miguel, a market of gastronomic delight with rows of stalls where you can make a meal of chorizos from one, cheese from another, wine from a third, and so on… 
It is a long day that started in India and ends in Madrid, so it is rather wonderful to retreat to the comforts of the majestic Westin Palace, the last word in old-world hospitality, for the night. This splendid hotel’s location means that we are ideally located for our tapas-style tour the next day—to walk around and about the historic city centre and to visit the El Prado museum in the Triangle of Art (the triangle including the Thyssen-Bornemisza and the Reina Sofia museums). Here, we see a few choice pieces by the Spanish masters from among the multitudes of galleries and corridors. I have a hankering to see their newly discovered Mona Lisa, almost identical to the other, but have to content myself with a fridge magnet—the original has gone off to hang beside Da Vinci’s at the Louvre for a bit.
Segovia seems to be a closely guarded secret—I don’t think I saw too many nationalities in the throngs of tourists
Try as I will to avoid it, I feel compelled to return to the mention of food. Without elaborating much further, lunch in the oldest restaurant of the world (1725; listed in the Guinness Book of World Records), Restaurante Botín, was an experience, not merely a meal, even if I did not have its famed suckling pig. If it made its way into a Hemingway novel as “one of the best restaurants in the world”, I can hardly fail to mention it in my humble write-up. Or to mention that I also had coffee the next morning in the hundred-year-old Café Commercial, where the anti-Franco army once used to huddle.
Other testaments to heroic activities include the Santiago Bernabéu stadium—where you can do a full tour, from stands to museum to the dressing rooms. Some of the heroes who played here have now victoriously carried away the Eurocup.
No visit to Spain can be complete without a flamenco performance. I would think it impossible not to be enthralled despite not having even a remote understanding of the skill, lyrics or nuances. Or maybe I just lucked out with splendid performances at Las Carboneras on this trip and Casa Patas on a previous one.
In 2011, my arrival coincided with Gay Pride, where a million people took to the streets—or rather the one very long street—and floats, music and dance sashayed forth in, I have to say it, gay abandon. In 2012, I am here on May 15, the day of San Isidro, Madrid’s patron saint. On the previous night, I had flocked with thousands of Madrileños to picnic with friends in the botanical garden, where a music, light and water show concluded with spectacular fireworks. In another part of town, the ‘indignados’, citizen protesters, were also gathering at the Puerto del Sol, to celebrate an anniversary of protests against governments and austerity measures. I felt for them—this is not a place for austerity.
The monks in San Frutos or the La Hoz monasteries may disagree—but there are few of them left in these magnificent edifices. The monasteries are nestled in a valley that can be seen from the ridge of a large expanse of protected reserve in Duraton in the province of Segovia. The capital, also Segovia, is a Unesco World Heritage city with an amazingly intact Roman aqueduct and the astounding Alcázar fortress, situated high on a rock within walls approached by pavements.
Quite different from the summer palace La Granja de San Ildefonso, built in the eighteenth century by Felipe V—a vast, airy palace with galleries upon galleries of arched open hallways with enormous statues and stately rooms displaying enormous Belgian tapestries, including a ‘moral science’ room with a nine-piece Honours set testifying to the virtues required by an Emperor. This was received by the Hapsburg Emperor Charles V as a coronation gift. I was distracted from my examination of the tapestries by a twinge of sympathy for the royal domestic help when I learnt that these were rolled up and travelled with the royal family annually from this residence to the next summer palace and back.
The region of Segovia seems to be a closely guarded secret—I don’t think I saw too many nationalities in the throngs of tourists. Palaces and castles aside, we visited ridges and canyons and also embarked on a little kayaking trip organised by tour operators Naturaltur. My first attempt at this was more fumble than glory but very exhilarating on calm, placid waters that don’t run too deep, while the guides patiently tried to guide and several schoolchildren practised their English politely on me as I bumped into them: “No problem”, “No it was my fault”.
Our much-travelled guide from Naturaltur was a man of many talents. Besides guiding, he had converted a medieval manor into a restaurant, and also ran a charming guesthouse in Duraton, where he kept a pet wolf. Much more wildlife was to be encountered apparently if one took a stroll with the wolf but this was speculative until the walk had been walked. I believed him though. Not all his tales could be tall. He had a wolf.
And now I must return to food. While there are only so many meals that can be had in so few days, each one deserves a mention. If I refrained from eating suckling pig in Botín in Madrid, it was to reserve the moment for Segovia, from where all good piglets come. And the sign of a perfectly cooked one? That it is so tender it can be sliced with a quarter-plate, as the master chef demonstrated at the Duque restaurant. This practice was apparently introduced by the legendary Chef Candido, whose portraits bear an uncanny resemblance to Hitchcock. Segovia has a statue in his honour and, though we did not dine at his restaurant, we lunched at a hotel named after him, which obviously serves outstanding meals. Surfeit meant that we could not savour the delights of El Soportal in the charming town of Pedraza, but meant that we could regale ourselves next day on more excesses of appetisers, greens, cheeses and meats at Jose Maria, under the aegis of another quarter-plate slicing master.
They may not call it ‘Golden’ but golden it is and a triangle too, when we finish our tour with Toledo. It was not my first time—I had come as a backpacking student two decades ago. The central walled city is still as indomitable. The bridges are down over the moats, the cathedral is as magnificent. The roads are still cobbled. The castle where I had lived, on a hill across from the walled city, was a youth hostel and still is. New properties, some ugly, some delightful, have come up, but they are on neighbouring hills, looking out at the same little walled town that was once the capital. Toledo too is a Unesco site, its heritage layered—with successions of Muslim, Hebrew and Christian settlers leading to it being called ‘the city of three cultures’. It was here that El Greco, the Greek artist, having failed to make a mark in Madrid, lived and died. They still insist that this is where marzipan was created.
It is slightly disconcerting to have a guide who speaks some Malayalam—apparently they now have a little community of Keralites too. I am loath to write history notes about a place that fills books and tomes. It is far more captivating to listen to the accounts of stories of yore while soaking in the atmosphere, leaning on cold stone that has absorbed centuries of whispers and shouts.
We are spending our last night in a hotel that skirts the outer walls of Toledo, the erstwhile residence of a cardinal. No one knows or dares tell me which room might actually have been his, but I can tell you that I slept easy and well, after yet another over-indulgent meal.
It would be a glaring omission in any account of Spain to not add that a primary reason to return, time and again, is the sunny, warm, welcoming disposition of the people. Sorry, the song’s running in my head again. “España por favor!”
The Information

Visas
You will require a Schengen visa for Spain, which can be obtained from VFS (vfsglobal.com/spain/india/). 
Madrid
Getting Around
Madrid is built for walking, and most of the places you would want to visit as well as the main shopping area are within walking distance of the city centre. The city has a comprehensive and convenient metro railway and public bus service. For tourists, a good option is to travel on thehop-on-hop-off, open-top buses that do sightseeing tours around the city (adults € 17.50;gomadrid.com).

Where to stay
Madrid has no shortage of hotels, hostals and other options. There’s something to fit every pocket.
  • High End For stately luxury and old-world comforts, try the Westin Palace hotel on Plaza de la Cortes (from € 175; westinpalacemadrid.com). The city’s oldest luxury hotel, the Ritz Madrid, continues its tradition of being a hub of Madrid’s most glamorous and, of course, most wealthy (from € 280; ritzmadrid.com).
  • Mid-Range The NH Eurobuilding is a well-serviced business hotel located in the heart of the city (from € 110; nh-hotels.com). The NH group has several other hotels in the same price range dotted around the city. An old favourite, Hotel Santo Domingo, is now run by Mercure Hotels and continues to offer good value for money (from € 97;hotelsantodomingo.es).
  • Budget The friendly Hotel Opera, near the Royal Opera House, offers classic accommodation for good prices (from € 60, with breakfast; hotelopera.com). The Room Mate collection of minimalistic trendy hotels has four in Madrid; rooms at the Room Mate Hotel Oscar go from € 70 upwards (room-matehotels.com).
Where to eat & drink
  • La Trucha: a tapas bar par excellence with outdoor seating too.
  • El Ñeru: serves Asturian specialities, such as tuna pie and apple cider (restauranteelneru.com).
  • Mercado San Miguel: a great market for a gastronomic spread. On Plaza de San Miguel
    (mercadodesanmiguel.es).
  • Botín: the classic (botin.es).
  • Café Commercial: another of Madrid’s old-timers. At Glorieta de Bilbao.
What to see & do
There are millions of things to do in this vibrant city, but if there are two must-dos, these may be it:
  • Catch a flamenco performance: ask a local for recommendations or head to either the stylish new nightclub, Las Carboneras, Plaza del conde de Miranda, 1 (shows are at 10.30 or 11pm; shows only € 20; tablaolascarboneras.com), or for more ‘true’ flamenco,Casa Patas, Calle de los Cañizares, 10 (shows around midnight on weekends; shows only € 20; casapatas.com).
  • Immerse yourself in the so-called Triangle of Art, the three museums that are counted among the greatest in the world: the Prado (entry € 12; open 10am-8pm Mon-Sat/10am-7pm Sun; museodelprado.es/en/), the Thyssen-Bornemisza (entry € 9 when bought online at museothyssen.org; open 10am-7pm, Mon-Sat) and the Reina Sofia (entry € 6; open 10am-9pm Mon-Sat/10am-7pm Sun; museoreinasofia.es).
Segovia
Getting there
There are regular trains from Chamartin train station in Madrid to Segovia. The journey takes 30min.
Where to stay
The Parador de Segovia is the town’s most expensive hotel, offering bed and breakfast from € 120 (parador.es). Hotel Isabel de Farnesio calls itself a “great little hotel”, and the prices are pretty good too: from about € 60 for a double with brekkie (hotelisabeldefarnesio.com). TheCandido offers doubles from € 90 (candidohotel.es). Posada del Duraton is a charming country cottage with rooms from approx. € 85 (posadadelduraton.com).

Where to eat
What to see & do
  • Visit the Roman Aqueduct, the Alcázar fortress, La Granja de San Ildefonso, the medieval town of Pedraza including its erstwhile jail.
  • Go camping in the region’s natural parks (try naturaltur.com orcampinghocesdelduraton.com).
  • Go wine-tasting at Bodega Vinedos de Nieva (martue.com).
Toledo
Getting there
There are trains every hour from Madrid’s Atocha station and the journey takes about half an hour.
Where to stay
The Parador de Toledo Conde de Orgaz is the most luxurious hotel in town (from € 150 doubles; parador.es). Hotel Hacienda del Cardenal is in a fine old building (from € 85;hostaldelcardenal.com).

What to see & do
  • Visit the many monuments including the Cathedral and the Jewish Sinagoga del Transito.
  • El Greco’s masterpiece El Entierro del Conde de Orgaz is to be found in the church Iglesia de Santo Tomé.
Top tip
Joanna Wivell organises special walking tours or customised experiences such as the Botín experience, tapas tasting and flamenco dancing in Madrid. She also organises tours in Toledo. Details at insidersmadrid.com.

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Thailands 3 rd View

Cheap & Best
We check out everyone’s favourite value-for-money destination. and comes away with change to spare
The plan: a couple of days in Bangkok, four days on the island paradise of Koh Tao and a quick jaunt through the historical capital of Ayutthaya. Budget: twenty thousand rupees.
After a couple of hours in the visa queue and another hour in the metro, I finally reach the Phranakorn Nornlen, a quirky boutique hotel in a quiet corner of Old Bangkok. The Nornlen’s theme is slow, simple living, and the place is a welcome refuge from the bustle of Bangkok. At the entrance is a garden; immediately within is a café with displays of old televisions and sewing machines. I’m shown up to my room, and it has an antique wooden TV as a bedside table. Painted on one wall is a hen that transforms into a paper plane before shattering the wall. Above my bed, a cluster of bright blue fish jumps out of the wall. The bathroom is a refinery of curvy brass tubing against a faux run-down brick structure. Everything in the Nornlen is a little beautiful and a little strange and, put together, it somehow feels perfect. I plan my day with help from the ever-obliging staff and the hand-painted map behind the reception desk.
Tuk-tuks and taxis are an option but, if you’re on a budget, the best way to get around Old Bangkok is the Chao Phraya river. Most places in the old city are easily walkable from one pier or the other after a brief and inexpensive ferry ride. From the Nornlen I have to walk down to the Thewet pier, where people, to square their karma, throw down heels of bread to a roiling mass of obviously overfed fish. This, I realise, is the scene painted above my bed in the Nornlen.
The coral reefs are so intricate, dense and dazzling in their colour and variety that the temple of the emerald Buddha feels like a poor terrestrial imitation
I sail under the cabled scalene of the Rama VIII bridge and walk to the complex of the Grand Palace and the Temple of the Emerald Buddha. This is the main tourist attraction in the area, and for good reason, I discover. But first, I face a fiscal crisis. In India I am used to shelling out ten rupees and sauntering into monuments past foreigners who are grimly counting out their hundreds. Here the tables are turned: Thais get in for free while foreigners pay four hundred baht. I realise I’ve completely forgotten about entrance tickets in my budget calculations. I stand there for a while, indignant, and consider turning back. But that, I tell myself, is throwing the baby out with the bahtwater, so I grudgingly count out the hundreds.
The complex is a dizzyingly spectacular place: a cluster of spires, colourful sloping roofs and polished mosaic surfaces; statues and figurines ranging from the giant yakshis at the entrance to the Garudas that hold up the structures to the intricate Emerald Buddha (carved actually in jade); dense frescoes of the Ramakien and the Buddha’s life; and all this set amidst what has to be the most massive gilt-trip on earth.
The Ramakien is a version of the Ramayana that serves as the Thai national epic. Every king of Thailand is apparently named King Rama (we’re on Rama IX at the moment, whose photographs are everywhere) and the old capital of Thailand was called—what else—Ayutthaya.
But in terms of religion, it’s the Buddha who’s big in Thailand. Literally so in the Wat Pho, an enormous temple complex with a 43-metre-long statue of the reclining Buddha as its centrepiece. There’s also a Thai massage school here which is generally thought of as being the real deal. Across the river is the Wat Arun, a monastery and temple with porcelain encrusted towers. (If Chandigarh’s Rock Garden took itself very seriously and gathered itself to its full height, this is what it might become.) 
Most backpackers in Bangkok head straight for Khao San Road, a densely packed buffet of everything a foreign tourist might need: currency exchange, McDonald’s, KFC, cheap clothes, supermarkets, travel agents, guesthouses that cost next to nothing, other tourists to party with. The place is worth visiting just to witness the cauldron of liveliness it turns into as the night advances.
Everything said in Thai sounds imploring, and this seems to rub off on the cadences of their English. Even the persistent and astonishingly versatile Khao San Road agent with everything on offer from tuk-tuks to air-tickets to women comes across as downright solicitous. And there seems to be a general preference for the cute: soft toys and cartoon characters everywhere; even in the Ramakien, Hanuman’s antics occupy centre-stage and Rama and Sita get a happily-ever-after ending. This, I think to myself at the end of my first day in Bangkok, is a culture that emphasises the pleasant and polite, the gentle and reticent.
I'm not so sure the next morning after being at the receiving end of a Thai massage. The deceptively diminutive P’Pen starts gently enough with my feet, but by the time she has clambered upon me to bear down with her knees and elbows, I’ve realised that the word ‘massage’ is being interpreted somewhat loosely. P’Pen admits as much. She is holding up one of my legs and pounding its hamstring with her fist when she notices my goggle-eyed imitation of one of the Wat yakshis, laughs, and says, “Thai boxing!” Then there’s the shoulder clench she executes that leaves my eyes watering. But really, I feel pretty good at the end of it all. P’Pen has even uncricked a crick in my neck acquired on the flight in. I’ll happily recommend a Thai massage to just about anyone, but be aware that it’s one of those no-pain-no-gain deals that life seems to be so full of.
My overnight train rides are a way of saving time and money on room tariffs
English works to an extent in the tourist areas, but communication can be a problem in other places. This sometimes has consequences. I take a bus from the old city to the railway station with the understanding that the station is the last stop. As my train’s departure time approaches I grow nervous and finally ask my neighbour on the bus. (All I can say is the name of the railway station: Hua Lamphong.) After some frantic back-and-forth signing I realise we’ve left the station far behind. My neighbour touchingly pulls out his GPS smartphone and shows me where we are, and where I have to be. In the meanwhile, it has started to rain and traffic slows to a crawl. I get off the bus and manage to find a motorcycle taxi, the only way to cut through a Bangkok traffic jam. I make it to the station just in time after a hair-raising ride.
Mine is an overnight train to Chumphon in southern Thailand. The two overnight train journeys in my itinerary are a way of saving time as well as money on room tariff. But this works well only if the trains are comfortable enough to leave one a functioning human being the next morning. I find that in this department, it is hard to find fault with the State Railway of Thailand. My second-class AC ticket costs about the same as a similar journey on the Indian Railways, but the ride is far more comfortable. There’s a nice restaurant car, and they will ply you with food and drink at your seat. But the real star is the bed. A smartly uniformed attendant (with military-style decorations on his chest, presumably for bed-making) by some intricate means converts the ample seats into a clean, cosy, spacious bed. I don’t think I have ever slept so well on a train. 
Koh Tao—Turtle Island—is 74km from Chumphon in the Gulf of Thailand. The island was uninhabited until the early decades of the twentieth century, when it was used as a political prison for a while—a sort of Thai kalapaani, except for the waters being balmy and gloriously clear. (Since there are no confining structures visible on the island, one assumes the prisoners spent their time lazing about the beaches ruing whatever machinations brought them there, and thinking that, you know, things might have been worse.) In the last couple of decades, Koh Tao has emerged as a prime destination for diving and other watery pursuits.
The 21 sq km island is populated in small pockets. Mae Haad village on the western side is the nerve-centre of the island—this is where the piers are, along with the best restaurants and cafés, shops, and a variety of lodgings. I’m staying in a ‘garden-view bungalow’ at the Ananda Villa, a couple of minutes away from the piers. A ten-minute walk to the north is Sairee—the longest and most developed beach of Koh Tao, with a concentration of clubs, bars, restaurants and guesthouses. Sairee is comparatively the more boisterous area: places stay open late; there are after-full-moon parties; a sign reads, ‘Laughing gas available here’. Mae Haad is somewhat sedate and in bed by eleven or so. The rest of the island is mostly jungle and steep paths with scattered resorts and guesthouses overlooking bays. There’s something in Koh Tao for everyone from the party animal to the hermit.
But all that is incidental. What matters is that Koh Tao is rimmed by unspoilt beaches and calm, pristine waters with a stunningly rich marine life. The coral reefs are so intricate, dense and dazzling in their colour and variety that the Temple of the Emerald Buddha feels like a poor terrestrial imitation. Days here are most properly spent in the water with a snorkelling or diving mask on, among fish (and the occasional harmless shark) between whom all sorts of incomprehensible stories are being played out. Sadly, this world may be on its way out—coral reefs across the world are dying, and some marine ecologists doubt there’ll be any left in a few decades. So, if you’ve been putting off that seaside vacation...
I go on a day-long snorkelling trip in which a boat takes a group around the island to different bays and the protected island of Koh Nangyuan. On the other days I walk through the hills to explore nearby beaches. Mornings and nights are for sampling cafés and restaurants. I’ve only worked through the ones in Mae Haad when it’s time to leave. 
Back to Bangkok, where I put to good use the shower and cloakroom facilities at the Hua Lamphong station. (There’s an ultra-low-budget tour of Thailand waiting to be done entirely through the railway system.) I take a train to nearby Ayutthaya, once the capital of the Siamese kingdom, and the world’s most populous city at the turn of the eighteenth century. The Burmese army then ran it over, and all that’s left now are temple towers and expanses of bare brick. I hire a bicycle to ride through the ruins and take a train back to the present capital for my flight back.
What of the budget? Twenty thousand rupees proved more than enough for six nights and seven days. It looks like I’ll soon have to make out a small cheque to the magazine. But there are other things that will stay with me: the story of the Burmese immigrant who speaks to me in Hindi about the persecution of Muslims there; watching the Wimbledon men’s final in a Koh Tao bar packed with Brits with a lone woman cheering for Federer; hanging on behind a motorcycle in the rain as the driver darts and swerves through traffic so I can make my train.
The Information

Visas A 15-day tourist visa is issued on arrival if you can show a return ticket (THB 1,000). Keep a photograph handy. The queue moves slowly, so it helps to get in line early.
Currency
There are exchange counters at the airport before the visa counters. 
  • Tip Most ATMs in Thailand charge THB 150 per withdrawal for foreign cards, but AEON, Citibank and HSBC machines don’t. You can also get cash against your Visa cards at exchange booths—there’s one on Khaosan Road, Bangkok and another in Mae Haad, Koh Tao.
When to go
A good period to visit Koh Tao is from July to September, or December to March. It can be too hot or too wet at other times.

Bangkok

Getting Around
There are as many ways to get around Bangkok as the city is large and unwieldy. Buses, tuk-tuks and taxis are all vulnerable to traffic jams that can form at any time. The Chao Phraya river taxi and express boats are particularly convenient for moving around Old Bangkok, where many of the tourist sights are. The Skytrain (BTS) and the underground rail system (MRT)together cover large parts of the city. (A route planner, maps and time-tables for all forms of public transport can be found at transitbangkok.com).

Where to stay
I stayed at the charming and very slightly out of the way Phranakorn Nornlen. My single room cost THB 1,800, and came with breakfast, a meal and a discounted Thai massage. A double room is THB 2,200 and the family room for four is THB 3,600 (phranakornnornlen.com). An interesting place to stay could be the self-evidently named Shanghai Mansion in Chinatown (THB 2,500–3,100; shanghaimansion.com). The Rikka Inn is a comfortable oasis on Khaosan Road (THB 750–1,850; rikkainn.com). Bangkok is famed for its cheap hotel rooms and there are always great deals going. Check online at bangkok.com.

What to see & do
Bangkok is endless in its possibilities and everyone will want to do something different. If I had more time I might have tried the canal tour of Thonburi, the site where Bangkok was founded (around THB 2,000). Or a Thai boxing match for the sheer intensity of local colour (midrange tickets are around THB 1,000). The Siam Niramit show is supposed to be a spectacular introduction to the history and culture of Thailand (THB 1,300). Or I’d have gone to see theCalypso Ladyboy Cabaret’s much-acclaimed musical production (THB 900).
  • Tip The Absolute Explorer cycling tours go to Bangkok’s outskirts for a fresh look away from the tourist scene (THB 1,300–1,500; absoluteexplorer.com).
Where to eat
There is an immense variety of good, cheap street food ranging from fresh fruit to barbecued meats. Small, local restaurants can be very good, and it shouldn’t be hard to get a satisfying plate of Pad Thai for around THB 50. Vegetarians should have no trouble since many Thai dishes are easily prepared without meat. At Bangkok I ate mostly off the street or from the kitchen of the Phranakorn Nornlen (around THB 120 per dish). Singha and Chang beers are ubiquitous and will even be pressed upon you in trains. The latter is strong and tourists clutching their heads will often mutter in explanation, “Changover.”

Koh Tao
Getting There
I took the overnight train No. 85 from Bangkok, which leaves enough time to get to the pier inChumphon for the morning ferry to Koh Tao. A second class AC lower berth ticket costs THB 690 baht one way. Tickets can be booked online (thairailticket.com).
  • Tip Lower berths are marginally more expensive but much more comfortable. You could save around THB 200 by booking second class without AC. Given the arctic AC levels, this may even be more comfortable.
The most reliable ferry service to Koh Tao is run by Lomprayah, who offer free transfer from the train station to their pier. The ticket costs THB 600 baht one way. Book at lomprayah.com.

Getting Around
Boat taxis will take you from one part of the island to another for a couple of hundred baht, as will jeeps. You can hire a motorcycle for around THB 200 a day, but given the gradients and the quality of roads, your exploration is likely to be limited. Beware of scamsters who rent out motorcycles and make you pay for pre-existing scratches and dents.

Where to stay
In Koh Tao I stayed at Ananda Villa at Mae Haad, just a couple of minutes from the pier (anandavilla.com). My garden bungalow without AC cost THB 500 per night. They have a range of bungalows and rooms from THB 500 to THB 1,800, all excellent value for money. A highly recommended budget place in Mae Haad is the Captain Nemo guesthouse (THB 650–1,650;captainnemo-kohtao.com). On the road leading from Mae Haad to Sairee is Mr J Bungalow, whose attached shop should be a tourist destination for its extreme and arbitrary variety and for the presence of the singularly idiosyncratic Mr J (THB 600–1,500;mrjbungalow.resort.kohtaoisland.net).

Where to eat
Some of Koh Tao’s best restaurants and cafés are in Mae Haad. The Cappuccino Bistro andCafé del Sol are both fine bakeries and coffee shops that serve set breakfasts and more. (My breakfasts there cost THB 100 and 140, respectively.) Pranee’s Kitchen, right next to Ananda Villa, is great value for money (THB 80–120 per dish). The place to go for special occasions is the austerely decorated Whitening, thought of by many as the best restaurant in Koh Tao, but quite reasonably priced. (I paid THB 360 for a drink, starter and main course.) The place to go for Italian food is Dolce Vita, run by an Italian who believes in making everything from scratch. (A full dinner here cost me THB 480.)

What to see & do
Koh Tao is a hub for divers and quite a few people come here to earn diving certificates. Master Divers (master-divers.com) and Crystal Dive (crystaldive.com) are two well regarded places. Almost every other shop here offers a standardised snorkelling package for 850 baht (cheaper if booked through your hotel). These also take people fishing with ‘catch guaranteed’. Koh Tao has a number of viewing points that make for good hikes. Goodtime Adventures (gtadventures.com) organises rock climbing, bouldering, skin diving, cliff jumping and other dangerous sounding activities.

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Switzerland's View

Swiss Confidential
Think Switzerland holds no surprise for you? try Fribourg.
It was a tour to sweeten the rigours of the international media conference that Switzerland Tourism throws every year. Not that the jamboree needed sweetening, consisting as it did of going up and down the Jungfrau in excellent Swiss trains, dining at the finest Italian restaurant in Interlaken (it’s the La Pastateca at the Victoria-Jungfrau hotel, by the way), watching Fredy Nock, member of Switzerland’s oldest circus family, set a new world record for the longest (160m) and highest altitude (over 3,800m) tightrope walk and other such strenuous stuff.
We were a diverse group of scribes: Justin from the US of A, Ricardo from Spain, Sylvia from the Netherlands, Yana and Gabriele from, respectively, Moscow and Rome, the Koreans with their massive cameras, chaperoned most efficiently by Sunny, Swiss Tourism’s rep in Seoul, Tomas from the Czech Republic, Ursula and Fred from Germany. And, of course, Marianne and Alain, the good folks from Swiss Tourism who kept the herd together. The question was: where could the jaded Swiss Alps junkie go that he hadn’t gone before? Answer: Fribourg. We were promised a mix of mild outdoor activity (walking and boating), fine dining (yes, they have that in Switzerland), ample cheese and chocolate and a medieval town that would take our breath away.
Half the fun was getting there, on board the GoldenPass Panoramic train. The scenery came juicily framed by the panoramic windows, which this train company pioneered in 1976. (These visionaries also run the seasonal Chocolate Train, its Belle Époque coaches transporting passengers to a chocolate factory, a cheese farm and more in the summer.) We passed Gstaad and Saanen, towns which catalysed our love affair with the Swiss Alps after reams of Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge were filmed here. Saanen marked the border between the German- and French-speaking parts of Switzerland. The Panoramic runs all the way from the Bernese Oberland to the Lake Geneva region but we got off at Montbovon, from where another charming train hauled us to the little station of Gruyères. 
The walkabout began almost immediately. Unlike their Swiss-German brethren, the Swiss-French were a laidback lot, we’d been told, and that things would be a lot more relaxed on this side. This did not seem to extend to our walk which, long and lovely as it was, proceeded with clockwork precision.
We had hit the hallowed Sentier des fromageries, the Cheese Dairy Trail. To call it a trek would be doing it too brown—the path was way too comfortable. It rose steeply uphill, disappearing into thick woods. When we thought we could not walk anymore, the road levelled out and we spilled on to a rolling meadow. 
A third of Switzerland’s formidable cow population resides in the canton of Fribourg. Long before your first bite of the delicious local Gruyère, you can smell the cows, or at least their shit. They were all around us, tackling the slopes with the dexterity of dainty maidens. We had heard the occasional cowbell on our way up. The tinkling now deepened to a chorus, announcing lunch.
A few short paces ahead lay Les Mongerons, an alpine cottage, where we shared rustic mountain fare across a communal table—crusty bread and saucissons, washed down with cold wine. Not one, not two, but three kinds of fondue were passed around, but the one that won hands down was the moitié-moitié (half ’n half), the local Fribourg fondue made with equal parts of Gruyère and Vacherin.
The lunch had to be worked off so we proceeded, if it can be believed, further uphill, past pastures, apiaries and more cows, before descending to Moléson village, which lay in the shadow of the 2,000m-high Moléson peak, the pride of the Fribourg pre-Alps. At this point, walkers are usually rewarded with a traditional-style cheesemaking demonstration in an alpine hut dating from 1686, but we’d arrived a little late.
Having had our fill of walking, we drove to our next destination—the thirteenth-century settlement of Gruyères, which lends its name to the world-famous cheese. We parked outside the traffic-less town and walked (sigh) along cobblestoned streets to the castle on top. At that time of year, the window boxes were legally required to be bursting with flowers and not one was flouting the law. The town’s heraldic representation, the crane (grue in French), emblazoned everywhere, inspired its name.
The château is steeped in history and its resident historian, Anna Petrikoff, was kind enough to walk us through it. We saw an ancient armoury, an equally ancient kitchen, the room that French painter Camille Corot painted, another where the chevaliers (knights) used to meet, a chapel with stained glass windows. Seat of the counts of Gruyère (the region is spelt without an ‘s’), the castle was constructed in 1270. It later came into the care of the administrators of Fribourg, who redecorated it in the Baroque style. In the mid-nineteenth century the castle was owned by two Geneva families, who invited influential artists to decorate the rooms. A tour of the Château de Gruyères is therefore a tour through eight centuries of architecture, history and culture. In other rooms, there were other wonders, but we were in a hurry. Journalists always are, even if they’re not going anywhere. We emerged on to the castle’s perfectly manicured French gardens. The pear trees were heavy with fruit.
Downhill, in the more modest castle St Germain was the HR Giger Museum, showcasing the work of the Swiss surrealist whose designs for Ridley Scott’s Alien earned him an Oscar. We didn’t have time for the museum but did squeeze in a round of drinks at the gory Giger Bar. Dinner was a sumptuous, typically Swiss, affair before we turned in for the night at the Hostellerie des Chevaliers.
So is Moscow safe?” I asked Yana over breakfast the next morning. Turned out, every journalist on the trip had asked her this question. She seemed unfazed. Leaning over, she whispered, “It’s safer than Rome.”
That morning we hit the Chemin du Gruyère, the Swiss Chocolate and Cheese Trail. A truly picturesque one, it is one of Switzerland’s top 32 (yes, they have quite a few of those). The entire trail runs from the village of Charmey up to Gruyères but we cheated and went only about halfway. The trail took us along the Lac de Montsalvens with its fjord-like inlets. Crossing a swinging bridge, we slipped into the welcome shade of trees. (Switzerland was unseasonably warm at the time.) We emerged into a glade, edged with apple trees and wild berry bushes. The dam, built in 1921, which created the lake, sprung into view. We stopped to catch our breath. Ricardo poured out some Swiss wine (yes, they have those too!) which he’d lugged from Charmey. Good man. It was a light wine from the Valais and our gratitude was swiftly expressed—“To Ricardo,” “To Ricardo.”
On the other side of the dam lay the Jaunbach gorge (or ‘Les gorges de La Jogne’ in French). Wooden walkways made negotiating it a breeze and we went along the playful stream surrounded by high limestone walls. There was a shrine to the Mother Mary. There was a small waterfall. There was a dog so well trained he would only pee near the trashcan.
We’d passed up the town that gave its name to the cheese, but we weren’t going to pass up the chocolate. Our next stop was the village of Broc, home to the venerable chocolate brand, Cailler (now owned by Nestlé). It was a chocolate addict’s heaven. Even before we reached we could smell the chocolate—the valley seemed suffused with the bittersweet aroma. At the chocolate factory, we made our way into the visitors’ centre, a modern building in stark contrast to the more than a century old heritage building next to it. The interiors were done up in shades of chocolate, milk and caramel. The interactive guided tour offered a fascinating insight into the history of chocolate. Emerging into the factory itself, we were greeted by sackloads of cocoa beans from every corner of the world. They produce 18 million kilos of chocolate annually, but the milk comes from just 1,775 cows. One could see some of those chocolates being made right there, the legendary branches, manufactured since 1904. Then there was the tasting room where you could sample as much chocolate as you liked but weren’t allowed to take any out of the room. This was the only point in the entire trip when it looked like things could get ugly. “For you, when is it time for chocolate?” quizzed a graffiti wall. I cornily scribbled. And then it was time to go.
We passed through the town of Bulle, where the Sonneurs de Cloches (national festival of Swiss cowbell ringers) was in full swing. There’s this worn image we have of the Swiss: beneath a benign exterior, they are a mad mountain people, just so many cuckoo clock-making, alphorn playing, cow-milking and yodelling-in-the-evenings bunch. Well, it’s all absolutely true and that’s why we love them so much.
On the banks of another lake, the Lac de la Gruyère, we made a picnic of delicious cheese sandwiches and, well, more wine. Ricardo napped. There was an island in the middle of the lake, and some of us decided to kayak to it. I partnered with Ursula. Ursula, twice as old as me and twice as driven, urged me to row harder, and harder, and harder. We would have finished first, but graciously allowed another boat to row in a few seconds before us. The island of Ogoz was once not an island—this lake is manmade too. There were old ruins and a pretty church, the chapel of St Theodul, both dating from the thirteenth century. A romantic tale held it all together, but it’s a story best savoured in situ. 
We spent our last night in the town of Fribourg, where not a lot of Indian tourists may have gone but a fair number of Indian IT workers have. The delights of Fribourg’s Old Town, which boasted, among other things, a funicular railway that ran on wastewater, would have to wait for another day though. We dined at Le Pérolles, one of the finest restaurants in town, where I discovered that the Swiss had a cuisine that went beyond potatoes and cheese. It had been a great trip and we were all a bit sad it was over. But this did not distract us from the amuse-bouche of rabbit carpaccio or the astonishing crème brûlée of duck liver that followed. Then the proper stuff rolled in: some pike from the Gruyère lake topped with a thyme emulsion and the tenderest grilled beef, both paired with superlative Swiss wines. Dessert was ‘La Poêlée de pruneaux du Fellenberg’. Pan-fried prunes don’t impress you much? I can tell you they put me in a right plum mood and the world didn’t seem such a bad place after all.
The Information

Visa
You need a Schengen visa to enter Switzerland. details at vfs-ch-in.com.

Where to stay
  • GRUYÈRES We stayed at the Hostellerie des Chevaliers, just outside the town gates next to the town parking. The rooms were plain but comfy and offered splendid views of the castle (from CHF 160 doubles, including breakfast; chevaliers-gruyeres.ch). For more atmosphere, stay within the town, at the Hôtel de Ville (from CHF 240 doubles, including breakfast; hoteldeville.ch).
  • FRIBOURG We stayed at the perfectly serviceable Au Parc Hotel (CHF 260; CHF 205 on weekends, including breakfast; auparc-hotel.ch). The Best Western Hotel de la Rose (from CHF 185; hoteldelarose.ch) is close to the train station and town centre. TheAuberge aux 4 Vents is an eclectic manor house set in a garden (CHF 260;aux4vents.ch).
What to see & do
  • GRUYÈRES The highlight of this atmospheric medieval town is its castle (entry CHF 9.50), which also hosts a thrilling multimedia show (CHF 9.50; chateau-gruyeres.ch). The town also boasts the HR Giger Museum (entry CHF 12.50; hrgigermuseum.com) and the Tibet Museum (tibetmuseum.ch).
  • BROC The Maison Cailler chocolate factory offers tours in several languages and is a popular attraction (cailler.ch).
  • MOLÉSON This village is home to a cheese dairy offering demonstrations as well as a small amusement park. A funicular transports you to the top of the eponymous peak.
  • OUTDOORS There are numerous nature trails in the region, all well signposted. You can go kayaking on La Gruyère lake (kayaking starts at CHF 60 per person; seekayakaventure.ch).
  • FRIBOURG This heritage town’s highlights include the St Nicholas cathedral and an Old Town to rival Gruyères, with over 200 beautiful Gothic façades, bridges over the river Sarine and decorative drinking fountains. Splurge on a meal at Le Pérolles (tasting menu CHF 165; leperolles.ch).
See fribourgregion.ch for more information and many more ideas.
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Goa's 2nd View

Monsoon Magic
It’s green, beautiful, pouring—and empty of everyone you don’t want to meet. Aimee Ginsburg offers the insider’s guide to Goa in the rains.
I’m standing under a tin roof in a space the size of a coat closet, practising my patient loving kindness with 478 fellow refugees. How adorable we are, standing huddled together, our elbows in each other’s guts, noses in each other’s underarms, muddy chappals atop my own once-perfectly-pink Crocs. We are hiding from the deluge under the roof of Sanjay’s shop, a small but dignified establishment selling bidis, one-rupee toffees and, on lucky days, red masala peanuts in little plastic bags. Auspiciously, the one leak in Sanjay’s corrugated tin roof is right above my own head. Try as I might to share this honour with someone else there is not enough space to manoeuvre.
It isn’t that we don’t have raincoats to guard us from the downpour. Au contraire! We look like clones in our identical, best-quality-Mapusa-market dark blue raincoats with a zipper up the front and a nice silver stripe across our back. Never mind that the manufacturer forgot to make sure that the zipper was rainproof. A soaking wet crotch is just the thing to complete the pleasurable monsoon mindset. Anyway, the manufacturers really had no chance against the sophisticated kamikaze-type raindrops known to attack one in these parts; they effortlessly breach your every line of defence, heading right for your eyes. So, although I am late for a Very Important Date, there is no choice but to surrender. I park my Activa by the roadside, beside 478 other ones, and with a scowl and mutter, join the crowd under Sanjay’s roof. Everyone including Sanjay is looking out across the road, transfixed.
“But I have a Very Important Date!” I complain to the man in the blue raincoat on my left. He looks at me a moment, checks out my wet tangled hair and fashionable attire (raincoat, blue with silver stripe) then turns back to gaze across the road. “Don’t you just hate this?” I kvetch to the man in the blue raincoat to my right. The man is too absorbed to look my way. I have a look myself. Where once upon a time—ten days previously—there was a parched, fallow track of red earth, a lake has been born, complete with waves, tides and tiny rapids. Tangles of elephant ears and other massive leaves grow round it, and wildflowers, and many kinds of grass; and although it is raining, pouring even, rays of light somehow find their way through and illuminate a lone leaf, a lily, a mushroom, a rainbow in a raindrop. As we watch, through peepholes in our crowded human mass, three white storks land on the water, swimming among the reeds as if this had been their home since prehistory. I try to stay annoyed at the God of Monsoon but the world is too darned beautiful and I find myself staring at it entranced, like everyone else. “Soon the lake will be full of fish, that’s why the storks have come,” one man tells the child who is holding his hand, both in identical blue raincoats. “We will also come and fish, after they get big and fat.”
“But how do the fish get inside? We are far from the ocean or any rivers,” asks the child. I have been wondering about this very thing for years but the question remains unanswered. An SMS arrives, a cancellation message from my Very Important Date: “Hope you are somewhere dry. Let’s meet up some other time. It’s Monsoon Magic time. Better to surrender.” By now the rain has stopped and my endorphin levels are high. It must be all that green, man. 
Monsoon in Goa is a love story, a passion play of earth and water, nature and herself. Goa is a beautiful state all year long, but in the monsoon she is breathtaking; a dramatic canvas of psychedelic green fields and mossy jungle, raw foamy waves, opaque grey sky. After the crazy months of tourist season, nothing feels better than to change into our pajamas and hang out, engulfed in rain but dry inside, counting the mushrooms growing in the corners and between our toes. The fishermen have stowed their boats. Entire families are out in their fields planting rice, sitting down together for a snack and chai from a thermos every now and again. Overworked taxi drivers and beach shack owners, now blissfully unemployed, hang out in their undershirts watching the days go by. Life is transformed into a series of vignettes, disconnected, dreamy yet somehow hyper-real. There might be days and nights of endless rain, with no excuse needed to do nothing but be—play, eat, read, nap and cuddle (notice the abundance of birthday parties nine months after the monsoon). It rains so much you wonder if it is time to build an ark, and then, all at once, the rain will stop, and a diaphanous shawl of shimmering diamonds will drape itself over the fields and trees.
The tourists were bound to find out about our little pajama party, of course, it was only a matter of time.
Anyone still here?
Traditionally, the monsoon has been the ‘off’ season, a time of no tourists, a chance for everyone to chill, clean up, let peace reign again. If you wish to come, gently, if you want to join our quiet, to turn your face up to the rain with your tongue out to taste the clean sweet water, for you, we issue an invitation. Come for a week or a weekend with an attitude of a true adventurer. You might be indoors the entire time, or it might not rain once. In any event you will be rewarded with luscious landscape, relatively cool weather, relaxed locals, few tourists and just enough places to eat and things to do to keep you happy without the stress of having to choose from too many darned options. You will probably not meet other travellers to hook up with, so come with friends, children, family and/or lovers and spend the time indoors getting to know each other again.
We have just finished our abundant breakfast at Capella, a wonderful homestay in a gorgeous house up on the Arpora hill, bordering the jungle. We are staying here for the week, and have rarely felt more at home while away from home. Every corner is a treat to the eyes, the cosy living spaces warm with wood and books. The main room opens onto a lush inner courtyard, pretty gardens and a stunning view of the world below. Life is just too hard, we sigh, too content to read our magazines, too lazy for a walk.
But there is a break in the rain so we decide to jump into Capella’s wonderful infinity pool. The water feels exquisitely smooth, and we realise we are immersed in almost pure rainwater. As we float around like lotus flowers, body in water, face in sky, it begins to drizzle; and thus, water above, water below, water within, we feel ourselves approaching enlightenment. A lightning bolt over the valley below and then a clap of thunder pull us back to earth and we run into our room for a hot shower and a game of ‘Name that Green’. (Actually we go back to bed but that’s none of your business.) Will have to attain moksha some other day.
Out for a walk with our umbrellas in the jungle behind Capella. It is obviously going to rain soon but for now there is only a light mist. The birds have a lot to say this morning. They are so obviously showing off for us as we walk along, interpreting and reinterpreting old sonatas in chirps and trills. We are wearing our rubber shoes, so we splash around in the little streams that now flow everywhere. There is a log to sit on, under a glistening cashew tree and we study the large puddle at our feet. Beetles float by on twigs, tiny leaves swirl in a miniature vortex, jasmine flowers have fallen in and, upside down, look like ballerina boats. After what seems like forever we pull ourselves away and walk down the road to the bakery (lovely heat and smell of yeast). The paos, just out of the oven, are still warm and as soft as clouds. We eat half on the way back home, singing our own off-key sonatas, and eat the rest back in our room with butter and homemade mango chutney. 
A walk on the beach, alone. All that time inside with others can be a bit challenging and it feels good to be away from everyone. The sand is wet, the ocean roaring like a hungry beast. Red flags in the sand warn of the danger that lies within but walking alongside it, I feel turned on by its electrifying power. Roar! Roar! The waves crash over red rocks, erupt into towers of foam, contract powerfully and attack again. I find a place to sit, pull an apple out of my bag and crunch on it, so red and perfect; around me are only shades of grey. Suddenly, a wave of loneliness crashes over me, cold and steely, and I rummage for my phone so I can reach out. No, I’m going to fight the urge, ride it out. A big wave rushes up towards me just then and when it recedes, I find a reward: a perfect little white and purple shell has been deposited right at my feet.

Another rainless day and we’ve gone to Panjim. We drove there the back way, via Candolim and Nerul, over the bridge, all the way to the Betim Ferry and across the Mandovi. After a movie at the Inox and shopping on June 18th Road, there is nothing better to do than sit in the lobby of the Goa Marriott hotel, where the whole front wall of the lobby is open to a grand ocean view: there is no better place in Panjim to sit and watch ocean meet river. This is a wonderful space; the seating is comfortable, the staff friendly. We order some drinks and plan to stay a half-hour. Suddenly a rainstorm is lashing down on us, it is impossible to see through the sheets of water. We order another round of drinks and wait. The storm stops as suddenly as it started, just as we were beginning to despair, and we are treated to a glorious monsoon sunset, starring Marigold Yellow with spectacular supporting performances by Aubergine, Turquoise and Gold. Five stars.
It’s almost midnight, and we are bopping seriously to the live music at Cavala, and then at Myx, both bars/restaurants with live music on a Saturday night. There is such a nice mix of ages, of ethnicities, of styles at these monsoon evening outings: two middle-aged sisters from Calcutta in kurtas swaying to ‘Country Roads’, three hipsters with tattoos and black jackets, a few young Goan professionals wearing smart shirts and woodsy aftershave, a couple of ageing German hippies, a magazine editor, a Punjabi family with two grandmothers, parents and three kids, everyone enjoying the companionship after days and weeks of staying indoors, the music and the breeze. I’m looking at the shiny happy faces as I dance and they all look so lovely to me, rain-kissed and fresh, so easy to love. Maybe it’s that ol’ Monsoon Magic, all of that surrender, putting moksha within our reach.
Where To Stay
Choosing the right accommodation in the monsoon is more important than in any other season as you might be indoors for most of your holiday. Homestays and villas—either full service ones or do-it-yourself options—are great, as there is more living space for those long rainy days and the good food is often built in. The big hotels of course also offer good food and plenty of living space. Rates are significantly lower in the monsoon, so you can afford to stay somewhere nicer than usual. (Incidentally, some places mentioned below are offering special rates for OTreaders.) All recommended places have swimming pools, for those sudden bursts of sunshine or if you just like swimming in the rain. All places are in North Goa; all tariffs are per night and valid till September 30, unless otherwise mentioned; taxes are extra.
  • Capella If you can get a room here, do so, you will love it. A wonderful homestay, up on Arpora hill. Lovely cosy rooms, generous living spaces, a great pool and beautiful gardens, gracious hosts and food so delicious guests must often be coerced to go out and try some other eatery instead of always eating in. Hurry and book, this is a popular place. A generous home-cooked breakfast included in room rate. Tariff Rs 4,000-5,000 doubles, with breakfast Contact Ayesha (9923459488)
  • Noi Varo With its indoor sitting pool and graceful indoor spaces, Noi Varo in Siolim village is an absolutely wonderful place to be stuck in the rain. This is the queen of villas, simply elegant and supremely comfortable. Great food, tree house in the backyard, video library and good music—so go ahead and stay in. If you want to go out, a walk around lovely Siolim village should satisfy; finish your walk down the road, across the street from the church, at the snack shops for patties, burgers, fish curry, fresh juice or just chai.Tariff $500 for the villa (min. two nights’ booking required), inclusive of breakfast. Discretionary discount for booking done within 72 hours of stay. Contact Vivek (9011071911), shunyachi.com
  • Ishavilas Also in Siolim, this is a grand place, part of the Neemrana group. Four opulently furnished and decorated rooms, a welcoming common area, an almost majestic swimming pool, home-cooked Goan meals and an in-house spa offering many treatments and even a little steam room. Tariff Rs 5,000-6,000 doubles, with breakfast and one other meal Contact 9822141879, ishavilasgoa.com
  • Lazy Days This is not a single villa or hotel but an outfit that offers villas to rent in different villages, mainly in North Goa. The two villas (both four bedroom) in Saipem and Nerul are beautiful and open in the monsoon. Breakfast, a cook, maid service and a car with driver are included in the price. Tariff from Rs 15,000 for the villa Contact Call Sue (9823092730), lazydays.in
  • La Casetta Great, three-bedroom house to rent in a gated housing complex in Candolim, not far from the beach. The place is well-located for the monsoon, with a good concentration of restaurants nearby. Breakfast, a cook and maid service are part of the package. Tariff Rs 10,000 plus tax for the villa, inclusive of breakfast. Use code DISLC for a 10% discount for OT readers. Contact reservations@lacasettagoa.com,lacasettagoa.com
  • Zayo Three spacious bedrooms in a beautiful but not over-designed bungalow in Anjuna. Feels like home (only a lot better). The back-garden is ringed by green fields, and there’s a pool that makes it perfect for that holiday with your family and other animals. Tariff Rs 12,000 for the villa, with breakfast Contact 0832-2276090/7587, zayogoa.com
  • The SOL An atmospheric little boutique hotel in Nerul, a bit inland from Candolim. Lovely rooms and high-end restaurant. Stay here to feel like you have slipped into another world. The romantic setting may make it better suited for couples rather than for families with kids. Tariff from Rs 4,000 doubles, inclusive of breakfast and wi-fi access. Use code OTSOL1 for 25% off published room rates. Contact 0832-6714141, solvilla.in
  • Avanilaya A breathtaking retreat, twenty minutes inland from Mapusa. Vast gardens, endless views, large beautifully appointed rooms. No TV, but a sunken bathtub in every bathroom! Watch the rain on the fields and river from the majestic enormous veranda. Eat in or at the local fish thali places over the bridge in Aldona. Tariff Rs 8,000 doubles, with breakfast. Valid till Oct 30. Contact Call the GM, Charmaine, for a special discount forOT readers (9850464984), avanilaya.com
  • Grand Hyatt Resort & Spa A wonderful place to stay with kids on the outskirts of Panjim, the hotel has activities for them and the grounds are large enough for them to run around and play. The rooms have large verandas to sit out on and watch the rain over the ocean and the hotel’s secluded little beach. The buffet breakfast, lunch and dinner are top-notch. Their spa, Shaman, is the most exclusive and luxurious this side of the Zuari river; if you can afford it, grab their great monsoon offer. Tariff Monsoon Special: Rs 15,000 for 2N/3D; includes free stay for kids, all meals, airport transfers, discounts at the spa, activities for kids, use of gym and the large indoor pool (the only one in any Goan resort). Contact 0832-3011234, goa.grand.hyatt.com
  • Goa Marriot Resort & Spa Great location—right in Panjim but on the beach. A great place to stay for a laid-back city holiday. Super service from a really friendly staff: stay at a five-star and feel at home, really. Their spa is lovely: get scrubbed and kneaded while looking out of the window at the wild pounding waves. Tariff Rs 10,000 on weekdays/11,000 weekends, including all taxes, meals and airport transfers in a luxury car. Contact 0832-2463333, marriott.com
Where & What To Eat
If you followed our advice on accommodation, your great food is right at home—unless you are at a do-it-yourself villa. In that case, stock up on readymade and semi-readymade fare, or buy groceries at Lawande (in Candolim, next to Rock and Raga, a great shop to buy videos, books and odds and ends), Delfino’s (also in Candolim, on the main road before the turn-off to Nerul) or at Oxford Arcade (in Anjuna on the way to Vagator). Norm’s supermarket in Baga (near Tito’s lane) is open in this season as well.
For eating out, there are many options, from local fish thali places to expensive dress-up meals. But it is not necessarily a great time for new discoveries: usually it is the tried and true that stay open in this season, and you want a place with a good reputation and a large enough daily turnover to be sure you are getting fresh food and not ten-day-old leftovers! Look for the pao-bhaji or fish thali places in the village you are staying in—just go into the one that has the most people and order ladyfish: the fish of this season and delicious, especially rava fried.
Candolim/Calangute
  • Republic of Noodles: A bit pricey but offers tasty food and a fun place to sit with a family. All kinds of ‘Asian’ dishes, noodle dishes and stir fries. Attached to the Lemon Tree hotel, Main Road, Candolim
  • Travel Bar: A small, somewhat moody place with good Continental food. A favourite of discerning local residents starved for choice in the monsoon. Near the turn-in to La Fenice, on the main Calangute-Candolim Road
  • Bob’s Inn: Everyone loves to eat here, where there is something for everyone and a fun atmosphere. On the main road, halfway between Luma and Lawande supermarkets
  • The Banyan Tree: An elegant Thai restaurant. Attached to the Taj Holiday Village at the end of Candolim
  • Tuscany Garden: Kids love the pizza and pasta; there are more solid options for the adults. On the Candolim main road
  • La Confiserie: A great little snack shop that offers a large selection of Goan savoury snacks, and sweet ones too, all gloriously inexpensive. Try the dodol, and the egg patties. This is where you should load up a basket-full for a picnic on the beach or a day’s drive inland. Next to Cafe Coffee Day on the Candolim main road
Arpora/Baga
  • Myx: A relatively hopping place, where you end up when you can’t find another place. Offers a small but quite nice menu and a neon-lit bar. There are no walls, so the rain and live music, on weekends, compete with each other nicely. On the Calangute-Anjuna Road, near the Arpora junction
  • Starlight: An established lunch/dinner eatery much loved by locals, who come here for the fish curry rice and fried fish but there is a full menu. Just after the Arpora Junction towards Baga
  • Anand: The most popular fish thali place in the district. Come here for the company, the tasty fish curry and the good fried fish. Wash it down with a lot of cold beer. On the road from Arpora to Siolim
  • Dosa Corner: A hole-in-the-wall joint serving South Indian breakfasts and fish/chicken/veg thalis for lunch. Cheap and tasty. Down the road from the Arpora junction, towards Calangute
  • Cavala: This is one of the most happening places in the monsoon, so if you are looking for company, here you go. On Friday and Saturday nights there is live music, for which you’ll need to make reservations (0832-2276090/7587). On the Baga main road
  • Carasid: Sandwiches, muffins and cakes are sometimes the best thing for lunch, after days of rich wonderful food while we were indoors. On Baga beach
  • Infanteria: Very popular, even more so in the monsoon when so much else is closed. Full menu, snacks and sweets. Seven days a week, rain or shine. In Calangute at the start of the Calangute-Baga road
Mapusa
It can be fun to go into Mapusa for some shopping at the local market (especially if you are doing your own cooking). Stop for lunch at St Xavier’s in the market (non-veg good food, served fast, and fresh juices) or Navatara by the petrol pump (clean, pleasant and efficient pure veg with a large menu, dosas, bhaji, thali, and North Indian). Babaji, near the Hanuman Temple, sells fancy milkshakes, little pizzas, and addictive snacks: try the chicken cafreal bun.
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