What is wrong with me?

I mean, I am not a beach person. I like the mountains. Scratch that, I love the mountains. There are two kinds of people in the world, mountain people and beach people. I am definitely of the mountain variety.

Yet, in a couple weeks my family will drive down the mountain — the side of the mountain that in notorious for making people sick — en route to the beach. For two weeks. And I am EXCITED!

I will sit on a beach in Goa — a beautiful and popular state on the west coast of India. I will write, read, and drink beer all day. Okay, I did that 18 years ago when I had no kids. I most likely will be doing some of that, but all day? NOT.

We will then come back home for about a week, back up the mountain, and then go back down again to another beach for ten days. And I am still EXCITED!

The last time I went to Goa the beach was infested with western tourists, including some topless sunbathers, but there were also cows, boars and stray dogs wandering around. What beach in America has that?

I wrote a poem about one dog in particular that we named Mama. A blank verse sonnet. I have been thinking about the dog recently, most likely because I am returning to Goa VERY SOON.

Here is a link to the poem, in case you want to read it.

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