Open Letter to the Park Hyatt in Goa
Dear Park Hyatt,I know it's been quite some time since I was with you. My apologies for not writing sooner. Between getting back to Toronto, starting into work and family commitments, I simply haven't found any time to write.
I recently posted some more pics of you that Anwar had taken. You may remember him from our visit in late September of last year. Anyways, the pictures have brought you back to mind: Memories of having showers in your rooms...was it 348? Forgive me.
Your lush grounds which were meticulously kept by the battalion of grounds-people; chestnut brown meandering boardwalks leading to a white-sand beach, which literally went on for miles and miles. Your multiple pools: so clean, curvaceous and inviting. The fountains on the pathways leading to our room. The palm trees, the ochre-red earth which nurtured such luxuriant growth, the birds and yes, even the lizards have me singing your praises.
I apologize for not writing sooner, but also, for not squeezing more enjoyment out of our time together. For taking you for granted and caring overly much for my own comfort. Besides your memories all I have left are questions. Why didn't I take more pictures of you? Explore your alleyways and touch the stone work I walked on? Why didn't I use the hot tub at night? Why is it not possible for my mind to be as still as a photograph and for long enough to lull me to sleep with you in mind?
In the pool closest to the ocean, there's a large rock. A spot where my friend and I spent a whole afternoon lazing about. And into that rock, which sits on the edge of the pool, a seat has been carved. You must know the one I mean. It's a place where a person can clamber out of the pool and sit on the half-submerged rock-seat and admire the grounds leading to the beach, and further on, the ocean. A great place to take a break from the labours of swimming. I didn't recognize it at the time for what it was -- a sublime spot for repose.
I hate to sound overly sentimental, but it is this way, especially when I think of you. What can one say in closing except, thank you.
P.S. I inadvertently scrapped two inches of skin off my right shin while walking around the larger pool. The bleeding wouldn't stop. My friend suggested calling someone to bandage my leg. It was painful and large but I was too busy dealing with the embarrassment to give the flap of skin much thought. I tore it off and let it fall; moved on. Now I think, wistfully, that perhaps you knew I would soon depart and this was your way of keeping a little of me with you. Well, I still carry the scar from that scrape. A strange bond.
I will return one day. I promise.
