Photo by Jarrett Wrisley

"You want to eat local food?" said Annetta Fernandes, who runs the beautiful Siolim House, where I recently stayed.

"Yes, please. I want to eat where you eat."

"Ok...Around the corner there is a place," she said sheepishly, "it's called the Hotel Jack Inn. You can try there -- they have very good sausage..."

In India, restaurants have a strange habit of calling themselves hotels when they're not. I'm not really sure why, I should probably look into that. Anyway, the Hotel Jack Inn is a small, five-table spot just opposite the Cathedral in Siolim, Goa (those were my vague directions, and now they are yours).

This village is close enough to the beaches that you frequently see the naked red skin of well-fed, elderly tourists whizzing by on Enfield motorcycles. That, and the peculiar tribe of people who, regardless of gender, all seem to have dreadlocks, sleeve tattoos, linen Sinbad pants, and ride the economical scooter.

While walking to the Hotel Jack Inn, I saw an inebriated, cycle-riding Russian smack into an Indian man's parked motorbike, pushing it about 15 feet down the street. "How much do you want, baba?" he slurred, displaying his considerable cultural insight before offering him 200 rupees (that's $4). Ah, the joys of Western tourism.