I find it particularly adequate that up to the last hour before parting, we were still furiously playing coinche, our favorite card game, as if wherever we were, and whatever happened, was only a background to our most important activity. Like everytime we had been together. Since August.

The time finally arrived when we really had to move to the restaurant for a last meal together; and the world abruptly came back to us. Marine and Guillaume shouldered their backpacks from their last hotel room after a year spent traveling across Asia, and we set out on the sand under the palm trees. The sea was, as ever, singing its unending song; that day it was one of farewell.

We headed towards the Crunch, our favorite restaurant in Palolem — actually that was an understatement. It would be more accurate to say that they cooked all our meals. I lost the count of how many times we passed in front of it, pretending we were going to walk past it to another place, and innocently asked:

“So? Where do we eat? The Crunch?”

And someone would invariably answer:

“Yeah sure, why not”

I think now that we must have lost a lot of time repeating this ritual at every meal, but you know, appearances and all.

There is a reason why we kept returning, obviously. The Crunch serves a more than delicious Indian fare and some really fine continental cuisine in a smart casual atmoshpere, and all of this for a bargain; and even though it sounds like a simple Google search could find such a place for anyone living in a city, for us travelers used to eat in the most dodgy places you could imagine, the Crunch was a heaven-sent gift.

That is where our tandoori chicken masala pictures came from, and thinking about it still makes my mouth water with delight today. I mean, we had at one point even been to a restaurant named Tandoor, famous for its tandoori dishes — obvioulsy — and had once again been disappointed by the chicken. (Admittedly, I had partly ruined it by running out in the hot streets of Aurangabad to fetch my camera, and by the time I was back, everthing was dead cold. But the chicken tasted dry anyway.) And here we are, in a random restaurant lost in a tiny coastal village surrounded by palm trees, and an unknown chef sends us to a gastronomical heaven. I must have had it at least four times.

But I wander. We found our favorite table empty, sat down, our usual waiter took our order, and we dealt the cards to play a bit more. Ladina and I were in a winning streak and well on the way to victory, but it only seemed good manners to try and finish the game anyway.

“And how about a group picture? Let’s take a group picture,” I proposed after the lunch.

I could hardly believe these words had come out of my very own mouth. I had never cared for group pictures. They always seemed, to me, the most boring, useless and lifeless pictures one can ever make; they are a chore both for the unwilling photographer and for the people having to blandly smile. I mean, look at this.

The picture is horrible, obviously. We all look horrible. You are basically handing your camera over to someone who has no idea how to operate it, who does not really want to take a picture, who puts no effort, no emotion, no vision in it. There’s a random guy staring at us on the right side of the picture and another one right between Ladina and me. That is a long way from winning a photography contest.

And nonetheless, despite all my reason tells me, looking at that picture brings an inexplicable smile to my lips. Memories of riding motorbikes in Indonesia together, eating at a momo restaurant in Kathmandu surrounded by curious locals, or squeezing the four of us (plus backpacks and guitar) in a rickshaw at 4 am in Agra immediately come back to my mind.

The last moments are always a bit awkward. You stand around with an embarassed smile, not knowing where to put your arms, shifting your feet… You keep saying banalities like “Well that was cool” and “We had good fun, eh?” without noticing you are simply wasting your last conversation together. And finally, you find out that not looking at it did not mean it would not come. It is time to go.

“Take care guys! See you in France or Switzerland…” was my last phrase to them, as they climbed in the rickety bus to Margao.

“Yeah, see you somewhere in the world!” replied Gui with a wave of the hand.

I smiled. I knew these sad words.

I had said them too many times, to too many friends.