If you could create your perfect life, what would it look like?

For decades my answer has been: "Living in a beach house, able to walk out the door and jump in the sea. Writing on a computer that's linked to the internet. No job. Hot climate. With cable TV."

That's it. That's been the image my fantasy life. A dream I'd never even aimed for, thinking it impossible.

I recently realized: Wow! This is it! I'm living it! The un-dared-for wish came true -- though I'd pictured California, or the Caribbean, not India, and the warm climate didn't include a monsoon. But I won't quibble over rain drops. Monsoon season is, actually, wondrously beautiful, even in its moldiness, and offers a writer's paradise of quiet without distractions. Parties make up the "season" in Goa. A flood of tourists out for a good time. A hello to anyone results in instant best friends with whom to go gallivanting. Friends galore contrast the emptiness of the rainy season, with nights of torrential downpours and ground-shaking crashes of the nearby sea. Daytime usually evaporates the clouds long enough for a swim. The Westerners living here year-round go to a small cove called "Spaghetti Beach" in Vagator where rocks offer shelter from the wind and pandemonious waves.

Aside from petty annoyances such as every-other-day water (cold), cable and power outages, I GOT IT. I'm living my dream life. And it's much more than the barest I'd settle for. My fabulous house has everything I need, including two maids twice a week to clean and do laundry. Pumpkin lays at my side ready with a tail-wag when I glance at him. But best of all, my MOTORBIKE thrills me every time I hop and kick start. Native Manhattanites, who depend on subways and busses to get around, may be the sole people on earth who don't drive. I belong to that deprived group who never experience the power of handling a vehicle. Here, driving my bike through the paddy fields, I'm in awe. What a sense of command! My single experience driving a car occurred in my early twenties when I bummed around Europe for three years in an old Daf I'd bought for $200 and painted. From Paris down to Spain, across to Italy, back up to Denmark is the only time I'd driven.Once, in the mid 90's, I had a car-driving dream and awoke mourning that IÕd never again feel that particular sense of independence and control. My TVS, fashioned Cleo style, bestows me a magnificent feeling of competence. To be able to wake up, step out the door, and GO exhilarates me.