Some people get into bed at night, fall asleep immediately, and wake up in the morning refreshed.

My husband is one of those lucky people.

We have good friends who go to sleep relatively early and sleep until 10 a.m. if their schedules permit.

I’m not one of those people.

I’ve always been a night person. I’m happy and productive until well after midnight. Two a.m. is the witching hour for me – that hour that marks the border between being able to function well the next day and resigning myself to a zombie day. I’ve trained myself to get into bed by midnight in order to rise at 7 and join my partner for the breakfast he pampers me with, once I smell the wafting scent of coffee.

I no longer fight my inability to fall asleep quickly. Over the years I’ve accepted that resting with my eyes closed during those minutes or hours that I wake up in darkness, dawn far away, can replenish my body, instead of bringing the frustration and monkey mind of trying to bully my way into sleep.

Every now and then – sometimes even once a week – I have nights with virtually no sleep. Those nights are still difficult. I have a bag of tricks that includes breathing techniques and imagery, yoga nidra and other relaxation strategies, but there are nights that nothing brings sleep or rest. I might end up taking half a sleeping pill – that always works – or deciding that the next day will be a lost day. Either is okay; neither is good.

India is a busy, hectic place. Even in villages, the noise level is beyond…well, beyond anything experienced in the western world. There always seems to be something happening: a festival, a rally, a parade, a celebration, a call to worship. In Mumbai, Delhi and other big-beyond-imagination cities, the traffic never ceases. I mean, never.

In the beach towns in which we’ve chosen to begin our six-month adventure, there’s a different rhythm.

For two weeks in Morjim Beach, in Northern Goa, we joined the few people there half an hour before sunset to wait for the big event of the day. Gradually, Russian tourists and Indian residents made their way from their places of refuge from the heat to the kilometers-long, clean, sandy beach for nature’s daily phenomenon. The burst of orange that invariably accompanied the sinking of the sun into The Arabian Sea never failed to mesmerize. The wispy cloud formations lit by the hues of light thrown off with the sun’s seemingly-reluctant relinquishment of energy differed each day, but never failed to enchant.

We could both feel our inner pace slowing daily; our minds becoming less cluttered.

Each beach has its own ambience. Its  own sound. Its own flora and fauna. Each place we stay has its own staff, each with his or her own unique personality, and its own daily sights.

It takes a couple of days, and an open mind and heart, to adapt to new surroundings. To see that the curt, expressionless hotel manager makes it his personal mission to insure your enjoyment and welfare. To realize that anything lacking in your room can easily be obtained by graciously asking for it, and anything that can’t be obtained in this manner isn’t a necessity. To learn the possibilities nearby, how to navigate your way to and from them, and how to balance doing with being.

Thumboly Beach is not Morjim Beach.

Below our second-floor balcony is a sandy yard with a hammock, some tree stump seats, and a raised cement platform where I do my daily yoga and meditation. Beyond the wood-slat fence, with its greenery, is a walkway of sand and spotty grass where solitary villagers or small groups of school children can be observed passing by from time to time.

The apparel is of unending wonder and fascination.

Many men wear baggy shorts made of a large cloth tied in a mysterious way which provides modesty in spite of the tie in front that they open frequently to readjust, and a looseness essential in the humid heat of Kerala by the sea. Others wear a long skirt wrapped around their lower bodies.

Women wear colorful saris or leggings with a tunic on top. They even go into the water dressed this way – but only to their knees. Their modesty is a constant, although their midriff is bare in their saris and partially exposed. Shorts and bathing suits are nowhere to be seen. If on the beach in Tel Aviv women show the maximum amount of skin possible, here women show the least.

Beyond the path is a wall of rocks and boulders set up as a barrier between the village structures and the sea. The waves constantly break onto the rock barrier; sometimes in a gentle lullaby; sometimes with louder music; sometimes crashing with an impressive exhibition of spray. My afternoon yoga is usually accompanied by that drama.

Beyond the waves, the calm, flat Arabian Sea is dotted with fishing boats. Some are barely big enough for one person and his fishing nets; some for three; in darkness, some are big enough for fifteen. Early in the morning we can stand on the beach and watch the fishermen pluck the fish caught in their nets. The catch is never large – 20 kilo on a good day – and the fish are never big. It’s incomprehensible how they make a living from this work. We don’t have a grasp of their reality, though, so it may make perfect sense in their world.

Breakfast arrives on our balcony table at 7-ish every morning and dinner at 8-ish every evening. The creator and carrier of our vegetarian meals is a young man, Veejay, whose wife and five-year-old daughter live a 3-day train ride from here, near the border of Bhutan. The language he shares with the owner of the hotel (for lack of a better word) is Hindi, though his native language is Nepalese and the owner’s is Mayalayam.

Veejay is a vegetarian but accustomed to very simple food. He makes a huge effort to provide a variety of vegetarian meals for us and succeeds admirably. Even when the food is not exactly what we might choose, his intention is so pure that we’re happy to eat with gusto.

His work is endless. He lives onsite and is available 24/7 to provide refreshments, call a tuk-tuk or try to rouse the WiFi. If we were ever lackadaisical about Shabbat, watching people here work every day, all day, has reminded us to be grateful for the wise decision made thousands of year ago in Judaism to set aside 25 hours for rest and spiritual nourishment. The concept, the necessity for such a time and the benefit it brings, was unheard of back then and is still unheard of in India, other than among the Christians.

Our host, Anthony, is a very special person. Born and raised in this small fishing village, his father was a fisherman and, growing up, Anthony loved nothing more than going out on the boat with him. A bright and curious mind has made him an eclectic adult with a well-respected past as a career officer in the anti-terrorist section of the Indian army. He retired as a colonel after 24 years, most of which was spent in Kashmir, the region of continual conflict and terrorism.

Our long conversations include history, not exclusively Indian history, philosophy, science, religion (he’s a Christian with some Hindu undertones), sociology, politics, and ethics. He’s well-versed in current events and spent time in Israel on pilgrimage. He had words of praise for Israeli organization, cleanliness and ingenuity, and said that when he crossed the border into the chaos of Egypt he felt at home.

He has three businesses and has to travel much more than he’d like as a result, but is never happier than when he’s close enough to the sea to hear the waves lapping the shore. He keeps working in spite of yearning for the sea, to maintain employment for his 90 employees. He believes that a person has no self-respect without employment, and finds personal fulfillment providing opportunity for his neighbors. His plan is to work until his 60th birthday – he’s 49 today – and then sell off his businesses to remain within earshot of the waves until the end of his life.

When my husband expressed his fascination with the fishing boats, Anthony called a fisherman friend and hopped – happy as a child – into a small, 3-person fishing boat with his friend and my partner for an hour at sea. I watched as they returned to shore, Anthony paddling, his bare upper body glistening, a big smile on his face. Did I mention that he’s quite beautiful?

But about the sleeping thing.

There’s virtually no internet here. Just enough to entice you into attempts to be online.

I had several logistic necessities to be accomplished online and couldn’t complete any of them, even in the wee hours when the WiFi is at its strongest. I spent one night in a futile attempt, giving up only at 3 a.m. to toss and turn, sleep elusive, my mind dashing from train tickets unreserved and cell phone data packages unrenewed. Breathing didn’t help. Nothing helped. I gave up into the reality of a sleepless night and may (or may not) have dozed off for a short while here and there.

The next day we were able to renew the cell phone data and take care of a few other errands in town. With that off my mind, falling asleep came easily but waking up several times a night came just as easily. Each time, I heard the gentle music of the waves 30 meters from our bed, and drifted back into a peaceful sleep.

Each night since has been the same.

In the morning, I open my eyes only after my ears have opened to the sound of the waves. I feel rocked awake in nature’s arms just as I’m rocked to sleep in the dark of night to the same music.

This morning I awoke to that primordial sound of comfort and a minute later found myself contemplating, with reluctance, our departure from Thumboly Beach four days from now. I gave myself a mental shake to return to the present moment – wherein I’m still in Thumboly Beach and still accompanied by The Arabian Sea.

Our next stop is The Pimenta Cooking School. A cooking course I’ve been looking forward to for months.

My guess is that the sound of The Arabian Sea will be part of me until the end of my conscious life.

In the midst of my cooking course, surrounded by Indian cooking utensils, spices, vegetables and the incredible array of non-wheat flours, I’ll probably have a moment here and there of regret that I’ll be moving on from that kitchen experience at some point down the road.

The bittersweet flavor of traveling. And of life.

Change is a wonderful thing. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m a change junky.

I love my life at home. I love my family, friends and students, my house, studio, and community, and, yet, I get itchy after a while. It might take 6 months or a year, and planning my next trip may keep the itch at bay for months at a time, but the world and its infinite wonders call me louder and louder until I have to go.

Feeling full of gratitude for each moment in this amazing world of ours.