On Christmas night, I accompany Andrew Pegado to a village dance. Pegado is a photographer who covers parties for the local papers. Tonight he is off duty, but he nevertheless carries his camera because, he says, you never know when a celebrity will show up.

Silver Bells, the outdoor dance hall in Sangolda, is prettily lit. Pegado greets friends—a kiss on each cheek for the women, a handshake or hug for the men, depending on the level of friendship. He hands me a gin and tonic from the cash bar and goes to mingle. The hall is full of couples and families. The women are decked out in long dresses, and the men in either suits or black tie. A band named Alcatraz comes onstage and begins to play—the fox-trot, the rumba, the samba, the swing. To my surprise, the floor fills up with couples, the men as graceful as the women. One twosome cradle a baby as they waltz. Little girls in flouncy dresses and boys in jackets and trousers freestyle in between the adults. It is like being at a family camp in the Poconos—cheesy but oddly charming.

I observe an Indian couple dancing cheek to cheek. They are plump and not particularly attractive but move with impeccable rhythm and grace. This is new to me—Indian men are not known for their dancing. I make bold: I tap the lady on the shoulder and steal off with her partner. Turns out he is a real-estate agent and knows of a beachfront property. It's technically too close to the water to build on, he says, which is why it's so cheap. But he assures me that a big hotel chain (he won't say which) is building even closer to the shoreline and so I should be fine. Louis Armstrong's timbral voice wafts in from somewhere: "What a wonderful world," he croons. I take it as a sign.

South Goa may be quiet—and justly renowned for its beaches—but North Goa is where the action is. The seashore at Baga, Calangute, and Candolim is full of sunbathing bodies, sometimes nude. Masseurs and reflexologists ply the sand. And as the sun sets, nightclubs like Britto's and Tito's pump out music.

As I sunbathe on Baga Beach, getting a back massage with clove oil, my real-estate agent/dance partner calls back with figures. All they want is $1 million, he says. I jump up, scalded not by the sun but by the soaring prices. It feels like New York all over again. I decide I'm not that fond of beaches after all.

Leaving Baga, I encounter rice paddies and palm groves. White egrets take flight from lotus ponds. Crocodiles swim among the mangroves. Europeans on scooters speed down the narrow rural roads, dodging chickens, cows, dogs, and pigs. I chase them on my rented Vespa, determined to find their secret hideouts. Which is how I end up at the end of a long dirt road, saying hello to Yahel Chirinian and Doris Zacheres.

Foreigners feel at home here. They come on holiday and end up staying for years. Chirinian and Zacheres, for instance, met in Paris and moved to Goa eight years ago. Together, they own Monsoon Heritage, designing and building startlingly whimsical sculptural pieces for collectors here and abroad. They love India, Chirinian says, because the "weather is brutal, the snakes poisonous, and the friendships profound."