Since I’ve been in Nepal, whenever I’d speak of my plans to visit Nagarkot the Nepalese would always follow up with the exact same response: “Ooooh, Nagarkot– sunrise, very nice.”

Lonely Planet mentions the sunrise experience as the main reason for visiting Nagarkot and says that few visitors stay for longer than a night. Situated on a tall mountain overlooking the Himalayas and the Kathmandu Valley, Nagarkot is a quiet village with not a whole lot going on. When I read this, it sounded like my dream home. My curiousity about this epic sunrise was just one of my soul-attractions to this place.

As I was packing up to go there, I was introduced to a mousy French girl named Cerise. Dubis, the owner of the guest house in Bhatkapur, made the introduction because Cerise was also interested in going to Nagarkot. She had a pained look on her face and was trying hard to communicate in English but it wasn’t coming easily. She seemed much relieved when I addressed her in French and we quickly arrived at a plan to travel together.

Leaving the cello and my bag of bricks behind in Bhaktapur, I set off to Nagarkot with just a light daypack containing the essentials– a toothbrush/paste, my book, a journal, and some water. I didn’t even bring a change of clothes, since I only planned on being gone for a night.

Conversation with Cerise was lively right out of the gate. Reaching far back into the dormant quadrants of my mind, I was pulling out French expressions and grammar that haven’t been spoken for nearly fifteen years. Her company was refreshing and the opportunity to practice French was exciting.

Cerise was concerned about riding the bus and seemed a bit fearful. Having crossed that river a few times now, I can say that I am now pretty comfortable with the whole process. Though it surprised even myself when we arrived at the bus stop and, seeing how crowded the bus was, I opted to climb up on the roof for my first experience of this sort.

Sixty exhilarating minutes later we arrived at Nagarkot. The views from on top of the bus were amazing. And now we were on top of the world. The crisp air was significantly cooler and I was wishing I’d brought some warmer clothes.

As we walked along looking for a room for the night, we came across a barefoot hippie on the side of the road. He was sitting there banging a drum, appearing totally whacked-out drunk or drugged. Who knows what was going on in his mind and his British rasta accent offered no indication of where he was from. We told him we were looking for a place and he said, “The best place around here, mon, it’s called Nirvana. You gotta go there, mon.”

His deranged state of mind asside, his advice was an affirmation since that is the guest house we were looking for to begin with. At the end of a long dirt road, approaching what seemed like the edge of the world, we arrived at Nirvana. Prayer flags were swaying in the late-afternoon breeze and colorful decorative lights were dancing around the doorway. Inside, there are funky designs painted on the walls, guitars and drums strewn about, and cushions encircling a small table. We loved it. Only problem, they didn’t have any vacancy.

We found another place nearby, and that was fine. Cerise and I were famished, so after dropping off our stuff in our room we walked back to Nirvana to eat.

It wasn’t all that surprising that when we entered we found our hippie drummer passed-out, down-for-the-count, sprawled across the cushions beside the table. The beautiful Nepali hostess, she just offered an unapologetic smile that spoke to me, “It is what it is.” I was ok with that, and Cerise was too. We sat down beside the deadman, his arms practically wrapped around my seat, and we both just smiled at each other.

Shortly after placing our order, the other guests arrived. With dreadlocks, beautiful smiles, and vibrant refreshing energy, I knew I was going to like them. They took seats beside us and instantly the room was abuzz with traveler tales, interesting conversations, and laughter sweet laughter. They said they had arrived a few days earlier, hadn’t planned on staying so long, but sensing the unique magic and warmth of this place (and this guest house in particular), they decided to enjoy Nagarkot for a few more days.

A bell chimed in my head, and I paused to consider that my prayer was being answered. A page was turning, and that sense of isolation I had been feeling was quickly vanishing.

We sat at the candle-lit table for many hours. Andrea is a spunky Dutch girl whose contagious love for India convinced me that I needed to go there. Mark and Elesa, a beautiful couple from Canada, are like the ying and yang of love, and their counterpoint in conversations is completely engaging. Sanjay, the owner of this guest house, is quiet like the Buddha and he just sits there listening intently to every word spoken with a sly understanding smile on his face.

The guitars, drums, chessboard, and backgammon props around the room added to the spice of this funky little bohemian enclave. They were also the impetus for the musical-cushion flow in the room, and as situations rearranged, conversations and connections would mutate in a curious way like a river. A mysterious French girl named Alex arrived later on; she awoke the deadman, and propped him up beside her as they smoked cigarettes in silence. Cerise was having trouble following the flow of this fast-paced conversation in English, and it delighted me to have side-conversations with her in French, filling her in on what was being said.

The subjects of our conversation are so diverse i feel like my brain is play-dough, being stretched in many directions all at once. I am fascinated by the many stories I hear– stories about the extraordinary life of the ancient ruler Barabas and Zorba the Greek, about the Kumari Devi (a modern-day Nepali girl who is regarded as a “Living Goddess” until her first period, after which she lives a long lonely life because it’s bad luck to be with an ex-Goddess). Conversation always returns to travel experiences, and this crowd speaks fondly of the mystical Indian towns of Veranasi and Rishakesh. Books, music, and films are being discussed too. And where one person’s sentence ends, another person’s story begins in a thrilling segue of brain-food. In a notebook that sits beside me I scribble notes of things I wish to research.

Part of me wanted to stay there all night, because it was precisely the situation I love. But it was late, and if Cerise and I were to awake at 4:30 and complete our 4 mile journey to the lookout tower in time for sunrise, we really had to get going. Half-way home we realized we forgot to pay our bill for dinner, which seemed like a really long time ago. We laughed about this and when we returned, Sanjay said, “No problem. You pay later.”

The alarm sounded at what felt like the middle of the night. I looked out the window and saw a pitch-black universe speckled by extremely bright stars. I had heard that early-morning cloud coverage was common in Nagarkot and that would surely kill the whole sunrise experience, but this morning was about as perfect as it gets.

We arrived at the lookout tower just as the sun was peaking out from behind the Himalayas. The view was stunning and I could suddenly understand why the Nepalese are always so succinct when describing the Nagarkot sunrise experience– it simply falls short of words. Standing on top of the world high upon this lookout tower, the sun was warm upon my skin and in a sacred moment of peace, I surveyed 360 degrees of this beautiful mountain country.

Other sunrise seekers included a group of young Israelis who were sitting beside the tower, preparing Arabian coffee on a camping stove. Shortly after meeting them they offered us a cup and said that it was the world’s best coffee . Indeed, the subtle addition of cardamom pods to coffee seemed like an ingenious innovation– I wondered why Starbucks hadn’t thought of it. What followed was another two hour exciting exchange of traveler’s tales and stories that intrigue me to no end. I didn’t get their names, but that didn’t really matter. Their stories left an imprint on my imagination.

I could tell Cerise was enjoying these moments as much as I was, and I could tell that she didn’t want to leave, but she had an obligation in Kathmandu. So after a delicious breakfast back at Nirvana, we parted ways with a hug and a smile and a “bon voyage.” I only fully realized after she left how much I enjoyed her quirky French presence.

Andrea was leaving today too, and once she vacated her room I moved in. The rest of the day was spent on those cushions hanging out with Sanjay and the exciting mix of Nepalese and internationals that would drop in from time to time.

The first day was all about decompression. I just chilled all day, breathing easy, enjoying Sunitas’ delicious Nepali cuisine, and enjoying my book from the patio that overlooked valleys and kingdoms below.

I would’ve been happy to have each day be a repeat of the first, but I was also excited to explore Nagarkot’s fascinating mountain culture. So with the rising sun the next day I set out on a journey through time-worn paths that lead every which direction through these hills. I had been told that marijuana grows wild through the Nepalese mountains, but it still was shocking when I’d come across plants beside the trail. The hiking was epic, the trails were beautiful– perhaps thousands of years of walking these paths and the cumulative improvements along the way has resulted in extremely well-maintained trails.

I wanted to listen to my iPod, but quickly realized that it was futile to try. Every couple of minutes I’d come across a thatched-roof dwelling with befuddled peasants who’d look at me with wide-eyes like I was from a different dimension. Those that could speak any English would ask me where I come from and what is my name. Every once in a while I’d come across someone who could speak decent English, and then I’d have to remove the headphones and dig through my bag for my hearing aids.

One family in particular captured my imagination. A young boy tending to some yaks was standing beside the trail and endeared himself to me when he spoke, “Excuse me, would you like something to drink?” It was hot under the sun, I was out of water, and this sounded like a great idea. He leads me down a dirt path to the other side of his house and I find an elderly woman sitting in the shade beside a massive pile of marijuana. Her fingers are black with resin and she’s removing the leaves from each stem.

The young boy who addressed me is Anil. He is 14 and has a surprising command of the English language. He returns from his hut with a large bowl of some milky yellow drink. I’m not really all that interested in trying it, but what can I do? It’s called “chang”. I still don’t really know what it is– it tastes a little like the roxi that I had the other night, but Anil says it’s not alcoholic. He and his five sisters are very intrigued by everything i have in my bag: my iPod, my camera, my compass, my cowboy hat. I hand him my camera and he and his siblings began snapping away many photos of each other, reviewing each one and laughing hysterically.

He invites me to eat some curry, and though I’m totally hungry and would love to spend more time with these people, I check the time and see that if I don’t get a move on it, I’m not going to make the last bus back up the mountain to Nagarkot. Though locals climb the 3000 feet of elevation everyday, I fear that I am physically incapable of completing the seven mile arduous ascent before dark. Just before leaving, Anil asks with great sincerity for my phone number and my address. He keeps asking me how to contact me. I don’t really know what to tell him because I haven’t called the US yet, and I don’t think he has access to email. At any rate, I give him my business card and as I turn around to depart, the last image I have of this encounter is Anil surrounded by his solemn family, holding onto my business card like a treasured gift.

The peaceful late-day sunshine gives these terraced hills a timeless quality. I see peasants working the fields and I know that the view would be the same even a thousand years ago. As usual in this foreign land, I don’t know where I’m going, so I keep asking locals for directions to the Sangku bus stop. I’m not sure if they understand what I’m asking, but they keep pointing down the road, and eventually I find a bus beside a roadside hut.

Much relieved to have made it on time, i jump on the bus and suddenly feel very tired. A young woman with a baby sits down beside me. The baby is so cute and seems fascinated by my strange appearance. He seems eager to touch me, and when I ask his mother if I can hold him, she smiles and happily puts him in my arms. The whole way back to Nagarkot, the warmth of his precious body puts a happy feeling in my heart. And when we arrive, I pass him back to his mother and we exchange smiles and namastes.

The scene back at Nirvana is as timeless as the hills. Sure enough, I return to find good music playing on the stereo and some folks gathered enjoying some tea and dinner by candlelight. I take a seat, order some food, and kick back too.

Over the course of the night several of Sanjay’s friends stop in. They all play guitar and many of them have amazing voices. The music they make captures my heart and seems so irresistably romantic, but is also joyous and all the gay Nepali guys commence a rowdy group sing-along when they hear an old Nepali pop song. I ask them to teach me the lyrics and now the melody is imprinted in my head. I think it will become the foundation for a new song that I’m working on, which I hope to record possibly with some of these Nagarkot musicians.

I didn’t want to leave Nagarkot, but as special as it’s been– I haven’t showered in many days, my clothes are tired, and I’m really anxious to return to my cello and beautiful Bhaktapur. I’m also excited to return to Kathmandu because I now have a lead for three masterful musicians living there and I wish to find them. Instead of taking a bus on back (the easy way), I opted to descend the mountain on foot– a decision that led to another afternoon of fascinating experiences.

All day long I kept musing on the conviction that Nepal shall be for me a place that beholds infinite opportunities. So far my experiences have taught me that every moment is laced with spontaneous offerings from God– a perpetual whispering voice that says, “Come here!” This voice says to me to go forward boldly, do not fear and do not think you have erred in your calculations. This moment is a gift. Enjoy Nepal and all the random episodes that present themselves. Every minute is an hour, and in every conversation there is wisdom to behold. The lotus comes to mind, and I think of Nepal as a flower unfolding in perfect time.

Last sight out my window before going to bed was a bonfire in the street, around which several kids were playing some kind of gambling game. They were shouting and exchanging money, and my instinct told me that what they were doing was probably shady. 
 
At 5 am I awoke to the stench of burning plastic, and when I looked out my window I saw a huge pile of trash in flames. Already at this hour there was quite a stir of activity in the street. I saw the produce vendors unpacking their goods and I wondered why they even bothered putting it away. It seems like everyone does business here 24/7. I guess that’s the way to maximize sales.
 
I thought it’d be fun to experience this beautiful old village before it awoke and so I set off on foot in the pre-dawn darkness. Instantly I was quite moved by what I saw. In front of many homes and all around these streets there were little tea-candles aglow, many of them surrounded by freshly-painted iconography that suggested it was a Hindu thing. 
 
A few steps further and I came across a young man wearing flip-flops and an Abercrombie Fitch t-shirt. He was up to his knees in excrement and was using his hands to clean the intestines of a giant beast that lay slain on the street, a river of blood flowing downhill. Steam is rising from the animal’s corpse and another man with a huge butcher’s knife is cutting off chunks of meat and placing them on a roadside table for purchase. Nearby, a little boy is peeing in a gutter.
 
The sun was just beginning to rise but the goings-on around these streets seemed to be the same whether it was morning, noon, or night. Where four roads meet, I come across a Hindu shrine and several elders, women, men, and children are removing their shoes, touching a statue in dutiful reverence, lighting candles, scattering flowerpetals, and reciting prayers. I watched this situation for a while and was trying to figure out this ritual, but no patterns emerged. I mean, on one level it seemed like a very devout holy ritual, but then within earshot distance from the shrine, a pack of school-girls are giggling and talking loudly.  I concluded that this is just their way of life, and unlike the Christian church, all aspects of life are holy. You don’t need to be silent to honor God here, you just do the rituals and live your life.
 
A little ways further down the road I come across a courtyard that appears today exactly as it did several hundred years ago. I hesitate to enter because it’s a holy place and I can see from the doorway that many practitioners are performing their rituals. But I hear the sound of drums and I’m totally intrigued. So I enter the courtyard and pause to digest the richness of this cultural experience. A group of elders are gathered inside a shrine– some are banging drums, others are crashing cymbals, and one man who appears to be a thousand years old is singing verses of holy text. A few women are filling buckets of water from a well, others are sweeping the area with handmade brooms.  Surrounding the courtyard there are candles and statues of Gods, around which a procession of people silently move about making holy gestures.
 
Everywhere I walk this morning, chickens are hobbling around and I wonder how their owners keep track of them. Above me there are millions of colorful flags zigzagging across these narrow cobblestone roads . I come around a corner, and for the first time since I’ve been in Nepal, my eyes behold a beautiful view of the mountains. I pause for a moment and enjoy the rising sun warm upon my face. I think I’m going to stay in Bhaktapur for a while. 

At first I was a little bit disheartened when the guy at the front desk of my Thamel guest house told me that last night would be my final night with them. I felt like I was getting kicked out even though he explained they had reservations to honor. It was a good thing, I concluded. I needed a push, because I really didn’t want to be there. 
 
A few days earlier I had wandered south of Durbar Square to the street unofficially known as Freak Street. In the 70’s when hippies were all about turning on, tuning in, and dropping out this is where some of them went. Living practically for free in this outrageously cheap area and enjoying the abundance of marijuana and hash, the hippies found a home in this little bohemian enclave. 
 
(side note: a rat just came scampering across the floor beside me as I’m sitting here typing this…ok…distracted, but I shall proceed)
 
Anyhow, without knowing much of its history when I came across this area the other day I was struck by the chill vibe. I could feel it in the air and I liked it. I saw dreadlocked hippies drinking beer in the afternoon, smoking cigarettes and playing chess, reading books, and hanging out at sidewalk cafes looking all zoned out, people-watching. Very different from Thamel.
 
I needed a place to relocate to and this seemed like a refreshing alternative. I found a humble little room that offered little comfort, but at least it was cheap and the lock on the door seemed adequate. The sweet little Nepali girl who checked me in was so irresistibly cute it made me happy just to spend a few moments with her. And at less than $2 a night, what the hell. How could I go wrong, if only for a night.
 
Immediately after setting my bags down, I walked across the street to a little coffee stoop where a couple of seasoned-travelers were hanging out.
 
When you come across these common backpacker scenarios, you never know who knows who, nor can you really know the dynamic of the situation. At this moment I saw individuals sitting together silently. Sometimes they would talk, or laugh a little, and then curiously someone would get up and walk away without any regard or word of farewell. I’m drinking a delicious french press of coffee (the best cup I’ve had so far). The others, they are smoking cigarettes, sipping herbal teas, and nursing pints of beer while staring out into the void of their thoughts.
 
After spending a little too much time inside my head, I was really happy to come across this crowd. I broke the silence and made a little small talk with the folks around me. Quickly this silent ensemble came to life and I got to know my neighbors. There was a kiwi named Clint, a curious Malaysian dude named Azli, a beautiful German Israeli woman working at the American Embassy, a Nepali hipster, and an American gal wearing Nepali garb reading Eat Pray Love. 
 
Before long we are exchanging ideas and laughing. The community feels so good to me right now. Beside us, there’s a barefoot hippy with dreadlocks twirling balls attached to rope. The sound of sitars and tablas are blasting out from a music store nearby and I’m in love with this moment.
 
Azli, a 44-year old Malaysian smiler (who looks no more than 30), he sees my book “Joy of Living” and says to me ironically, “there’s no happiness in living.” I like him instantly. With two spools of colorful yarn, he’s crocheting a “pouch” for a friend and he says to me that he is the most productive person in the world. He’s been on the road for the past 15 months and says he was born with the gift of a photographer’s eye. After viewing a few of the photos on his camera, I have to agree. He invites me to his room to view his collection of photos and this sounds like a great idea. 
 
Once we get to his room he pulls out his MacBook and begins a slideshow of photos he’s taken of his travels through India. His photos are beautiful, so striking I immediately feel like crying. Beauty and sadness conveyed poignantly in the eyes of his subjects– these primoridal expressions of life he has captured are bleak, often lonesome, and yet in all these photos of poorer-than-dirt India, there is a persistent hint of joy and salvation . The soundtrack he choses for this moment is Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah”, which strikes me as the perfect fit! The lyrics of this song push me over the edge and now I’m totally overwhelmed with emotions.  (To see his photos, check him out on Flickr.)
 
As much as I’m enjoying this moment, I am now late. There is a concert tonight in Patan and I’m really excited to be there. It’s the 2nd to final night of Jazzmandu and tonight’s show is a fusion of Nepali classical music with European jazz musicians.  I must go!

The charm of Nepal has begun to reveal itself. After a great night of rest, I awoke with a smile in my heart. I meditate for a while and then emerge into the ever-bustling mayhem of Thamel looking for a breakfast joint. A handsome Nepali greaser quickly approaches me, “Namaste, how are you, I am fine, where do you come from?” I hesitate to respond, but he’s so damn cute and seems sincere, and beside — what could he possibly want? I think to myself, how do all these people make money and why do they waste so much time with me? Most of the time I am fearing for my life and dodging obstacles, hardly listening to a word they are saying. But they remain persistent and follow me around like a puppy dog thinking perhaps they’ll change my mind and I’ll say, “Ok , actually I am ready to book a trek to Everest, take me to your office and let’s do some business.”

These questionable characters, however, are usually very kind and helpful. He asks me what I am looking for, and when I say breakfast, he leads me down the road to a great little cafe named Pumpernickel Bakery. This place is nice. Catering to foreigners, it’s civilized, clean, they offer bakery products, eggs, and coffee– very nice. 

Seated beside the garden, I am enjoying my delicious cappucino, watching the rotating clientele of internationals that come and go. So many pretty women…Israelis, Dutch, Swedish, Poles, Canadians…I admire their beauty and for a moment feel a bit lonely. Especially when I see a pretty woman lean over and giver her boyfriend the most beautiful ‘I love you’ kiss.

I’m busy planning my strategy for the day. The sunlight is painting the walls of this peaceful bakery and along comes a kind-looking older woman. Her name is Susan. I invite her to join me and she pulls up a chair. I explain that I’m a bit overwhelmed and wondering how to spend my time. With a big smile and heart full of compassion she responds to each statement in a thick Australian accent “yeaasss”. I like her instantly. She pulls out a business card, hands it to me, and tells me to contact her. She’s lived and worked here for 13 years and knows a great pianist who can connect me to musicians. When I express my concerns about my safety she offers a nugget of wisdom and says, “You shouldn’t think like that, because then it will happen to you.” I’d love to talk longer with her, but she is meeting two “volunteers”, and they have just arrived.

I set out on a walking tour south of Thamel to Durbar Square, the Old Town. Every step along the way is a photo opportunity. Sights and sounds I could never imagine. I’m snapping away. Everywhere I look there are Buddhist temples and Hindu shrines that are hundreds of years old, architecture so ancient I feel like I’m in a time warp. Along the way I see a man shaving the scales off a a pile of fish with blood and guts scattered around him. Another man is hauling a massive block of stuff upon his back aided by a strap around his forehead . A yellow-robed sadhu (wondering holy man) sitting on the side of the road  appears to be about a thousand years old. Meanwhile, there is the persistent introduction of smiling gentlemen who want to be my guide and ask me the same questions. Several sad-looking women carrying their forlorn babies approach me with an empty bottle asking for milk money.

Where I go really doesn’t matter. Any which road I travel is lined with historic architecture and incredibly crowded streets packed with vendors, all selling the exact same products. Astonishingly though, they all have clientele sifting over their goods and exchanging money. 

Eventually guided by a compass and the Lonely Planet guide I arrive at Durbar Square. It is totally amazing! 15th century stupas, temples, shrines, and holy structures surround me. It’s a living museum here at Durbar Square and it’s also a lively social scene. Thousands of people are gathered all around and up on the platforms elevated high above the square. You see guys huddled together like lovers enjoying each other’s company, like best of friends. (Mind you, they are not gay, this is just a common Nepali expression of love and friendship). Many are paying respects to Hindu gods. A pack of giggly young school girls in uniform are walking down the road with linked arms. All these people seem so genuinely happy and their smiles reveal a disregard for the chaotic reality of over-population.  It strikes me that this scene has probably been occurring at this square for the past several centuries. The only difference is the automobiles which are honking incessantly and edging persistently through the mad throngs of pedestrians all around the square.

Tonight, I am sitting in a bar called “New Orleans”, writing in my journal by candlelight. I’ve been loitering for a while, taking advantage of the free wifi. But now my computer battery has died, my beer is empty, and I will go. Goodnight.

My sleep cycles are all screwed up these days. I get tired early in the day, I go to bed early, but then from midnight till daybreak I just toss and turn. Usually I kid myself thinking I might actually sleep till 7, but today I cut my losses and decided to just get up and begin my day at 5. Given the early start, I thought it’d be nice to make it up to Chokyi Nyima Rinpoche’s morning meditation session in Bodhnath.
 
Bodhnath, also known as Boudha, is home to several Buddhist monasteries and a significant population of Tibetan exiles. The town is just a few miles outside of Kathmandu. I could’ve taken a taxi– and that most certainly would’ve been a hell of a lot easier– but I was feeling brave and ready to experience my first journey on a public bus. 
 
On maps of the city you will see “City Bus Station”, but I found that a little misleading. I knew I’d arrived where I needed to be because I followed the map to the general location and found a mess of busses scattered about. But there was no ticket window, no schedules, no signs, no announcements– nothing like that. How does one know which bus will take them to their destination, I wondered.  
 
I asked a few people which bus was headed to Bodhnath and it seemed like everyone was just taking wild guesses, because they all pointed in different directions. I kept asking, though, and eventually I was led to the correct bus. At the door was a young boy who looked like a bandit with a stack of bills in hand, hollering the names of the places this bus serviced. He said all the names so fast though, it was more like a guttural bird-call, and even after listening to his schpeel several times I still couldn’t make out Bodhnath, Boudha, or anything even close. But I got on anyway.
 
It was comforting when a European girl with a large backpack got on after me. I said hello, and soon we were discussing her impending trek through the Himalayas. 
 
The bus filled up pretty quickly, and as anticipated we exceeded maximum occupancy by about double, maybe triple. It occurred to me after a while that I didn’t know what I was looking for, nor would I know when to get off. I asked the bandit for a heads-up and hoped  that he understood what I said. 
 
So far the whole bus ride process was taking much longer than expected. In fact, I was already too late to make it to the meditation. But when the bandit shouted out to me this was my stop, I jumped off and began walking towards the monastery. 
 
The Lonely Planet maps are decent, but just vague enough that I never seem to be able to follow them to my destination. Even though I use a compass, and measure my distances carefully (every 2 minutes  of walking is a tenth of mile), I still have serious troubles. This morning I thought I was on the right path, but after walking for way too long it occurred to me I was off-course. I asked several people for directions, but no one could speak english nor did they know the monastery I was asking about.
 
I had assumed Rinpoche was a celebrity in this Buddhist community, and that his famed “White Gompa” (monastery) was a landmark. But I was wrong. An air of desperation came over me. What do you do when you don’t know where you are, no one understands what the hell you are saying,  and no one can tell you where to go? When in doubt, eat!
 
Fortunately, along my way I passed by the Saturday Cafe, a bakery that I remembered from my friend Jim’s blog as being a great little place with a nice roof-deck and delicious food. So I decided to postpone the hunt for the monastery and instead go enjoy some breakfast. It was just as good as Jim said and the view from the roof-deck was surreal. Thousands of Tibetan prayer flags were strewn across the sky, connecting to the the golden dome of the large stupa (enormous white block structure) that was just a stone throws distance away.
 
After a nice breakfast I was recharged and committed to finding the monastery. Missing the meditation was inconsequential, but my only real goal for the day was that I wanted to find out details about a retreat taking place in December. Armed with compass, map, and directions from the waiter, I would not fail this time.
 
Heading north from the stupa, I came across several red-robed Buddhist monks,  giggly school-children in uniforms, and the standard array of produce and curio vendors. Sitting on the side of this dirt road, a young monk was reading Buddhist verses out loud. He appeared impenetrable, like those English guards who look like statues, and I don’t think he even noticed me watching him.
 
Turning up an unmarked back road, I come across a peaceful place that has a gate around a beautiful white building. Surely this must be the “White Gompa”. I had arrived! A young Nepali man was arriving at the same time and we exchange smiles and namastes. He asks me what I am looking for and in typical-Nepali style, he kindly assumes the role of being my guide and interpreter, asking the gatekeeper directions to the main-office. 
 
At the office I get all the details I needed for the retreat. December 5th, just show up. Everything else is tbd. 
 
As we are leaving the office my new friend, Birjin, explains he comes here twice a week to see his “grandmother”, a monk. She’s not really related to him, but he comes to see her because she’s lonely and has no family.  She’s 73 and has been at this monastery for the past 35 years. He asks me if I’d like to go meet her, and, of course, I’m game.
 
We walk down a corridor and find her sitting outside her bedroom. My first observation is that she’s in pain. Birjin points to his grandma’s room– a bleak concrete space that is very dirty from top to bottom and has nothing in it but a bed, a meditation cushion, and a few metal cups in the corner. Birjin tells me that his grandma has problems with her legs and that she can’t walk. Consequently, she has spent pretty much all of the past twenty years just sitting in this room. He welcomes me in and we sit down beside her bed. 
 
It’s clear that she’s delighted to see him. But once they begin conversing, I find myself totally perplexed. I’m trying to imagine what they are saying, projecting an American conversation over their foreign dialect. But it doesn’t work. His grandma would speak passionately for twenty straight minutes without pause, while Birjin bobbed his head listening. And then all of a sudden, he’d start flailing his warms and respond in strong-speach, conveying what seemed like anger or frustration. Occasionally one of them would laugh, and then the fiery-exchange would resume. This carried on for well over an hour. All the while I was expecting at any minute for either of two things to happen. Either she’d whisk him out of here and say angrily “Get lost!”. Or he will suddenly rise and say “I’m out of here!”. Neither of which actually happens. I’ve been following this exchange patiently for a while, and now my bones are aching from sitting so long and I’m a little bored. But I’m fascinated by their conversation and am committed to hanging out till they are through.
 
Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of a miniature monk who asks if we’d like to eat lunch. Though I just had breakfast a short while ago, how can I refuse? She brings three large plates of food and Birjin reads my mind. He asks, “Can you finish all that? Because it’s not good to leave food on your plate.” I tell him that a smaller plate would be good and he gives his grandma the enormous plate and passes me a smaller one.
 
Watching that woman devour her food was nothing short of extraordinary. Birjin says she has a hearty appetite and it makes my belly ache just watching her. The food was tasty though- rice, dal, spinach, and red-pickle sauce. I surprised myself in finishing all of my food because i really wasn’t hungry at all.
 
Once we’re through with lunch, Birjin says goodbye to his grandma and invites me to come with him to Baktapur, his hometown. I’m intrigued because I’ve been wanting to visit this mystical mountain town and I like the thought of accompanying a local. I ask how we’ll get there and if he has a car, but he just says, “Don’t worry,” and we begin walking.
 
At the center of town we hop on a bus– a very hot and crowded bus. Off we go. As we head towards the mountains, I keep waiting for the city sprawl of Kathmandu to recede and arrive in a place that is actually green and healthy. I thought I’d experience this on our way to Baktipur, but I was wrong. In fact, the noxious fumes of carbon dioxide and the clouds of dust blowing in through the window inspire me to put on my respiratory filter mask, which I pretty much always wear when out and about. 
 
An hour east of Kathmandu, the majestic foothills of the Himalayas come into focus and we arrive at Baktapur. Birjin surprises me when he says, “My brother just called me and needs me to do some work for him. I gotta go, so enjoy your time in Baktapur, and if you stay the night give me a call.”
 
Stay overnight? That wasn’t in the cards. I thought this was just a day trip journey. As is often the case with these Nepalese, they are so kind and sincere that I yield to them, but then I’m left with this strange feeling of “What the hell just happened?” As it stands, I paid for both legs of our bus fares, he walks off, and now I’m standing on a dusty road far away from my hotel room and all my stuff. 
 
But as I begin walking towards the ancient Old Town I realize immediately that this place has serious magical charm. And besides, I really have no desire to head back into crazy Kathmandu.
 
So I buy a toothbrush and toothpaste, and begin walking through this ancient village looking for a place to stay. Up a cobblestone path, and through narrow-winding roads lined with incredible Newari temples, shrines, and architecture, I’m taking it all in and loving every step. The roads are too narrow for most cars, so it’s peaceful, and the town feels like it might as well be 1200 AD. 
 
I find a nice room and spend the rest of the day and night wandering these streets travelling through time.