Kathmandu is filthy.  A fair statement and the only negative one I’ll make.  Because the truth is: I quite like the place.

I arrived at the Kathmandu airport after 10pm feeling a breezy air of nonchalance that can only be attributed to the fact that we’d been more or less ‘in transit’ for the preceding 40 hours – a length of time that had begun to feel downright perpetual.  So it wasn’t until I’d entered the quiet terminal and made a beeline for the visa application station that it finally occurred to me: I was standing in a country I’ve been aching to visit for several years.  A glassy-eyed wonder replaced my indifference and I swelled with a confidence that Nepal would not let me down.  It would be every bit what I expected it to be – a premonition that would prove more or less correct.

Kathmandu is a massive city of rickety low-rise buildings and narrow dusty streets – many of which go pitch black after sunset.  Somewhere near its heart is the district of Thamel, a conglomerate of cobbled stone streets lined with trekking outfitters bursting with a rainbow of puffy jackets and shops selling brass ‘singing bowls’.  Everywhere I am greeted with a sincere “Namaste,” to which I press my palms lightly together in front of me and smile.  Glowing restaurant signs boast every cuisine imaginable and on the streets you hear a garble of a dozen languages.  Yes, Thamel is the main tourist district, a fact that did not bother me as I thought it might, perhaps because it looks nothing like the Fisherman’s Wharf variety.

Darkness falls at about 6pm here and the streets of Thamel seem to come even more alive. Beneath the the multi-colored Christmas lights that drape overhead, motorbikes beep-beep their way around corners looking like cyclops, their single headlights dulled by the dust. Food vendors stand behind carts and rickshaw drivers call out to passers by.  Every few minutes I pass a man who says under his breath “Trek? Trek?”  I had to wonder at the success rate of such an approach.  Just how many people actually pull up their heads, stop and say, “Why yes, actually, I was thinking about going on a trek.  Can you help me with that?”

But realistically, trekking is why anyone is there in the first place.  Kathmandu is the jumping-off point for any of the numerous trails that criss-cross the Himalayas.  It was why we were there, too.

Between our trips to the various trekking outfitters where we haggled the price of fleece gloves and hats, we visited one of Kathmandu’s main attractions, Swayambhunath – an enormous Buddhist temple atop one of the hills in Kathmandu.  It is more commonly referred to as “The Monkey Temple,” because of the families of monkeys that inhabit a portion of the temple.  I dragged my hand along rows of gold-painted prayer wheels and an elderly woman offered to put a smear of red pigment on my forehead as a sign of blessing.  I declined with a smile and walked onward toward the main portion of the temple, a dome from which Buddha’s eyes watched my every move.

I felt giddy, walking beneath the prayer flags that flapped in the breeze overhead.  It was my first temple visit, but would be far from my last.  Nepal, the birthplace of Buddha, is naturally steeped in a seemingly harmonious mixture of Buddhism and Hinduism, as evident in the holy cows that roam the city streets as it is in the brass Buddahs and Shivas who sit side by side in every other shop I passed.

Our guesthouse in Kathmandu, recommended by a friend who’d stayed there a few years ago, is a revolving door of trekkers.
Each evening hosts an informal gathering in the quiet courtyard as guests stop for a drink on their way to and from dinner.  Tibby, the resident dog, greets each new arrival with a territorial bark while we all lift our drinks in a more hospitable greeting.  Tall bottles of ‘Everest Lager’ and glasses of red wine litter the low tables in front of us and occasional strings of cigarette smoke climb upward in the breezeless air.  Irish and Australian and British and Swedish accents meld together as tale after tale is shared, one my favorite being from the particularly animated Irishman named Johnny.  Five days earlier his wife Fiona had to be airlifted out of the Himalayas after their ascent failed due to a wicked combination of heavy snow and food poisoning.

“I’m in the front seat of the heli,” Johnny explains, regaling for all of us the sheer terror he felt as their chopper nearly grazed the jagged edges of the mountains.  “The pilot – I swear to god he’d never flown there before.  Why else would he have been taking photos with his phone?!”

Another group was headed to Everest Base Camp the following day, lead by their friend who had summited the world’s tallest mountain a few years ago.  I calmly resisted the urge to ask for the guy’s autograph.  I know we’re no longer in the days of Sir Edmund Hillary, but I’m still head-over-heels in awe of people who accomplish that sort of thing.

But so it was with some measure of embarrassment that, when it was our turn to answer the question “you coming or going?” I explained with a casual shrug that we were heading out for “just a 7-day trek.”  Life really is a riddle of relativity, isn’t it?

Our experience in Kathmandu would not be what it was without the owners of our guesthouse, Michelle and Pujan, two ex-pats from Seattle (though Pujan is native to Nepal and the guesthouse itself was handed down to him by his grandparents).  Each evening they initiate an impromptu dinner party for anyone interested.  On one night this meant 13 of us piling into a van and driving to a dark alley absent of even the suggestion of a restaurant sign.  Pujan pointed us up a narrow stairway and we filed into a Japanese restaurant where we were seated in a half circle around a huge grill behind which a chef steamed gyoza while another breaded vegetables for tempura.

While I shoveled raw tuna into my mouth, I eavesdropped on the conversations happening around me.  To my left David discussed the Iraq invasion with Larry, the Vietnam vet with a snow-white ponytail who once lived in my hometown.  Down the row to my right, Bernie (Larry’s travel partner), was describing his most recent (of 23) tour of India where he impersonated Gandhi for schoolchildren.  He really is the spitting image of the man.  It struck me in that moment that a byproduct of travel has been not only seeing things I otherwise wouldn’t – but also talking with people I never would have in a million years.

The night after the Japanese restaurant, a smaller group of us went to Pujan’s cousin’s restaurant where we ate traditional Newari cuisine (a subset of Nepalese consisting of various meats, dumplings and vegetables).  We were joined by a man named Eric – a pilot who flies tiny planes in and out of Lukla, the world’s most dangerous airport and the access-point to Everest.  I was almost as in awe of him as of the Everest climbers and wasted no time in peppering him with questions about just what it was that made the airport so dangerous (feeling fearless of his response as I had no intention of ever flying there myself).

On our way home from dinner, Michelle and I rode a rickshaw through Thamel’s streets which had quieted considerably.  She was telling me about a woman who was to arrive later that night – an ultra runner who’d stayed with them twice before and would be running a trail race in the Himalayas.

“I can’t wait for you two to meet, you’ll love her.” Michelle said to me.  I nodded eagerly and gripped the side of the rickshaw as we made a sharp turn.  For the first time in two months, I felt something I’d missed without even knowing it.  I was connected. To people.  No longer a stranger passing wordlessly through the world.  As unorthodox a social circle as it was, it felt genuine and all-inclusive and extremely comforting.