Kathmandu is intoxicating: exhaust fumes, burning breaks, auto horns, plastic bottle bicycle horns on the handle bars of rickshaws, and drivers without horns twirping bird noises at you through pursed lips when you are in their way; a riot of Western trekker travelers, all believing ourselves adventurous, off-the-beaten-path, brave, and yet all happily, safely crammed in here in Thamel, the Waikiki of Kathmandu, eating "American Breakfast" and pizza with apple pie ala mode - apparently Nepal is famous for apple pie because so many apples are grown here - a funny, uncanny reminder of Julian, California, and the TNC field trips I used to run there a million years ago, or was that only last month? small pots of spicy, sugary, milky black tea that makes you slightly dizzy and makes your hands shake, but which seems atmospheric and essential, when nursed through a lazy morning spent basking in the sun on Helena's rooftop, gazing at the snow-capped Himalayas in the distance, or in the gated courtyard haven at Kathmandu Guest House - a place not unlike Hotel California, or possibly a grown-ups version of the Pink Palace in Corfu that you and Lindsley visited back when you were young, brave, thrifty European backpackers, except KGH is fully booked every night in high season (when, of course, you, too have chosen to visit), and you, silly, disorganized, last minute soul, booked only your first night here in advance, planning to extend as desired, so now you sleep in the less desirable Hotel Buddha around the corner with admittedly bright windows opening up to the largest jacaranda tree you've ever seen - a tree that always reminds you of your mother who says they remind her of HPA graduation, but you spend your leisure hours within KGH's calm oasis; raw meat in the streets - this morning, a whole goat's head with horns for sale, fruit and veges, and what you swear are flower leis laid out on filthy blankets on the narrow streets; wandering men peddling tiger's balm, flutes, a small stringed instrument you've never seen before, taxi rides, rickshaw rides, trekking packages, river rafting; and leering from the doors of every handmade paper, silver jewelry, silk and wool embroidery, felt and yak's wool shop, crammed tightly against one another like dusty, musty hardcover library books, an unctuous fellow, inviting you to step in after even the slightest hesitation, asking "yes, ma'am, where you from? we have many more inside, very good price, please come in?" already pulling five or ten pashminas down from the wall, proffering a starting price that is double or triple or more what he would actually be willing to take for something you don't really even want, but suddenly feel you will regret for the rest of your life if you don't buy, with your new-found obsession for passionately bargaining down a price in rupees which you could easily lose in the change compartment of your car at home, but which means the difference between a sale or no sale here; new traveling companions, 2 from Germany, 1 from China, whom you met on the airplane from Bangkok and in a shuttle bus to KGH, and who are, for the moment, your closest girlfriends other than Rachel (who is practically your other self, and who is subject to stream-of-conscious, unceasing, meaningless verbiage like this day and night), because you meet up for every other meal; cloud bursts of incense wafting from small roadside shrines caked with red and blue melted candle wax and teenage girls playfully ringing the guardian bells outside; a flash of desire to be wearing an exquisitely deep shade of emerald or fuschia, wrapped around your body in layers and layers of filmy sari silk like the women passing you on the street, on the other side of the bull, who is sharing the sidewalk with you; temptation to accept the invitation for a beer from the gorgeous Nepali twenty-something whom you know wants only to woo your American dollars for his trekking business, but what eyes, what incredible skin. Only a few days here, and you are exhausted from Kathmandu, but you love it, and have a feeling you will be drawn back, again and again, in years to come. Even as you are on the bus, winding and climbing in and out of the valley on your way to peaceful Chitwan, you crave Kathmandu.
