“You said you saw something in my eyes that day in Lisbon that scared you. What was it?”
I am sitting in London Gatwick airport. C is on the other end of the phone. This is first time I have heard her voice in a month. It has been an excruciating five weeks in London.
Every time I leave Europe, I fly out of Gatwick. It’s reliably cheap. Today, for the first time in my life, I’ve missed my flight. I’ll have to wait there in Gatwick, overnight, for the next flight home to New York.
On the phone, there’s a long pause.
Finally, C says: “It was hurt. I saw hurt in your eyes.”
I picked up a copy of Thich Nhat Hanh’s “Our Appointment with Life” from Tibet Bookstore in Kathmandu. It cost 300 rupees (about $3), according to the sticker that’s still on my copy. You can purchase it on Amazon for $9.95 on Amazon.
I mean, if you’ve got the time I highly recommend traveling to Nepal, but unless you’re buying A LOT of books, it’s probably not economically sensible.
I lay in my room at the Hotel Snow Leopard, the light slowly dying, outside and in.
Pokhara, it seemed, also suffered frequent load-shedding.
Despite that surface similarity, I could already tell this was a different place than Kathmandu. For starters: it was quiet. After what had felt like a lonely eternity in the insanity of Kathmandu, it was nice to be able to hear myself think again.
Not that they were all welcome thoughts, as I’m sure you can imagine.