first sensations
A sense of wonder hits me once I take my first step into Lalitpur. It's as if I’ve walked in on something sacred mid-moment.
I spot a small, wooden shrine out of the corner of my vision. A painted Lingam stone sits in the center of it. A reminder of Shiva's ever-enduring eyes.
Lalitpur, known to locals as Patan, is one of three cities tangled in the chaotic braid of Kathmandu Valley. It's the kind of place where you might find ancient spirits leaning over your shoulder and breathing down your neck.
Earlier that morning, I was having my morning cup of tea in Kathmandu and fighting an ATM for re-possession of my debit card. I drink masala chai and call for a taxi once I finally get my plastic lifeline to Chase bank back.
A battered box with no seatbelts picks me up. I spot a row of prayer flags hanging from the sideview mirror. After 30 minutes of bumps and bruises I end up in Durbar Square. It's a spot where kings were crowned and power once held ceremony.
Midway through Durbar Square, a street kid hits me up for spare change. I can't give out money while I'm here. That’s a personal rule. Not because I’m cold, but because I’ve seen where that money sometimes goes. I've seen that cash get passed back to shadowy figures waiting in alleys. Handlers with soft hands and cruel intentions. It's hot outside and I'm happy to buy the kid a cold drink though. I tell the kid so.
He thinks for a moment and looks across the street and points. “Strawberry,” he says. His eyes glance over at a Boba tea stand directly across from us.
I buy him the boba tea and watch him skip away happily with his refreshment.
Above me, a dog on a third-floor balcony watches. Whimpering like it knows something I don’t. We lock eyes. He blinks. The moment passes.
I hear drums and flutes echoing from up the street. Thin and shrill. Urgent, like they’re announcing either a celebration or a riot. I head towards the sound to find out which.
Hundreds of men, all rhythm and sweat, are pulling a sedan chair along the road. In it sits a woman. Upright, wrapped in flowers, and layered in gold and red and reverence. It’s not mourning. It’s spectacle. Her 86th birthday to be exact. And she's being paraded like a deity on her last tour.
Someone plants a Dhaka Topi on my head. It's a type of traditional Nepali cap.
Before I can protest, I’m swept into the procession. Smiling strangers push me forward like I belong.
We march a mile and somewhere along the way I take my chance. I gracefully pull off an Irish Exit.
I'm in a restaurant now that’s half kitchen, half concrete bunker. I grab a seat and order chicken momos: succulent, pan-fried dumplings that I've grown accustomed to during my short time in Nepal. I feel like Goldilocks because they're tasting "just right".
Upon further study, I notice that the menu at the restaurant is a real acid trip. Under "desserts" it lists cakes, ice cream, and cigarettes. Like nicotine is just another way to end a meal. I like that. There's no pretense at this place.
I order the cigarette. My first Nepali cigarette. I take a few drags and stare at the people walking by below and watch the cigarette's filter turn brown.
A sense of wonder hits me once I take my first step into Lalitpur. It's as if I’ve walked in on something sacred mid-moment.
I spot a small, wooden shrine out of the corner of my vision. A painted Lingam stone sits in the center of it. A reminder of Shiva's ever-enduring eyes.
Lalitpur, known to locals as Patan, is one of three cities tangled in the chaotic braid of Kathmandu Valley. It's the kind of place where you might find ancient spirits leaning over your shoulder and breathing down your neck.
Earlier that morning, I was having my morning cup of tea in Kathmandu and fighting an ATM for re-possession of my debit card. I drink masala chai and call for a taxi once I finally get my plastic lifeline to Chase bank back.
A battered box with no seatbelts picks me up. I spot a row of prayer flags hanging from the sideview mirror. After 30 minutes of bumps and bruises I end up in Durbar Square. It's a spot where kings were crowned and power once held ceremony.
Midway through Durbar Square, a street kid hits me up for spare change. I can't give out money while I'm here. That’s a personal rule. Not because I’m cold, but because I’ve seen where that money sometimes goes. I've seen that cash get passed back to shadowy figures waiting in alleys. Handlers with soft hands and cruel intentions. It's hot outside and I'm happy to buy the kid a cold drink though. I tell the kid so.
He thinks for a moment and looks across the street and points. “Strawberry,” he says. His eyes glance over at a Boba tea stand directly across from us.
I buy him the boba tea and watch him skip away happily with his refreshment.
Above me, a dog on a third-floor balcony watches. Whimpering like it knows something I don’t. We lock eyes. He blinks. The moment passes.
I hear drums and flutes echoing from up the street. Thin and shrill. Urgent, like they’re announcing either a celebration or a riot. I head towards the sound to find out which.
Hundreds of men, all rhythm and sweat, are pulling a sedan chair along the road. In it sits a woman. Upright, wrapped in flowers, and layered in gold and red and reverence. It’s not mourning. It’s spectacle. Her 86th birthday to be exact. And she's being paraded like a deity on her last tour.
Someone plants a Dhaka Topi on my head. It's a type of traditional Nepali cap.
Before I can protest, I’m swept into the procession. Smiling strangers push me forward like I belong.
We march a mile and somewhere along the way I take my chance. I gracefully pull off an Irish Exit.
I'm in a restaurant now that’s half kitchen, half concrete bunker. I grab a seat and order chicken momos: succulent, pan-fried dumplings that I've grown accustomed to during my short time in Nepal. I feel like Goldilocks because they're tasting "just right".
Upon further study, I notice that the menu at the restaurant is a real acid trip. Under "desserts" it lists cakes, ice cream, and cigarettes. Like nicotine is just another way to end a meal. I like that. There's no pretense at this place.
I order the cigarette. My first Nepali cigarette. I take a few drags and stare at the people walking by below and watch the cigarette's filter turn brown.
