Nagarkot was a trip and a half. I left Kopan in the middle of the last (post-course, week-long) retreat, having been nearly assaulted by a completely freaked out student who'd got a bad case of lung, the Tibetan term for meditation-induced stress. No, that's not an oxymoron-people really get it! I asked this guy if he'd seen a bunch of stuff I'd put aside, and suddenly, a couple of hours later, he was on the doorstep of my little cell, frothing at the mouth and yelling about needing his silence (yes, that IS an oxymoron).
So, I took flight to Nagarkot, a small resort described by Lonely Planet as a 'hamlet,' famous only for its stunning view of the Himalayan Langtang range. This view is, however, totally dependent upon clear weather so, as luck would have it, the best view presented itself on day five, the morning of my departure. To say that Nagarkot is famous for the view is an understatement; busloads of tourists arrive at 2pm. They are fed at one of about three half-decent eateries in the 1/2-mile long village, stay overnight in one of maybe five half-decent hotels (or the Club Himalaya, which is an absurdly incongruous condo complex atop part of the peak), and then scramble out of bed for the famous sunrise. I was fortunate enough to find a bed close enough to a balcony so that I could open one eye, check for for a clear sky, and close it again if the sunrise failed to live up to its reputation. Wisdom well beyond my years!! This tactic paid off spectacularly, as my room was freezing cold (December, 7,000m above sea-level, Nepalese central heating (one candle)).
So, I languished on my lonesome and licked my wounds for a couple of days, finished Yann Martell's Life of Pi, and awaited the arrival of the Christmas party: the demure and silently wicked Margaret, fresh-faced and radiant as a pre-Raphaelite heroine; Ann Gleig, whose Liverpudlian "whah?" provides the American contingent with limitlessmirth; Dr. Susan Trapp, with the never-ending life story and winning smile; Caas-Jann (pronounce it if you can), a frustrated Dutch hedonist (really!) with a huge heart and nascent patience; Nina the teenage Danish girl who was, at nineteen, more mature than all of us; and finally Joy from England who, with her cheek chipmunked by a recent wisdom-tooth removal, was trying her very hardest to live up to her name. They arrived in time to ruin my mountain-top tranquility and ravish me with seasonal good cheer, and we made merry with leering locals, a busload of Australian volunteers, and a festive dinner of daal and rice chased with a quarter-bottle of cheap but delicious local rum - our first liquor in weeks. So that was Christmas.
So, I took flight to Nagarkot, a small resort described by Lonely Planet as a 'hamlet,' famous only for its stunning view of the Himalayan Langtang range. This view is, however, totally dependent upon clear weather so, as luck would have it, the best view presented itself on day five, the morning of my departure. To say that Nagarkot is famous for the view is an understatement; busloads of tourists arrive at 2pm. They are fed at one of about three half-decent eateries in the 1/2-mile long village, stay overnight in one of maybe five half-decent hotels (or the Club Himalaya, which is an absurdly incongruous condo complex atop part of the peak), and then scramble out of bed for the famous sunrise. I was fortunate enough to find a bed close enough to a balcony so that I could open one eye, check for for a clear sky, and close it again if the sunrise failed to live up to its reputation. Wisdom well beyond my years!! This tactic paid off spectacularly, as my room was freezing cold (December, 7,000m above sea-level, Nepalese central heating (one candle)).
So, I languished on my lonesome and licked my wounds for a couple of days, finished Yann Martell's Life of Pi, and awaited the arrival of the Christmas party: the demure and silently wicked Margaret, fresh-faced and radiant as a pre-Raphaelite heroine; Ann Gleig, whose Liverpudlian "whah?" provides the American contingent with limitlessmirth; Dr. Susan Trapp, with the never-ending life story and winning smile; Caas-Jann (pronounce it if you can), a frustrated Dutch hedonist (really!) with a huge heart and nascent patience; Nina the teenage Danish girl who was, at nineteen, more mature than all of us; and finally Joy from England who, with her cheek chipmunked by a recent wisdom-tooth removal, was trying her very hardest to live up to her name. They arrived in time to ruin my mountain-top tranquility and ravish me with seasonal good cheer, and we made merry with leering locals, a busload of Australian volunteers, and a festive dinner of daal and rice chased with a quarter-bottle of cheap but delicious local rum - our first liquor in weeks. So that was Christmas.
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