A special encounter
After leaving the sacred grounds of Pashupatinath—still feeling the weight of the rituals, the scent of incense and woodsmoke lingering in our clothes—we found ourselves back in the chaotic embrace of Thamel for lunch.
After leaving the sacred grounds of Pashupatinath—still feeling the weight of the rituals, the scent of incense and woodsmoke lingering in our clothes—we found ourselves back in the chaotic embrace of Thamel for lunch. I was still slightly taken aback from the encounter with the bull, with the sensory overload of Kathmandu on top of that.
By now, we had ticked off all the major tourist sites TripAdvisor could throw at us. The idea of doing “just one more thing” seemed appealing, if only to slow the day down before our trek began. Wandering through the tangle of narrow streets and market stalls, we stumbled upon something unexpected—a green oasis tucked away from the honking horns and motorbike fumes: The Garden of Dreams.
The garden wasn’t large, but stepping inside felt like walking through a doorway into another world. The air was softer here, touched by the scent of blooming flowers and damp earth. The hum of traffic was replaced by the chatter of sparrows and the rustle of leaves. Chipmunks darted between tree trunks, chasing each other in bursts of playful energy. The sun slipped between drifting clouds, warming the pale gravel paths. For a moment, we almost forget the chaos of Kathmandu.
It was here we met her—the woman from Texas. Her appearance was the embodiment of Nepal. An incoherent mixture of colors: a patterned cotton dress, a vibrant headband that refused to stay in place, bracelets jangling at her wrists. At first glance, she had the slightly disheveled air of a neighborhood eccentric, but her smile was open and her eyes curious. We struck up a conversation, and before we knew it, hours had passed.
She told us about teaching in Vietnam, South Korea, and Nepal, her life a patchwork of classrooms, cultures, and airports. Now, she was preparing to move to Sofia, Bulgaria. She laughed easily—too easily. Every comment from Kiki, whether genuinely funny or only mildly amusing, sent her into fits of loud, contagious laughter that echoed across the garden’s pathways. We smiled politely, but my toes were curling whilst I tried to hide my cringe. Inside, I could feel my social energy draining like water from a leaky bucket.
Eventually, the conversation wound down, and she left us with a handful of restaurant recommendations. We exited the garden in need of something restorative, so we ducked into a small café nearby for a cold Coke, letting the fizz and sugar revive us. And then, fate played its trick—the first restaurant she’d mentioned was just around the corner.
It was irresistible to check it out. Inside, the light was dim and golden, the walls painted in deep, earthy tones. There were no chairs; instead, thick cushions lined the floor around low wooden tables. It felt intimate, like a place built for long conversations and slow meals. We ordered traditional Nepali dishes—rich, spiced, comforting. The warmth of the food seeped into our bones.
Then, as if summoned by some cosmic joke, the eccentric lady appeared again. She slid onto the cushions beside us without hesitation, launching back into stories before we could even greet her. Her words came in an unbroken stream, and once again, Kiki’s comments, intentional or not, set her off into those unstoppable peals of laughter.
By the time we finally made our way home, the day had wrung us out—not from sightseeing, but from the sheer social marathon of it all. Kathmandu had given us beauty, chaos, and connection in equal measure. And tomorrow, the real adventure would begin.