Landing
Back in KTM. A stifling city. No refuge. Noise is everywhere—motorcycle exhaust and roosters crowing.
I need solitude. Long naps and restorative sleep that clear my mind. A cacophony. As if I’d taken a sleeping pill and there were a barrier between me and the world. Something indirect. Or a craving for direct, immediate contact.
Two more days here. I’m kind of enduring them. Don’t feel like going shopping. Sick of Chinese knockoffs, too much dust and dingy colors.
Let me sleep. I want to scream it out. I want clean sheets, freshness, shade, and calm.
The last few days of the trek flew by. Like an ending that came on suddenly.
The Island Peak experience. A few days later, I don’t even know how I found the energy. My body was strong, reliable, surprisingly resilient. Little to no sense of forced effort. Just flow. Confident, mindful movement. A rare experience. I’ll hold onto it as a precious resource. I’ll look back on it as a moment of great cohesion and ease.
On a personal level, something held me back. Not on my part. A hint of withdrawal and aloofness that I didn’t want to force by setting an example. There’s a cultural barrier with Phunjo, yet something heart-to-heart connects us. A direct and simple connection. Beyond formalities and thanks. For now, I don’t have the energy to help him. I need some peace and quiet first. Tomorrow, after a night in a quiet hotel.
Hotel Thrive, Kathmandu
Two tables. One with five people and the other with two. Everyone speaks English. I gather they’re here for work. An NGO? The table on the left is very businesslike. Acronyms, schedules, organization in an Excel spreadsheet. Polite and efficient nods.
Seated at the table on the right are a man and a woman. She’s wearing a long skirt and heels. An incongruous outfit for navigating the streets of Kathmandu. He’s dressed all in black—a turtleneck and a small paunch that makes me think he’s worn out by life and likes to unwind with a drink.
I suppose they’re flirting. She laughs a lot and tilts her head to the side. He’s turned toward her but leaning back in his chair, as if to show both his interest and his coolness at the same time. She seems to have more experience in the game, asserting a sense of superiority by telling him, “You’ll see in five years’ time.”
Then my seduction scenario falls apart. She talks about her upcoming wedding. With two ceremonies—one in the U.S. and one in the U.K. Just like my attention, the scene fades away. The man in black turns toward the other table; another conversation begins. The young woman slips away; I look up, and she’s gone.
Back to Istanbul.
I’m at a point in the journey where no conclusions, lessons, or impressions can yet be drawn. I don’t yet know what changes have taken place within me after this month spent in the Himalayas. I could speculate and talk about a broader perspective, the ability to put things into perspective, or renewed confidence, but it’s too soon. Too soon to know how this journey has eroded a little more of my sense of self. What I sense is that I haven’t become a little more like this or that, but rather a little less. A little less “me”—that illusion of being someone special, who thinks this way and reacts that way, who has needs and sets conditions for her experiences.
My boundaries are more porous; I’m less significant in this ever-changing world. I know that I am also a snowfield and an ice cliff, a white torrent and a wind rustling prayer flags.
My national identity—as a French person—reveals its artificiality. A jumble of habits and ways of thinking that are almost ridiculous in light of the multitude of ways of being. Comparisons seem to me like desperate attempts to rediscover a norm or a center, when in fact it is precisely when that center slips away that the heart of the world reveals itself in all its multiplicity.
At this point in the journey, I feel that there is no turning back, but rather an invitation to live as a passerby, a nomad in my own life—open to experiences as they arise, detached and freed from routine.