I told my yoga teacher that I was going to the Himalayas for a few days, to Pokhara from Kathmandu. The weather had finally turned good for that long bus journey. I asked him what I should bring back for him.

He said,

“Bring oranges, and we’ll eat them together.”

Before getting on his bike and heading off to his errands, he asked me,

“Are you leaving for good soon?”

“Yes. But I’ll come back to you in three years, I promise.”

“Alright.”

I still couldn’t tell whether there was sadness in his eyes, or whether it was mine, reflected in the curve of his gaze. Maybe, through me, he was saying goodbye to something else entirely.

The trip from Kathmandu to Pokhara took nineteen hours instead of the promised seven. At times we were stuck in terrible traffic; at others, times the driver became tired and decided to sleep. Based on this experience, my advice is to choose the best luxury buses (it’s their actual name) when buying a ticket and to avoid traveling during the rainy season asit can be dangerous. Another option is flying on a small plane from Kathmandu to Pokhara, which seems to be the safest choice.

Pokhara’s pace is slower than Kathmandu’s, calmer, you become more thoughtful here. It makes you want to breathe again, especially when the peaks of the Annapurna range reveal themselves gently and with quiet dignity from within the city. Locals are seem to be proud of Annapurna; when the mountains appear, they notice them too—smiling, pointing them out, as if greeting something familiar and deeply loved. Every time you see those sky-high summits, etched with clouds, you feel like shouting with joy.

I decided to have a solo hike from Pokhara to Sarangkot View Point. Many people book tours from the city to get there. Others take a taxi to the top and then hike down for about two and a half hours. There is a panoramic view of the Annapurna and Dhaulagiri mountain ranges—wide, circular, and almost unreal. Many people come for sunrise; I went during the heat of the day. I was so struck by the view that, this time, I took no photos at all. Only words remained.

On my way down, I met some travelers who recommended Taapu Restro & Cottage for its golden hanging hand reaching toward the sky. I stopped there for a coffee and walked down to see the hand up close. I was alone, and at that exact moment a sudden fear of heights came over me, so I decided not to climb it or sit on it. Tourists and locals seemed to love it, posing for photos and settling onto the hand without hesitation. I didn’t have that kind of courage then. Still, the view felt straight out of a fairytale.

I continued my way toward the city.

I was surrounded by jungle, walking along a narrow road that cut through it. From time to time, the greenery opened up to small houses tucked into the slopes, and to wide views of the hills and the city below.

Chickens ran across winding slopes, locals walked from one home to another, a lone tourist jogged past, and an old man carefully made his way home, quietly watching me as he went. A family of ten—young women in colorful clothes and their children—waved and greeted me. They wanted to talk, and so did I. We exchanged a few words and went our separate ways. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the children kept waving. I waved back too, until they disappeared from sight.

Gradually, the houses grew closer together along the road. The jungle was still there, thick and pressing in, but now everyday life unfolded right at its edge. People stepped into their yards and looked at me like a souvenir with something written on it, as if they were trying to read me, though I couldn’t understand what they saw. Children smiled and shouted, “Hello! Namaste! How are you?”

Greerings went on for almost an hour. Locals of all ages stopped me; sometimes I approached them myself, asking if I was going the right way or how they were doing. We laughed easily and shook hands. Often, people smiled when they heard my name, because Kēṭī (केटी) in Nepali means girl. That’s what a kind young man from a laundry store once told me.

A husband and a wife came out into their yard. The woman told me, in English, that I should hurry—because closer to six in the evening, a panther comes out into the village.

That didn’t sound good, so I walked faster.

Cars, motorbikes, and passersby rushed past me. People asked if everything was okay and whether I needed help.

An elderly woman stopped me and said something kind in Nepali—words of gentle amazement about what a pretty young woman I was. I didn’t understand her language, but I understood her eyes and her smile. As she spoke, her family gathered around her, softly hugging and holding. That bright moment of wonder appeared and it still hasn’t left me. I ask it to stay with me, like a childhood friend. But it will leave me soon.

I was glad I didn’t meet a panther.

And during this long walk up and back down, it seemed to me that the best thing I encountered wasn’t even the views—as powerful as they were—but the people, and their kind smiles, spread out along my path.