Well my friends, it has come to that time of year again when I pack my bags and fly off to Kathmandu. I am worn out but excited, thinking about that monsoon and all the dearest, smiling faces waiting for me at Shree Mangal Dvip. It will be magic to see my kids again, to circle the Stupa, to sip my first mango lassi, to look up at the heavy sky.
Things feel quieter here, though unpredictable. Hordes of policemen are lurking around every corner of Taksim, but it has been rather calm. I had mentioned earlier that I took a trip to Lebanon at the beginning of this month— or maybe I didn't, but in any case I have some photos of the trip that I never got to share with you. There were riots to share instead.
We had two deaths in the family in the Spring, and I was unable to make it to Lebanon until June. I hadn't been to visit this side of the family in four years— something I am ashamed of, as Lebanon is only two hours away. But that's how it is, isn't it? You forget that time passes quickly, and that people age. You foolishly believe that everyone will always be there.
So Pedro and I boarded a plane to Beirut.
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