I’m at the hotel. A cozy inner courtyard that creates a green oasis of silence and comfort right in the heart of Thamel, the noisy crowded tourist district of Kathmandu. You turn into a narrow lane, then another turn, and the street noise is left somewhere behind the walls, while silence and calm wrap around me. Stunning interior details—stone bas-reliefs, blooming geraniums, tall monsteras. In this well-like courtyard, monsteras flourish joyfully. I never imagined they could climb all the way up to the second floor of a building. The garden also serves as the hotel’s restaurant courtyard. During the day, I often run here between excursions to calm down and catch my breath.
One lovely evening, I step out to enjoy the cool of the night and the beauty of the flowers. The soft glow of lanterns creates a sense of magic. The garden is empty and beautiful—only one table is occupied, by a slender woman. She is elderly, yet looks remarkably energetic. A smiling waiter offers me water. I stand there hesitating, glass in hand, unsure what to do: sit alone on the swing, go over and introduce myself, stand still, or pace in circles? I want to share this evening with someone. And then the woman speaks to me, and I feel joy and relief rise in my chest.
She isn’t staying at my hotel; she has come here for dinner. She’s from the Netherlands but lived for a long time in Nepal and Tibet. She leads groups to Tibet and is now preparing to take another one. And none of this is simple: first you have to meet the group in Nepal, get visas, then fly, drive, walk… In her lean figure I sense the endurance of an experienced mountaineer.
I sit at her table and listen to the story of her unusual life—about Tibet, Buddhism, mountains, and the national parks she adores. I tell her about a group of Ukrainian and Russian women who are going on a pilgrimage through Nepal, and that I’m waiting to join them. She’s surprised: “I thought those countries were at war, and here it’s a pilgrimage.” And suddenly I understand clearly: some people are at war, but there is also something else—these wonderful women who are coming together to pray for peace, traveling together to Nepal. The thought fills me with warmth.
I talk to her for a long time about Taoist practices, and she says with surprise that one of her spiritual teachers once advised her to do something like that, but she didn’t know what it was or where to find it. Not dry meditations, but Taoist techniques that focus on the belly, on the body, not just staying in one’s head. Then she tells me that she has just been to Kopan Monastery, and here I’m the one surprised by the coincidence: I was planning to go there the next day. She advises me to postpone it until Sunday. “On Sunday there’s a festive puja, then the monastery will definitely be open,” she tells me. I take this as a hint from the Universe.
At the end of our two-hour conversation, we introduce ourselves. Unfortunately, I forget her name. I think it was Beatrice—but maybe not. I just remember that it didn’t sound typically Dutch, but slightly French. We part ways. I have the feeling that this was not a random meeting. Beatrice needed to hear about Taoist meditations. I needed to learn about Kopan Monastery. I’m leaving with a sense of the fullness of life, and of being guided by the Universe.
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