Hot Stone Bath

Armed only with a torn page from an old Tashi Delek Magazine, I set out for Paro determined to find myself an authentic Bhutanese hot stone bath. The article featured warm photos of families relaxing in steaming wooden tubs. And I wanted to be there. There was no address or phone number so all I had to go off was the owner’s name, Aum Kencho.

Homestay in Ura

Driving over the pass to Ura, there are so many trees. The density is hard to grasp. How big would this country be if the mountainous blanket was stretched out tight? It’s so hard to imagine what it looks like for the birds. Here on the ground, the only things that exist are within the grip of the nearest mountain.

Ura valley is cut into fields of rounded rectangles, in shades of gold and straw, separated by the brown pegs of wooden fence posts. A cluster of houses huddle close together, surrounding the lhakhang. They blend into the land. Whitewashed stone walls reveal their age with worn patches of mud and woven bamboo peeking through. Stacks of firewood make tall extensions atop rock walls marking the winding paths through the village.

Blessings and Lunch in Tang Valley

We duck into a narrow room hanging out over the cliff. Three walls and a slanted floor made of wooden planks are built around a supporting rock wall where a fire charred boulder has been converted into a kitchen and big, fat pots blacken over open flames. Women and children line the perimeter of the floor and two little ones are shuffled to the side to make room for us to sit. Bright light leaks through slender, glassless windows, slashing silver streaks across the room washing the shadowed faces in a soft, serene glow. Everyone is staring at us, eyes wide and full in the center, pinched like a teardrop at the outer corners, plump lips curled into amused grins.

Jakar Town

Warm in bed at the Swiss Guest House, bukhari  blazing, our adopted German Shepard curled up on the rug. Coziest sleep ever.

Bus to Bumthang

Early morning at the Thimphu bus station is a flurry of diesel fumes and relatively organized commotion. Buses leave promptly on schedule top loaded with suitcases, boxes and 50kg sacks of potatoes, onions and rice. Waiting passengers spin a giant prayer wheel, an Indian man dressed in a bubblegum pink shalwar kameez paces back and forth; the whole scene is far less hectic than I had imagined.

California Raisins

Last time I was in California I was 18 years old with an unfounded tendency for rebellion. My best friend, Steph and I were visiting her soon to be college campus in Santa Barbara- this was our very first solo trip after high school. In hindsight this trip would be a sort of premonition for things to come; we experienced many firsts out there in Cali... I somehow ended up with a cross tattoo on the back of my neck... and Steph with the Chinese symbol for Scorpio.

Eleven years later I was happy to be returning to California a more mature version of my 18 year old self. This time to Northern Cali via San Francisco along the very curvy road to Santa Cruz. Three of my best friends from college (and a pug and a sister and a mentor/friend I met in Bhutan) have made Santa Cruz their home. These three ladies have been by my side dancing, growing, evolving since those larger than life years in Charleston. Together we've survived some of the highest highs and lowest lows of the human experience. Through the best and worst of times we came together; leaning on each other for support, shoulders wet with tears, picking each other up (literally) and when necessary, putting each other in her place. People say that in order to understand joy you must experience pain... I am so proud to see how these women have each transformed personal struggle into something far more productive, impactful, caring.