Final memories of KTM

Like when co-workers become friends because of close quarters, it came naturally to fall for KTM like a sack of feathers on a gravity imbalanced planet. Not to say that I wasn't destined to love it, and I was, in fact, destined, if destiny is your thing. I mean, a Chinese friggin holiday the four days following my intended flight to Lhasa? I meet the origins of my soon to be KTM circle of compadres the night before I leave? I have to do zilch and lose zip money, just wait for my trip to Bangkok to roll on by? There is an earthquake in Lhasa the Monday after I was supposed to land? Coincidence my a**.
Some of the greatest moments peering over the balcony at De La Soul;
Gaultier and I throwing paper airplanes into the currency exchange office across the way.
When we saw a shop owner picking his nose, Robel telling us that in his country, gold digging means you want to have sex.
Laughing with a Nepali women, since we have no other way to communicate. Watching the momo guy, fruit guy and nut guy selling off of their altered bicycles that would put playa dusters from Burning Man to shame.
Trying to get anyone and everyone on the street below us to smile join us at the bar or merely dance. My favorites were the rickshaw driver, the glue sniffing children, and the baby girl immovably strapped to her mothers back.
During Dasain, watching men walk by like they had passed out in a compost pile- strands of grass tucked behind their ears, flower petals in their hair and rice pressed into the red tikka powder mashed in clumps on their forehead.
And in general watching the motorbikes, UN vehicles, police, taxis, rickshaw drivers, fruit-momo-or nut vendors, stray dogs, nose-picking shop-owners, glue-sniffing street children, hippies, avid trekkers, avid potheads, and the world filter below us, because people are just more interesting when their social buffers are down and they think no one is watching. Little do they know...