Once upon a time there was a late night drive into Bhaktapur. Paying the UNESCO World Heritage Site entrance fee to a dodgy guard in an even more dodgy booth lit by fluorescent lights. A guest house, dinner outside and a room with no heating.
And an early morning in bed, curled under the covers in a freezing cold room, sounds of drops heavily falling on trees in the courtyard. The scent of rain in the air. Monks chanting behind the courtyard in the temple square, chiming little cymbals and bells. Absolute calm.
This time it was different. It was busy. It was weddings. It was school children swarming on the temple square. It was a lady without a leg enjoying the spring sun. It was a goat enjoying the spring sun. But it was still temples, thanka paintings, woodwork, and ancient red brick buildings fully determined to last many more earthquakes.