Kathmandu.  The name alone conjures up images of some exotic, faraway Shangri La.

I wanted to like it.   I tried to like it.  Really, I did.  You know, all cultures are created equal, travel with an open-mind, yada yada yada.

Futile.  I’m not sure whether it was Kathmandu that made me so miserable or my achy muscles, but I had never felt so filthy or exhausted in my life.  The city reeked of feces, the dust from the streets blows everywhere, and I spent the evening blowing black snot out of my nose from all of the car exhaust.  Mix that with heady temple incense, ripe body odor, rotting vegetables in the market place (complete with swarming flies), persistent hawkers and a whirlwind of bright saris on speeding motorcycles, and you’ve got a recipe for a headache.

To some, a city like this translates to “bustling with life! adventure! excitement!”  To me this spelled:  “I’m ready to get go home.”  The fresh mountain air was far more enjoyable.

Remind me never to visit to New Delhi.

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