Silver Home, Again

Back in Kathmandu, I felt every bit the proud veteran.  I guided some Peace Corps workers on the ten minute walk to Thamel from the bus stop, avoiding the taxi hustle that catches everyone the first time.  I navigated the labyrinth, found the muddy alley that leads to my favorite guest house, and greeted the staff of The Hotel Silver Home in Nepali.  I was told that in spite of the fact that I had failed to make a reservation I would be taken care of; they would make space for me.  Dorm-mates again became my instant friends, one of them telling amazing stories of cycling here from Europe through Iran, Pakistan, and India, another just off the plane from Holland, 18 years-old, ready to start the adventure and eager to know everything.  The night finished as it always seems to here, with beer and hash on the balcony overlooking the neighborhood, listening to a loud Nepali band offer their nightly butchering of Smells Like Teen Spirit to the empty bar next door. 

Last night a friend showed up; “Michel”, a Frenchman who I keep running into; first at Silver Home during the first days of both of our journeys, then in Pokhara where we drank ourselves silly with Holi paint covering our faces, and today, well, look who’s here again.  Michel is a radical and a drinker, a proponent of the extinction of the human race and a collector of baby shoes.  He seems to make friends easily and somehow managed to manufacture enough interest in a poker game amongst the diverse international crowd so that by 10pm we were passing a bottle of whiskey and a joint while playing 100 Rupee buy-in, No Limit Texas Hold ‘Em.  He is a man I am happy to know.

My cards were good and the competition was drunk and inexperienced so by 1am I had made a small killing.  A game of “I Never”, that classic drinking game involving shocking personal revelations, followed.  By 2:30 we were all roaring drunk, stumbling through the streets, ignoring the insistent overtures of pimps and drug dealers, looking for vendors selling egg sandwiches, Michel returning home to jump on his sleeping roommate’s bed (who surprisingly did not choose to beat him to death), play guitar and shout American rock songs.  It’s good to be back at Silver Home.