What would you like to remember? The harsh guttural cacophony of a tongue more used to the stresses and strains of Arabic than English, a little boy running down the stairs smilingly shouting obscenities to gathered travelers, the slow roll of smooth jazz reverberating at the base of your skull? The hungry overpowering whiff of nicotine between your fingers, your hair, your heart; the deep earthy smells of Parvati beneath your nails, your bed, your mind; the quiet, comfortable odours of the Mountain that fill the space in between? The slow roast of bright spring sun in the rarified air, the sharp sting of cold kasol showers, the steady-heady rush of valley cream? Sugary buttery creamy cheesy breakfast dessert, weak pungent arousing calming heating-rod coffee, chewy stringy skinny fatty spit-it-back-out himalayan lamb? A sky so motherfucking blue you can barely believe you’re not alone, really surreal snow capped landscapes across the canvas on the roof-of-the-world, Michelangelo absorbed in her monologue with the wall?