monk

I hobbled out like a hungover sailor shaking out my sea legs. And there I was, in Dharamsala, India—a cluster of brightly colored restaurants and guesthouses all stacked up on top of each other like a patchwork quilt—something between a city and a village nestled on the green mountain ridges, a place in transit, a sanctuary for the homeless, the country-less. The street was packed with maroon-clad monks and dreadlocked, tattooed hippies, Tibetan seniors waving their canes at oncoming traffic as they tried to get to the Dalai Lama’s temple, and then the occasional dazed traveler.