We've been in Kathmandu for one day, and I've already:

Hit a motorbike. The sky was dark, the masses of shops to my left, bright and appealing. With my feet walking, but my head turned sideways, I strolled smack into a parked bike. The two male passengers, who embarrassingly were sitting on the thing, ready to depart, apologized profusely. So did I. But no, no, they assured me it was their fault.

Been served the moistest coffee cake in the world by a reincarnation of one of the three wise men. If he wasn't working in a dimlit cafe, slowly and deliberately and lovingly serving up the best slices of pie in the world, this leather faced, wise-eyed old man would surely be gazing into magic pools and triangulating the stars to tell us about the coming of the next messiah.

Chuckled to myself over how Hindu deities all seem to have “transport”: The snake is revered as the perching place of Vishnu, while Indonesian national airline Garuda, takes it's namesake from the half-man half-bird that gets Vishnu from point A to point B. The city's rats are left to roam free, because Ganesha gets around on a mouse. The cow is sacred – and indeed, lounging among thousands of crusty pigeons in the main square – because Shiva rides on a bull. And the pigeons are also venerated, and thus cared for en masse.

Made bad puns about the movie 7 Years in Tibet. Though, originally thinking it was 7 Days in Tibet, I had a hard time understanding how Brad Pitt got it all done so fast, and an even harder time crafting puns that made any sense.

Bought two trendy yak wool blankets, with plans to purchase at least ten more. And two traditional Tibetan hats, with plans to take them out at home every few months for a laugh, but to never truly wear them.

Been offered hashish at least fifteen times from local street vagrants. And been given priceless advice to “get the brown not the black stuff” from a forty-something lawyer from Toronto.

Eaten three orders of momos – the Typical Nepalese dumplings that come veggie- or meat-filled, steamed or fried, and with a curry dipping sauce.

Drank seven cups of tea: two ginger; three milky, sweet and black; one rosemary; and one not tea at all, but coffee.

Downed two 640mL Nepali beers, having found my mountain calling more in drinking “Everest” than in climbing it.

Marveled at the wonderful clash of skinny jeans and dark-rimmed glasses on Nepalese hipsters, and the turbaned men and sari-clad women with red powdered bindis smeared on their foreheads.

Witnessed the streets turning from dust to thick brown mud after a flash afternoon downpour.

Wondered if I, too, should conform to the local tourist style by a) purchasing billowing hippie pants and growing out foot-long dreads or b) opting for fake North Face gear, with a focus on fleece tops and khaki-coloured pants that unzip to make shorts.