Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [62]
She went on to earn two bachelor’s degrees, one in India, the other in Nebraska, and, for a time, had been a teacher. Now she was one of a handful of authors to have emerged in the kingdom. She had published several books of Bhutanese folktales, as well as a novel, which happened to be about a girl from a remote part of Bhutan who, premodernization in the sixties, yearns to explore the world.
Madam Choden had just returned from a visit to the United States to see her children, who were studying there, and had brought home a fever for American public radio. When I told her I worked in radio, I could feel her brightening. And that’s when I’d been invited to lunch.
Promptly at noon, a little white car sped up the hilly driveway to the Kuzoo studios. Since I’d arrived in Bhutan, it was the first time anyone had shown up at the exact moment they said they would. A gray-haired European gentleman emerged, strode to the other side of the car, and opened the passenger door, all with a flourish of chauffeuresque formality. He introduced himself as Walter, stuck out his hand to shake mine, motioned for me to get in, got back in the car himself, and sped down the hill and onto the road, as efficient as a Swiss timepiece. Madam Choden was so quintessentially Bhutanese that I had forgotten she was married to a native of Switzerland. He was a handsome complement to the good looks of Madam Choden. Several of the more erudite Bhutanese had spouses from outside the country, a fact I’d observed with curiosity.
Around a few corners, past my apartment, and left, right, left along a winding road, up a driveway to a house hidden on a hill. We stopped in front of a little country cottage I never would have found on my own. The branches of the barren trees blew in the wind; the air felt empty and quiet, as if the whole city were inside today. It wasn’t as cold as a February day might be in New York, but it definitely felt like winter.
A yapping little white dog served as welcome committee—a house pet as opposed to a stray—followed by an elegant Madam Choden, who accepted the box of cookies I handed her. The bakeries had been closed and I’d had to resort to Indian imports. She announced that Rinchen, her maid, had just pulled the pesto pasta off the stove.
“Pesto from my trip to the United States. Trader Joe’s,” she said proudly. “I also have crackers and anchovy spread from Paris.”
My stomach danced with pleasure at the prospect of such delicious food.
“And since it’s a holiday, we must have some of this wine, too,” Walter said, pulling a bottle from a cabinet. I squinted to read the label on the sly, as if I were looking at a mirage in the desert. Wine was very hard to come by in Thimphu, except for ara; at the watering hole in town frequented by expats you had to order an entire bottle, because demand for imported wine was so low that it wasn’t cost-effective to open one to sell by the glass. Since the local microbrew called Red Panda was available for only twenty-five cents a glass in most bars, spending $15 for a bottle of whatever wine was in stock seemed not just decadent but wasteful.
Walter caught me staring and kindly indulged my curiosity by holding up the bottle so I could get a better look. It was my favorite, Shiraz, from Australia. “We get it at the duty-free shop. It’s the best they send us here.”
As he poured three glasses, I heard noise at the door, and Madam Choden left the room to tend to it. She reemerged into the dining area moments later, followed by a very tall, distinguished-looking Western man, fortyish. Her introduction was as formal as if she were debuting him at court.
“Presenting Martin Gallatin,