I’ve spent the entire flight from Katmandu to Paro filming out the window, but when the captain points out Mount Everest, I freeze. At check-in my husband, Shravan, quietly insisted on these seats. After 25 years of marriage, it’s these small acts of foresight that still catch me by surprise.
For months we planned this trip to mark our silver anniversary. I wanted something quiet—a mindful holiday in a place unspoiled by chain restaurants where we could reflect, not rush. Beautiful, mystical Bhutan, with its remote location in the Himalayas and its famous emphasis on Gross National Happiness, felt ideal.
Our earlier travels were mostly about thrills, indulgences, and late nights. For years we avoided quiet places where night fell early in favor of cities that pulsed with life: London, Tokyo, Paris, New York, Dubai. We swam in the Dead Sea, sailed the Nile, and danced in a bunker turned club in Beirut. On our honeymoon we stayed out till dawn in Bali, shopped in Hong Kong, and explored the Great Wall of China. It was during our travels that the virtues of being married to each other became most evident. Travel gives a relationship a chance for a reboot. You’re two strangers in a country, united in the strangeness of the world around you.
In Paro, our guide, Phub Tenzin, awaits in a graceful knee-length gho, Bhutan’s traditional men’s garment. We mention our preference for old monasteries and hikes. We’ve booked at the calm, minimalist Amankora lodges in Thimphu and Paro. Tucked into the forested hills, they’re designed like traditional dzongs, the country’s famous fortress-like architecture.
The sound of the gushing brook and forest birds is why we’ve left behind the noise of Mumbai. The stillness starts from the moment we arrive in Thimphu: no reception desks, no meal times, no schedules, no clocks. Shravan reluctantly agrees to put his gadgets away, and I do my best to set aside my worries about our children.
