The Bedford was parked near Kathmandu airport. It wasn’t much of an airport. A low fence and a custom shed separated the travelers from the overgrown runway. Some battered taxis and a police car were parked in front of the building. Cows grazed both in and outside the airport grounds.
Dan stretched his hands into the sky. He felt lean, mean and displaced. But the air smelled good. The passengers had been dropped off. The girls would catch their plane. And the mountains to the north were awesome, floating in mid-air between green hills, rice terraces and a scattering of villages, almost close enough to touch. Thin wisps of smoke rose from a few huts beyond the airport. He stood and watched. The ice-covered peaks kept changing in the light of the early morning sun. Magic. Just magic.
Pirkk
