I’ve spent a lot of time in the car this week — traveling from tourist destination to tourist destination.  Today was no different — when we took off for a tour of some of India’s most impressive Buddhist monasteries.  Most of these ancient temples are perched high atop mountains — which makes you wonder, “How the hell did they build those suckers way, WAY the heck up there?”  It’s a head-scratcher.

Since I’m a white person, I don’t understand Buddhism.  I also don’t understand Richard Gere — but that’s another blog.  But I, like any other Caucasian, am fascinated by the ancient religion. That would explain why every white person in a 50 kilometer radius was signing up for meditation or yoga classes with some very patient monk.  (I know — “patient monk” is redundant, but seriously — these guys should get a medal for putting up with our tacky Western ignorance.)

We had some tween monks-in-training catch our eye as we were starting our ascent to their monastery.  They pointed to a huge white burlap bag they were struggling with and gave us the ol’ “Can you help a brother out?”-look.  Next thing you know we’re shuttling two 12-year olds and a 50lb. bag of potatoes up the side of a cliff.  If that isn’t good karma — I don’t know what is.

Once inside, there’s a quiet reverence.  The only sound is the faint chanting of monks off in the distance and the occasional click of a tourists’s camera.  (Note to self:  Do NOT stand in a picture alongside a Buddhist statue … not only is it discouraged, it’s considered sacrilegious.)  From what I can tell, monks regard tourists as a necessary evil … or whatever word they’d use since “evil” isn’t in their wheelhouse.)  If you ask to take a photo with them, they’ll typically oblige.  They show very little emotion — so you have to ensure you get the most subtle of head nods before you break out the ol’ Nikon.  Elder monks can’t be bothered.  But anyone under the age of 10 still wants to see the picture you’ve clicked of them.  (And if you’re lucky you’ll get a smile.)

We literally crossed paths with his Holiness, the Dalai Lama not once, but twice yesterday.  He made a surprise appearance to the little village we were staying in — causing the town to collectively lose their ever-lovin’ mind.  His security-minded team rarely promote where he’s going to be — so we were just as surprised to see him the following day at the airport.  At one point he was 10 feet away from us.  He waved.  I waved back. My friend Mithra swooned.  All in a day’s work, I guess.

We crossed countless barley fields, bridges and dusty side roads in our never-ending quest for spiritual enlightenment.  I didn’t achieve Zen — but I did get a new T-shirt out of the deal.  That’s good enough for me.  (Hits gong.)