The bus driver saw me. Realizing I was too far gone to stop, he jammed on the brakes. At last minute the bus shuddered to a pneumatic halt. There was just enough space between the bus and wall for a scooter. I tore through the gap. Screams of outrage followed in my wake. But I was on one side of the bus. The Fiat on the other.

Careening away from the chaos, I ducked and weaved through groups of tourists, making my way around a boom gate into a broad pedestrianized path. It led to a place I suddenly recognized. Durbar Square, one of Kathmandu’s most visited tourist attractions.

Ancient stupas stood like dark and foreboding sentinels watching over rows and rows of garish market stalls. I pulled up at the base of one of the stupas, quickly got off the scooter and, pocketing the keys, lost myself in the crowded market.

On the far side of the square were restaurants ranged over several floors. Vantage from which to survey my tracks?

I made my way through tourists in the direction of the restaurants, choosing one that occupied an entire building over three floors. The atmosphere of genteel Middle Europe inside the Viennese Cake Box couldn’t have been in more stark contrast with the rambling chaos of Kathmandu’s streets. It was all cane chairs, gilt-framed mirrors and the familiar cadences of the Blue Danube emerging from behind tropical shrubs planted in giant brass tubs. As I stepped inside, I lifted my hand, pressing against my breast pocket. The presence of the metal tube against me was reassuring.

The ground floor restaurant was abuzz with diners and waiters laden with breakfast meals. All the window tables were taken, and besides, sheer curtains obscured the view across the square.

I hurried up two flights of steps to the first-floor dining room. Only one table was occupied. To my surprise, a group of half a dozen Buddhist monks were studying menus with expressions of absorbed concentration. After my years at Tiger’s Nest I bowed reflexively, hands at my heart, greeting them in Bhutanese. Evidently several of them were Bhutanese too, and returned my greeting with much bowing. Walking past, I headed to a window table directly overlooking the square. It was flanked on either side by elaborate scallops of cascading damask.

I drew back a chair and sat, surveying the scene outside. Observing the crowds of tourists and locals milling around market stalls that sold all kinds of Himalayan bric-a-brac, from bells and drums to ornate incense burners. The scooter I’d parked near the base of a stupa. Maybe, I thought now, I should have found somewhere more discreet to park it. Somewhere hidden completely from view. Or simply handed it to a local teenager.

A waiter came to the table. In the circumstances it felt incongruous to be ordering muesli and yoghurt. At the monk’s table, meanwhile, the choosing of food was accompanied by gentle hilarity—it seemed that a celebratory breakfast had been funded by one of the monk’s sponsors.