I love this town. I love this place. I could never set foot in Kunming or any other Chinese city again and be fantastic. The cobblestone streets are hilly and filled with yaks and dogs, and gossip travels fast. The last I saw of Dakpa, I was walking with Tenzin and his family and we see two men outside of Arro Khampa, rummaging through a big cardboard box. Dakpa turns around, a bottle of french wine in each hand, and bellows, "Hello! Come and have a drink!"

Tenzin is a good man and a good host father. He, along with Dakpa, knows and is known by everybody. I even learned about him in the book I was reading, on the Tea Horse Caravan that linked Yunnan to Llasa. He had a nomad wife who died soon after they married, and has a peculiar passion for Nescafe, which I witnessed the first morning when he handed me two mugs, one filled with coffee and one with butter tea.

Whenever the family isn't looking, I give my butter tea to the dogs. I spilled some on my shoes, and they followed me around the house, trying to lick it up.

Yesterday I left the house at the lethargic hour of three in the afternoon, and the sky was gray and angry and a thin dusting of snow covered the path. I have a ritual meeting with Sam and Ashley every afternoon, where we sit in the Raven, warm from the stove, and drink tall mugs of hot chocolate.

Last night Tenzin invited Sam and Ashley over for dinner. I wish I could remember our conversation over Tibetan stew forever. I love how Tenzin laughs, he cracks up at his own jokes and starts hyperventilating. He had two other friends over as well, fellow Tibetans who had also spent time as monks in India. It was almost like a yuppie dinner conversation in the Northeast; Tibet, Buddhism, travel, and laughter.

I've made a lot of empy promises to people I've met here return. I've lied and said that I love China. But Tibet is different. Tibetans are tall and proud, and their country is beautiful. How could I not come back?