Reading Emerson in Pokhara–a challenge. First there is the voice, an insistently American presence in a place where no one hears a Yankee accent, a southern drawl, or even the flatness of the Midwest. Here unamerican is not a question of patriotism, it is simply a state of being, a place where american is a state of surprise. Not to say the city is parochial, rather the voices and accents proliferate, drowning a reedy thin American English in a flood of sounds heretofore unimagined. Here fish tail sounds like crystal, Atlanta is terra incognito, and stores that specialize in particular items are called “points,” as in Sandwich Point or, (as I saw today) Sausage Point–an image I cannot erase. Just past the Sausage Point was the Social Meat Shop which today featured ostrich. Not sure how I am supposed to like that on Social Meatia (sorry, couldn’t resist). Tomorrow is the Holi festival, then back to Kathmandu. Pokhara is a special place, though maybe not Mr. Emerson’s neighborhood.
T. Hugh Crawford