You don’t notice it at first, but after climbing a flight of stairs or walking a couple of blocks down the street, you feel it. Your chest, heaving from the effort and your heart pounding from such simple motions. You drink more water, you take a rest, but the thin air reminds you about your body’s relentless need for a breath.
In the Lhasa hotel, there was a free health checkup for altitude sickness. In convenience stores, air is sold by the aerosol bottles. Pre-packaged potato chip bags expand, straining against the wrapper. But still, the nights are never silent, for the sound of beating, hungry hearts.
On the whole, my body did quite well with the altitude. (Much thanks to my family’s excellent genes). Any slight headache could quickly go away with more water and rest. I was even able to go to Mount Everest Base Camp without needing to snort air from the bottle. But I cannot deny that I panted more than usual, or that my body would gasp after some physical exertion, reminding me that I had to breathe more slowly, more deeply. “In the shape of a Hershey kiss,” as my mom would say. It took effort to reach the top, to find my way to the Base Camp. I thought about my breath on an hourly basis.
And as our car climbed higher into the mountains and as I stepped out to get a better view or climb a flight of stairs, and when I saw the Hallelujah that is the Himalayas, my breath was taken away at the sight. My heart rapped against my chest, my breath gasped, and breathless I stood, admiring the world’s tallest, most brutal mountains.
And this seems to be the story of visiting Tibet, that it takes mammoth breaths to get there, and that it takes them away with a single sweep of its sights.