Everything Happens for a Reason

The rush of peace I'd felt on the train was quickly replaced by a rush of disorientation when I arrived in Lhasa. I was expecting the city to be something like Reykjavik — small and quiet and serene — but I want to inform the world right now that the city of Lhasa is nothing like the city of Reykjavik. I don't know what I was thinking: Lhasa is hot and noisy and crowded, a blur of market stalls and incense and pilgrims and monks and Chinese and Tibetans all sharing a space together in the middle of the desert.

I'd met an American woman back in Xining who'd been travelling for the past six years. Lucy is almost 60 years old and I'd wondered out loud how the hell anyone could have been travelling alone for so long.

"Don't tell me," I'd said, interrupting her. "Broken hearted, right?"

Lucy had laughed. "I wasn't going to put it quite like that," she'd said. "But yes, I certainly went through a divorce."

On my first night in Lhasa, still completely disorientated, I happened to bump into her again in a cafe down a little back alley.

"You got my message then?"

No, I didn't get any message – I hadn't had any net access for a couple of days. But it turns out she'd emailed me to say that she'd be in this cafe at this time if I wanted to meet for tea – and I just happened to choose that cafe and that time to wander in.

"Everything happens for a reason," said Lucy, smiling and giving me a great big hug.

I don't know about that, but it was really good to see her again.