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Amankora Paro Lodge
I’ve spent the entire flight from Katmandu to Paro filming out the window, but when the captain points out Mount Everest, I freeze. At check-in my husband, Shravan, quietly insisted on these seats. After 25 years of marriage, it’s these small acts of foresight that still catch me by surprise.
For months we planned this trip to mark our silver anniversary. I wanted something quiet—a mindful holiday in a place unspoiled by chain restaurants where we could reflect, not rush. Beautiful, mystical Bhutan, with its remote location in the Himalayas and its famous emphasis on Gross National Happiness, felt ideal.
Our earlier travels were mostly about thrills, indulgences, and late nights. For years we avoided quiet places where night fell early in favor of cities that pulsed with life: London, Tokyo, Paris, New York, Dubai. We swam in the Dead Sea, sailed the Nile, and danced in a bunker turned club in Beirut. On our honeymoon we stayed out till dawn in Bali, shopped in Hong Kong, and explored the Great Wall of China. It was during our travels that the virtues of being married to each other became most evident. Travel gives a relationship a chance for a reboot. You’re two strangers in a country, united in the strangeness of the world around you.
Buddha Dordenma in Thimphu
Chris Schalkx
A typical Bhutanese ema datshi and semchuk datshi at Amankora Paro
Chris Schalkx
In Paro, our guide, Phub Tenzin, awaits in a graceful knee-length gho, Bhutan’s traditional men’s garment. We mention our preference for old monasteries and hikes. We’ve booked at the calm, minimalist Amankora lodges in Thimphu and Paro. Tucked into the forested hills, they’re designed like traditional dzongs, the country’s famous fortress-like architecture.
The sound of the gushing brook and forest birds is why we’ve left behind the noise of Mumbai. The stillness starts from the moment we arrive in Thimphu: no reception desks, no meal times, no schedules, no clocks. Shravan reluctantly agrees to put his gadgets away, and I do my best to set aside my worries about our children.
A bedroom at Amankora Thimphu
Chris Schalkx
We spend our evenings by the fire, feeling a lightness even before we’ve sipped the local whiskeys and cognacs. This unhurried rhythm, without his laptop or my phone, with no packed itinerary, becomes the essence of our time in Bhutan.
We try archery in the woods near our lodge. Neither of us hits the target, but we laugh at each other’s poor aim as if we were kids again. At Babesa Village Restaurant, inside a 500-year-old building in the city, we sit cross-legged on the floor—me with an assist from years of yoga and him with considerable effort. We’re served a traditional Bhutanese meal: mustard greens, red rice, fish curry, boldly flavorful cheese and chiles known as ema datshi, and butter tea. It is oddly comforting being inside a centuries-old farmer’s house that feels beyond time, with its wood staircase and low beams worn smooth with age.
After hiking up to the 18th-century Wangditse monastery, we spin the prayer wheels together as I chant “Om mani padme hum.” Inside, surrounded by butter lamps and intricate iconography, even my skeptical husband bows before the Buddha. Later we sit by the steps of the temple in silence. Experiencing this stillness together is a far cry from the frenetic adventures that once defined our travels.
Back at the lodge we book a private consultation with an 88-year-old astrologer, Ap Dorji. He calculates our fortunes using an abacus and wooden tablets. Later I learn my husband was told all his good fortune came from marrying me—a fact I make sure he hears again and again for the remainder of the trip. Dorji tells me I’ve descended from the realm of gods “clutching flowers in my hands” and will one day return there. Naturally, this is my favorite part of our trip.
The writer and her husband in front of Tiger’s Nest
At dawn the next day, we head for Tiger’s Nest, Paro’s famous cliffside monastery. I manage the hike, navigating the steep, treacherous path 10,240 feet up. Tenzin, our guide, keeps a watchful eye on me. Meanwhile my husband gleefully texts selfies from far above, his proud grin leaping off the screen.
The ancient monastery clings to the rock face, suspended between earth and sky like a benediction. Outside, prayer flags flutter, their colors sharp against the gray cliff, carrying blessings down to the valley below.
Bhutan’s famed Jomolhari peaks, seen from a plane window
Matt Dutile
After the descent we sink into a hot stone bath infused with artemisia. On our last morning we sit facing the hidden peaks of Jomolhari, which has finally revealed itself. We lapse into a companionable silence—a literary cliché I used to doubt was real. Before we leave a monk performs a prayer ritual for our safe journey, invoking deities with a peacock feather, rice, and water. We leave with blessings, and the memory of a stillness we didn’t know we needed.
This article appeared in the December 2025 issue of Condé Nast Traveler. Subscribe to the magazine here.
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