Now, on the cusp of leaving Patan, its amazing how this tangle of dust, wires, and brick has begun to seem like home. The narrow alleyways and courtyards that once all looked the same to me are now a familiar quilt, full of patterns that I can still get lost in, but others well worn, familiar and traveled. Here is the temple that takes me through to the Program House, here the alley ways full of metal workers that lead to Patan Dhoka, here the small doorways and low hanging openings that lead me home. I’m going to miss the vibrance of this city, the thunderous pace at which it moves and changes, the ways in which it is deafeningly alive. It’s a rhythm I have somehow fallen into step with over the course of my stay here. Today as I walked home in the dying dusk, Darbar Square’s shadows growing long against the stone paved streets, my feet seemed to know the city’s drumbeat. I was able to weave though the rush hour traffic with an ease that surprised me when I reflected on it, easily avoiding the steady stream of rumbling cars and silhouetted pedestrians, revealed in burst from the motorcycle’s headlight beams. I stood observing the motorcycles in the darkness for a moment, exhaust trailing behind them, their lights illuminating the heavy Patan air, full of flickering particles of dust.