Hippie

Epilogue

In February 2005, when he was already a world-famous writer, Paulo went to Amsterdam to give an important talk. On the morning of the talk, he was interviewed on one of Holland’s principal TV shows at his old hostel—since converted into a hotel for nonsmokers, expensive and with a small but well-regarded high-end restaurant.

He never again heard from Karla. The guide Europe on 5 Dollars a Day had become Europe on 30 Dollars a Day. Paradiso had closed (it would reopen a few years later, retaining its identity as a concert venue); Dam Square was deserted, it was merely a square with that mysterious obelisk in the middle, whose purpose he’d never known—and which he would prefer never to know.

He felt the temptation to walk through the streets where they’d walked to reach the restaurant where they’d eaten for free, but there was always someone with him—the person who had organized the talk. He thought it better to return to his hotel and prepare what he was to say that evening.

He had a vague hope that Karla, knowing he was in the city, would show up to meet him. He imagined she hadn’t spent much time in Nepal, just as he’d abandoned the idea of becoming a Sufi, though he’d lasted nearly a year and learned things he would carry with him for the rest of his life.

During the conference, he told part of the story found in this book. At a certain point, he couldn’t help it and asked:

“Karla, are you here?”

No one raised a hand. Perhaps she had been there, perhaps she hadn’t even heard that he would be visiting the city, or perhaps she was there but preferred not to relive the past.

Better that way.