Today is the first day of the strike in Kathmandu. It was imposed by the Maoists. They said if anyone violates the strike rules, keeps his shop open, drives around, etc., they will ruin him and his business. People are scared, everything is closed, Thamel looks like a ghost town in a Thai horror film. The only cycle rickshaw driver who appears on the street as soon as I leave the hotel wants me to pay 300 rupees to go to the nearby Durbar Square because “he is the only means of transport today” he says, but I negotiate it down to 40. I spend the afternoon in the square, which is a little busier than other parts of the city, thinking about what to tell my group tomorrow when I start taking them through Nepal’s history and vision. Huge temples face the old royal palace. Some Kathmanduites sit on the steps around the temples, chatting or reading the paper. Tourists try to squeeze everything into their cameras; fake sadhus come up to them to get hard cash for their portraits. Children ask for biscuits. Guides want to show me around. As the sun sets, I walk down Freak Street looking for a place to eat. The hippie movement started here in the 70s and the atmosphere hasn’t changed much since then. I finally find one that is open. The waiter looks at me, trying to guess my mood. Then he chooses a band. Let it be.