I stepped outside the airplane door with a slight stumble. My eyes weighed heavy, and a peculiar odor emitted itself from my body as I raised my arms to stretch. My brain, whirring noticeably slower than usual, managed to weakly loft up a plan: immigration, bicycle, SIM card, taxi, sleep.
I slumped down the rickety hostel staircase on an early, dreary morning. My crusty, half asleep eyes were forced open, and I looked up above the reception desk to an improvised sign of nails and duct tape reading: “Wel Come your stay to Kathmandu Madhuban Guest House”.