Kathmandu Travel Then and Now: A Love Story in Rubble and Resilience

Chaos in the street in Kathmandu

Kathmandu is one of my favorite cities in the world.

Everyone comes to Nepal for the mountains—and fair enough. Those peaks deserve their praise.

But Kathmandu? It’s not just a basecamp.

It’s a destination in its own right.

The first time I came, it carved out a home in my heart.

The second time... it broke my heart—and then showed me how to carry on.

My First Time Visiting Kathmandu: 1999

I had to walk very carefully through Kathmandu’s Durbar Square. My backpack threatened to knock items off the makeshift shelves that some vendor had meticulously set out that morning at dawn. So, I moved slowly. Carefully. Like a yak trying to make its way through a meditation seminar without waking anyone from their slumber.

I moved towards the hotel I wanted to stay at, a very basic spot right on Durbar Square. My dusty copy of Lonely Planet Nepal claimed that a simple room with a shared bathroom could be had for what translated into about $1US per night. And I was on a tight budget.

Fortunately, I made it to the hotel without enacting any you-break-it-you-bought-it clauses. I saw a dusty, dark room with a lumpy mattress . . . and a small balcony that looked out over the medieval magnificence of Durbar Square.

And yes, it cost $1US.

I took it.

It was the first time I ever laid my head down in Asia as a backpacker. And it was life changing.

Durbar Square: A Living Museum of Power and Stone

Kathmandu’s Durbar Square felt like a half-forgotten relic still humming with life. It wasn’t just a plaza—it was a centuries-old open-air museum where no one had bothered to install the glass cases.

For over 500 years, this square was the heart of the Malla kings’ rule in the Kathmandu Valley. Temples and palaces bloomed here like stone flowers, with tiered roofs in the traditional Newar style, each one built with more elaborate wood carvings and religious symbolism than the last. The Hanuman Dhoka Palace stood as the royal nerve center, with its maze of courtyards and throne rooms, while the Kumari Ghar housed Nepal’s living goddess—a child revered and worshipped until she hits puberty and gets politely replaced.

Durbar Square was history with its shoes off, sipping tea and watching the world go by. And it seemed to invite the awe-struck traveler to take a seat on the stone steps that rose under the many-tiered roofs and simply take it all in.

So I did. I sat there, on the steps of an ancient temple. I watched kids playing soccer in the shadow of Shiva. Pigeons were everywhere, ruling the rooftops of the temples, but also venturing down into the streets where locals and tourists alike offered them seeds which they gladly, and greedily accepted. It didn’t feel preserved; it felt lived in.

Playing with pigeons in Durbar Square

And I was overwhelmed by just how lucky I was that I, a kid from a small town in the Midwest United States, got to be here in Kathmandu.

I started falling in love with the city right then and there. And I have never stopped.

Traditional Nepalese temple rooftops

Interlude: Kathmandu Shaken to the Core

In April of 2015, Kathmandu was hit by a devastating earthquake—a 7.8 magnitude monster that cracked open homes, temples, and hearts across the Kathmandu Valley. More than 9,000 people were killed. Thousands more were injured or displaced. And some of the city’s most iconic heritage sites—places that had stood through centuries of kings, invasions, and monsoon seasons—crumbled in an instant.

The 2015 earthquake destroyed buildings all throughout the city

Durbar Square was hit especially hard. Temples that had stood for hundreds of years were simply gone. Towers toppled. The Kasthamandap Temple, the namesake of the city and one of Kathmandu’s oldest wooden structures, was flattened. The Trailokya Mohan Narayan Temple, with its three-tiered pagoda roof, fell.

And the temple that I sat under in 1999? The steps where I ceased to be a would-be-backpacker and donned the mantle of a real traveler? The place that touched my heart and made me, for only the second time in my life to that point, fall deeply, hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with a city? Well, that was the beautiful Maju Dega Temple, which had loomed grandly over the square with its sweeping stairs since 1690. It crumbled into dust.

It was a staggering loss, in lives, and in heritage—not just for Nepal, but for the world.

But Kathmandu doesn’t quit.

Only the base of the temple remained after the 2015 earthquake

Returning to Kathmandu: 2016

I had to walk very carefully through Kathmandu’s Durbar Square. There was still rubble left from the earthquake's devastation, but the vendors were coming back, setting up shop in whatever space they could find. So, I moved slowly. Carefully. Like a yak being followed by its yak wife and yak children while trying to make its way through a yoga class where no one had invited any livestock.

Despite the need to step delicately, it was a special opportunity for me when, as part of our round-the-world travels, I got to bring my wife and daughters to Kathmandu in the spring of 2016.

It had only been a little over 15 years, but Kathmandu had changed. There were no more hotels on Durbar Square, let alone one-dollar hotels. In fact, tourists had to pay a fee to enter Durbar Square at all.

Even Thamel, once the grungy haven of budget travelers and bootleg VHS "video nights," had started selling designer mala beads.

But the Kathmandu I remembered was still there as well. Spectacular little courtyards were still tucked behind unassuming doorways. Old men still gathered on stone platforms to talk about who knows what. Laundry still hung from carved gods who had long ago stopped complaining. Venders set up shop amid the ruined monuments.

Venders set up on the ruins

Kathmandu was still Kathmandu.

Walking through Durbar Square in 2016, I felt like I had returned to a place I knew by heart, only to find it battered and limping. The open courtyards were still there. The feeling was still there. But whole pieces of the skyline were missing—like someone had simply erased them.

I walked to where the Maju Dega Temple had stood. Those steps I had sat on 15 years earlier were still there . . . but that was all. The temple was gone. Danger signs warned not to enter.

My family stood behind me. I turned to them and tried to explain things to them. I tried to tell them that this place was sacred to me. This was the place of my rebirth. I wanted to tell them that I was leading them on a grand journey through the world because of what I felt when I sat right here more than fifteen years ago. I tried.

I tried to explain to them the burden that the earthquake had placed upon Nepal, one of the poorest countries in the world. How the people suffered.

I wanted to explain to them that we were going to spend every last cent we could afford to spend in Nepal to do some small part of helping with the recovery efforts.

Instead, I just stood there. A tear slid down my face. I knew if I tried to talk, it would come out broken. Gasping.

That earthquake took away a piece of my personal history. And what I was feeling was nothing compared to what the local population must feel. So many had lost loved ones. So many had lost a piece of their history.

All of this passed through my thoughts, but none was willing to pass my lips.

So I turned back to the place that was the once and future Maju Dega Temple. And, with my heart, I let Kathmandu know that while it was now scarred and a bit broken, my love was undiminished. And I would do what I could to support its rising from the ashes.

And even though I didn’t say anything, I think my family understood. Because traveling together allows you to build an understanding that needs no words.

Language barrier? What language barrier?