Not What I Expected

Crashing the Coronation In 1975 I accidentally crashed the coronation of the king of Nepal. Of course, I didn’t mean to. I thought I was invited. In fact, I was invited. A few months earlier, I’d gone for cocktails with a couple of other people at the San Francisco home of Jack and Lita Vietor. Jack was, among other things, the honorary consul to Nepal. Over vodka and tonics, which must have been too strong, he said, “Why don’t you join Lita and me at the coronation of the king of Nepal in March?” I looked at the two other people in the living room, and we all said, “Absolutely! Let’s go.” “I’ll arrange it,” Jack replied. So boom—just like that we were going to a Himalayan coronation. My marriage was falling apart, and my dog had just died. Some clear mountain air and a royal jamboree sounded like just what I needed. I took Jack at his word and assumed that a lovely manila envelope with a printed invitation would be forthcoming. I booked a flight to Kathmandu and delightedly told my mother—who imagined herself the Queen of Glamorous Adventures—that I was off to the coronation of the king of Nepal. My friend Harold Talbott, a devout Buddhist with connections worldwide, arranged for me to stay with Gene Smith (an eminent Buddhist scholar) and his wife. It all sounded perfect. Naturally, there were a few hitches. I never did receive a printed invitation, for instance. I kept thinking it would come in the mail before I left, but since Jack would be in Kathmandu, I assumed that either the invitation would be at the gate or that he would be there to escort me in. I was sure it would all work out. I carefully packed a coronation costume, complete with gold high-heeled sandals, evening dresses for royal balls, and Arnold Scaasi suede pants for “casual lunches.” Just in case, I packed my Nikon and its foot-long lens and a heavy reel-to-reel tape recorder—vestiges of my early career as a reporter—so I could pose as a member of the press corps if I had to. Maybe I’d actually get a chance to interview the royal couple or at least take a photo or two that might appear in a glossy magazine. I waved good-bye to my husband and hopped on the plane. The Kathmandu airport, which had only a dirt road for an airstrip and a tin shack for a terminal, buzzed with private jets. Coming down the airplane steps, I pushed my dark glasses on top of my head in what I fancied was a grand movie-star gesture. The taxi into town crawled through narrow streets crowded with people, cows, and elephants. I noticed that all the elephants’ toenails had been lacquered red, just like mine. The huge curling horns of the cows had been painted red too, and everywhere red dust had settled on the stone statues of elephants, monkey gods, naked goddesses, and assorted fierce-looking deities that lined the roads. When the taxi finally drew up to the house where Harold, my Buddhist friend, had arranged for me to stay, I was greeted hurriedly by a housekeeper and rushed to the very back to a tiny room with a shared bath. My hosts at that moment were entirely occupied with their main guest, the queen of Bhutan, who had only just arrived with a sizable entourage. As I looked around my cramped room in some despair, my host popped by for a moment. “I hope you’ll be comfortable,” he murmured distractedly. “I’m sure you can take care of yourself.” I saw right away I’d better go out for lunch. I strolled along the streets, exhausted from my trip. Huge white bulls with red horns and hooves blocked the roads, while little bands of Nepalese musicians played among tiny stalls selling everything from sweets to religious statues to cold cream. At length, I found a stall selling lentils and rice, which I ate in the shade of a stupa that was strung with multicolored prayer flags. The streets were an Asian opera, with men and women wrapped in fabulous colored costumes that were their everyday clothes—so much better looking than the black suits of New York. On their heads, they carried everything from chickens to brass pots to cakes. At last, tired and overwhelmed, I made my way back to the scholar’s house to rest and to ask my host about getting into the coronation. Unfortunately, my host was not at home, so I called the hotel where I knew the Vietors were staying. They weren’t in either, so I left a message with the concierge to ask the consul general from San Francisco if he had my invitation. Should I pick it up from him? Or should I just meet him at the coronation? Later, I was passed a reply message: “We’ll see you there.” I sat on the edge of my narrow bed pondering my dilemma. So far, this trip was not turning out to be the glamorous adventure I’d imagined. I’d made some meager effort at unpacking, but the room was so small that I had to hang my ball gown on the wall light in the hall. The tiny sink opposite my bed was completely buried under all the creams and sprays I’d brought with me. Water had soaked my face powder. Finally I emerged from my room to look for my host, and I found him chatting with the queen outside her door. I wondered if I should curtsy. Since it was an informal encounter, I decided against it and instead simply smiled and waited for my host to acknowledge my presence. “When you have a second,” I said finally, “I wonder if I could ask you one tiny thing?” He looked put out by the interruption, but I plunged ahead. “I wonder if I could trouble you for a lift to the coronation. Somehow,” I equivocated, “I think the Vietors must have my invitation with them. I thought they would have dropped it off here, but it seems they didn’t,” I finished with a flourish. My host appeared uninterested rather than concerned. “We’ll drop you off,” he said shrugging. I assumed that he meant he would drop me at the entrance gate and I could slip in with them. After all, the queen and her entourage were a pretty good cover. I was actually relieved.