Fireworks and horseshows and a pot of fragrant flowers

I turned my trusted heater on and with a pop and a sizzle that smelled briefly like burnt glue I could trust it no longer. Luckily my winter travels taught me how to stay warm with only hot water on hand and besides this semester is heading for summer. I wheeled my formerly favorite, now busted, household appliance out to the hallway with only the slightest shiver of regret.

My fifth return to Lhasa had made no headlines. I breezed through security in Sichuan, arrived with my luggage and without a headache, and came back to an apartment that, save for the layers of increased dust, was exactly the way I left it. Not even one of my plants had died.

We walked down the gray familiar street past the quiet frenzy of last minute Tibetan New Year's preparations to a noodle shop that must have mourned our absence. My Chinese colleague, who tried to convince me she'd been working the entire break, while we slurped spinach noodles like they were manna from heaven, impressed on me two significant facts: 1. I need to eat more noodles because I had just returned from a long journey and 2. I need to be more careful and stay at the school for my own safety. I nodded my frustrated acquiescence and ate more noodles.

My head swam a little bit on the walk back to school, as much from the altitude as from the news that I would be refusing New Years celebrations from most of my friends in the city. Perhaps noting my reserved politeness or the uncontrollable glimmer of joy that I get when walking past bicycle carts of potted flowers, my colleague stopped in front of one. She asked me which plant I wanted and I restrained my impulsive answer of 'all of them' opting instead to pick out a serene light hued plant with wildly contorting sage colored stems and humble white flowers. It is my New Year gift to you, she said and I gushed with pleasure.

That night burst and sparkled as the entire cityscape of Lhasa was illuminated by the fizzle and explosion of fireworks that would have put Disney World to shame and made the usually sullen city resplendent with color. I, yet again thankful for the mercies of a well placed window, sipped hot water and watched another years potential reflected in the vibrant flashes of the fireworks as the festivities meant to usher in the new year destroyed the silence of the night.

When the gate security guard had held my ice cold hands as a greeting and welcome back and had urged me to come to the small room shared by him and his wife to celebrate the new year, my heart had twinged with gratitude. My Tibetan rusty from the two month vacation, I went over with a bag of goodies and somehow mistook their offer of chang for cha and ended up with a small glass of foul smelling milky yellow fermented barley beer in my hands when I had been expecting tea. Not able to conjure up the language to refuse now with glass in hand I drank it, the three prescribed sips, before nearly choking on the pungent bitterness of the Tibetan drink of choice, which I had deftly managed to avoid for three years. I put it aside and made diversions by asking about the room's decorations, among which I found a picture that I had taken with him my first year, long before our relationship was anything more than passerby, and had given to him on a whim. The chang bit at my stomach and I marveled at the profound simplicity of the overlap of lives.

A text message from a student and permission granted from the school gave me the opportunity to go for a walk to the nearby horse racing track featuring newly built concrete bleachers. I met my dimpled student at the gate and we promptly cut in front of the hundreds of other people waiting in line in their finest Tibetan outfits and walked straight to her family's house behind the track for a quick snack of meat dumplings washed down with butter tea. Return after the show and stay for a while implored her famed mountaineer of a father in an endearing mixture of English and Tibetan. I nodded and was half dragged out the door by my now impatient student.

Sitting on a mat on concrete bleachers absolutely stuffed with spectators while the sun pierced through the dust and the cold highlighted the horses snorting breath I learned that Tibetan horse shows are not for the faint of heart. Think Cirque du Soleil on horseback at speeds which make your eyes water. Arrows and knives wielded at small targets, girls riding backwards and weightlessly doing handstands, men flipping and hanging now near the horses' pounding hooves now near the fluttering manes. And a chubby Tibetan baby with wispy curls of hair like a halo around her face missed it all because she chose instead to entertain herself by staring at me.

Afterwards, I found myself morphing into a family member of this student as we sat around her relative packed living room drinking various kinds of tea, cutting off hunks of boiled yak to dip in spice before snacking, sharing stories of the holiday, taking understanding for granted, eating gluttonous amounts of prepared dishes, watching visitors come and go, and amusing toddlers. Comfort was obvious and as abundant as home brewed chang, which I knowingly declined, as we went about the business of Losar-ing and it seemed stranger for me to refuse the of a bed to take a short nap on than to accept, though refuse I did. When the afternoon got late and the men went outside to play sho I also made an exit into the bluest afternoon sky I'd ever dreamed of, made bluer by the bareness of the tree limbs against it.

Back in the apartment, I threw off my unnecessary for the afternoon sunshine jacket and flopped gently on the hard couch... just as I chanced to catch a whiff of a pleasantly rich floral fragrance. Shocked by so welcome an aroma in this land of evil smells, I followed my nose to the modest little plant given to me by my colleague a few days before.

May this year be one that dazzles like fireworks, mystifies like horseshows, and delights like tiny white flowers... and may the Artisan who weaves relationships be honored.

Happy Tibetan New Year.