Shonali Muthalaly

I first set out to eat a lobster roll. I am in chilly Boston, perfect weather for the city’s other favourite food icon: clam chowder. On my obligatory visit to Harvard University, I rub the John Harvard statue boot for good luck and then set out on my mission. I am rewarded almost immediately at Harvest, a cosy restaurant at Harvard square which celebrates New England farmers and purveyors.

We plunge into tamatar chaat weather in Varanasi. The days are warm and sticky, like the city’s favourite snack: a soupy bowl of tomatoes and potatoes simmered in ghee, then finished with a flourish of butter and crisp namkeen. I recoil at my first steamy spoonful, wedged between samosa-wielding strangers on a hard, sweaty bench at Kashi Chaat Bandar.

I did not expect to lock eyes with a living goddess in Nepal. But Kathmandu pulsates with prayer, ritual and surprises, despite its reputation as a party stop en route to the mountains. On Everest Day, as climbers and summit counts dominate the conversation, it feels like a good time to look away from the mountain straining under record crowds, and struggling to survive its own popularity. Instead, I settle in Kathmandu to explore the richness of the valleys below.