It isn't just about the food.

With five days in Kolkata and no real desire to go "sight-seeing", we "planned" long walks in search of the city's est dhabas (street-side eateries) and restaurants. I would go back - for no other reason - just for the food. If only I could have been hungry all the time. Kati rolls, fried naan with vegetables, paneer and egg, probably best at Nizam's (founded in 1932); puri, deep fried chapatis with either a chola (chickpeas) or subjee (vegetables) from carts along the road; momos at 'Momo Corner' made by Tibetean refugees; bhel puri, a crazy snack of puffed rice, chili, lemon, coconut, nuts, fresh onion, and countless other things, mixed and shaken and poured into a a rolled piece of newspaper to snack on while you walk; rosgulla, rose-water cheese balls apparently invented at KS Das Sweets; fresh coconut and fruits I'll never remember the names of; simple but impossibly incredible Bengali food in hole-in -the-wall restaurants down back alleys; and, of course, endless chai served in tiny terracotta cups smashed on the street when finished.

Our walks took us through Sunday markets in colonies around the university, packed with everything and anything you could possibly need or want. They went through streets lined with welders, mechanics, and bicycle repair shops. They, of course, took us to where many people live on the sidewalks, where women smiled proudly as they held up their naked babies being washed near a pipe gushing with water. Where kids often asked for money or chocolate or pens, but would sometimes start dancing with me in the streets in the end.They took us on wrong turns that lead to mosques down back lanes, where men ran just after the call to prayer, yelling at Jon to hurry up, he's late (it's the beard).

So, really, it isn't just about the food.

A winding path.

Walking on village footpaths from the town of Yuksom on our way to Tashiding, we think we must have taken a wrong turn. The moss covered stone path ends abruptly before a gate made of branches - in front if it, there is no path. Backtracking, a goat trail leads through cardamon fields, winding through the plants and, in places, washed away by the creek. Suddenly, we realize we are treading through someone's garden. Looking around, a man near his livestock helps us with directions. We've found our way to Khibukley village, a collection of perhaps a dozen households scattered on the side of a hill overlooking a vast valley. The homestay is just down, so walking along footpaths through the terraced farms, we are welcomed into the home of a Gurka Sikkimese family given warning of our arrival by the man up the hill yelling down. All are shy - the sister/daughter proficient in English is away on business - and frantic phone calls are made not because we are unwelcome, but because her brother is nervous, unsure of his own English.

Chai is made on the mud wood stove, and I quickly realize we are somewhere very special. A cousin arrives from the valley to chat, and we sit outside talking about the difference between Sikkim and the rest of India. Repeatedly, Sikkim has been described to us as it's own country. "Anyone here will do anything I help you", he says. "They are all money hungry," meaning most of the rest of India. He tells us the names of the plants in the garden, being picked in preparation for dinner.

While dinner is being made, talking with the family, reflecting on my days walking along the village trails of Sikkim, I find myself overwhelmed with the extravagance of simplicity.

It is so much.

Sitting on the floor, we are served dinner first. Rice, fiddleheads and onion shoots, potatoes, chili, dal, hand-churned butter and fresh curd from the cow next to the house. Everyone watches as we eat - and I am almost crying. I have never tasted food this good. All eat in turn - guests, patriarch, sons, daughter. We drink warm water as we look at the moon and the flickers of light across the valley.

There are no words.

As we head up to our room, father is straightening our sheets. He sits at the foot of Jon's bed and talks a little, watches as we get ready for bed. We have everything we need and he leaves us for the night.

Today, I have not been nearly hit by a car, discovered that water boiled on a wood stove tastes better, had four different kinds of dairy from the same cow, been offered help at every turn, heard silence on the tops of hills...

We took a right turn.