Places to visit in France outside of Paris: Dijon, cycling Burgundy, water canals, prehistoric cave paintings and French villages
Burgundy, located in east-central France, roughly midway between Paris and Lyon, announces itself slowly, through vineyards and Romanesque stone.
I planed the Burgundy itinerary with both train and cycling parts. In Dijon I made a short stopover, and after a couple of hours took a second train to Auxerre, where the ride would start. From there I cycled toward Arcy-sur-Cure, stopping for the night in a village just short of the town. The next morning I visited the prehistoric cave paintings at Arcy-sur-Cure, then set off through the northern edge of the Morvan natural park and on to Vézelay (one of the best places to visit in Burgundy), where I happened to arrive for Father’s Day. Next came Varzy, where I stopped for a summer harvest festival and fell into conversation with a couple of Romanian sculptors, before pointing the bike toward the next section of the journey: the Loire Valley, beginning at La Charité-sur-Loire. Three days is a comfortable minimum to enjoy slow travel for a stretch like this.
Dijon: French mustard, artistic corners and central asian dances
Here, the French countryside still has a medieval air: mellow hills, vineyards, cobblestone streets and bridges, cylindrical towers with gray rooftops, and courtyards abounding in blue, pink, or white boules de neige.
I wasn’t planning to rest too long in Dijon, only for three hours. I spent my time roaming the vibrant, coquettish streets. The mood around me was contagious: light, enjoyable, and carefree. On the terraces of little cafés, tourists and locals alike were enjoying the afternoon.
The absence of any past, present, or foreseeable pain was quite refreshing. There was a time in my life when I sought to understand the pain that can be lived in our times. The three coming weeks were not going to be about that.
Strolling around, I discovered a repeating pattern of little owls embedded in the asphalt or at the corners of the streets. It was the Parcours de la Chouette, The Owl’s Trail, a well-known self-guided tour that leads you from one architectural gem to another. I decided to play along and follow the little owls.
Dijon packs a remarkable amount into a walkable center. The Palace of the Dukes of Burgundy anchors the elegant Place de la Libération, while the old Saint-Bénigne crypt showcases the city’s Romanesque roots. Wandering the streets, you pass medieval half-timbered colombage houses, Renaissance hôtels particuliers with carved façades and spiral staircases, and Haussmannian boulevards lined with wrought-iron balconets. The best way to take it all in is the Parcours de la Chouette (the Owl’s Trail: travel guide burgundy France), a self-guided route marked by little owls set into the pavement that links the city’s finest architectural gems, all rounded off with a taste of Dijon’s famous mustard on a lively café terrace.
Dijon is rich in architectural development: from the Romanesque of the old Saint-Bénigne crypt to the 19th-century Haussmannian-influenced uniform façades, it metamorphoses into the shapes of gothic, medieval, renaissance, and neoclassical. I walked on Parisian-like buildings, with regularly placed portes-fenêtres and small wrought-iron balconets.
Cycling Burgundy is the kind of slow travel that rewards patience over speed. This one of the regions most suitable for a France by bike tour, a region where the D-roads matter more than the motorways: quiet, well-paved departmental routes that thread from one wine village to the next, often with barely a car for company.
In terms of difficulty, Burgundy by bike is forgiving. The canal routes are almost entirely flat and beginner-friendly, ideal for unhurried days. The vineyard climbs are short rather than brutal, the sort of rolling terrain that keeps things interesting without wearing you down. A road bike handles the paved routes well; a gravel or touring bike opens up the towpaths.
For a Burgundy itinerary, three unhurried days is a comfortable minimum, Dijon to La Charité-sur-Loire along the vineyards, then out toward the canals, though the region rewards lingering. This is slow travel in France at its best: you go at the pace of the landscape, stop when a café terrace or a boule-de-neige-filled courtyard asks you to, and let the distance take care of itself.
Right after a street corner, the peysage suddenly changed and one walked between timber houses from medieval times. At the mouth of a narrow medieval lane, one of Dijon’s oldest half-timbered houses leans out over the cobbles. This is colombage, timber-frame construction dating from the late medieval period, when the town’s merchants built upward in oak and plaster to save on precious ground-floor space. After another corner, the historical period shifted again and suddenly, rich hôtels particuliers, propelled the walker into the Renaissance with their carved façades, spiral staircases, and inner courtyards. The centerpiece was the Palace of the Dukes of Burgundy, dominating the Place de la Libération.
Dijon is a lively city. I arrived in the middle of a festival dedicated to traditional Central Asian dances, if I had to guess, I would have said Georgian, but I had no idea. It seems that the world still comes to France.
Off the beaten path: cycling along the Yonne and prehistoric paintings in Arcy-sur-Cure
It was not my plan to spend the night in Dijon, so I took an afternoon train towards Auxerre. The plan was to spend my first night under the starry sky somewhere on the banks of the Yonne river. I still had two or three hours of cycling ahead; the sky was an incredible blue, the river’s flow was perfectly regulated, and from time to time small dams formed little lakes. The small boat locks were adorned with pots of red geraniums. Humans weren’t the only ones building dams on the Yonne. At one point, two beavers were hard at work on their own. The river was a peaceful spectacle of serene human settlements, stone houses, blooming boule de neige bushes, and Gothic cathedrals. A play of light and water unfolded during the golden hour.
I decided to rest for the night in an old forest near Bessy-sur-Cure. I set up my hammock under a big sycamore, ate something, and in the simplest way possible, called it a day.
Places to visit in France outside of Paris: The Yonne river in Auxerre
The next day I faced a problem that I hadn’t quite expected. I couldn’t find an open shop in the villages on my route. And I was out of food and water. For electricity I took out my portable solar panel, hooked it on my rucksack and connected my phone.
It was still morning when I reached Arcy-sur-Cure and the cave. What attracted me here were of course the prehistoric paintings. It was a type of art that I had previously only looked upon in atlases and documentaries and here, they were in front of me: visual proof of the mammoths and cave lions, red shades of prehistoric human hands, one of France hidden gems.
The cave art here was a pale comparison with its more elaborate relatives: Lascaux, Chauvet, Altamira, Sulawesi, Bhimbetka, Tassili N’Ajjer.
The little red contour of a child’s hand, the elegant lines of the animal groups were enough to stir inside me a feeling of awe and endearment towards those paleolithic early-humans who were capable of such beauties even though they lived underground and constantly fought for their lives. These were proof that we had inside of us the search for beauty, representation, art, and the means to form a culture and transmit it further to future generations.
I continued my cycling, crossing the southern tip of the Morvan Natural Park, a portion of old forest and steeper hills. On the other side the forest was replaced by well maintained vineyards. I passed a number of small groups of men walking on the roads, until my curiosity overcame the restraint and I finally asked them where they were heading. With enthusiasm they replied that it wasLa fete de pères de familles and they were pilgrimming towards the Basilique de Vézelay. The funny fact was that I was also heading there. The basilique is a UNESCO site, and it was part of my itinerary for the day.
Most beautiful towns in France: Vézelay during Father’s Day Pilgrimage
Vézelay is situated on the highest hill of the region, dominating the area. It is a medieval town with the houses nested inside the defending walls and with the Basilica on the highest ground, and five times taller than any other building. There were countless pilgrims going up and down the street, gathered from all surroundings. Some of them had been marching for three days before reaching Vézelay.
At the gates, fruit merchants waited behind piles of apricots and cherries. A steep narrow street continued on the crest of the hill finding its way up towards the basilica. Little artisan shops displaying local products, small tasteful cafés rewarded the pilgrims with refreshments. I bought some of the early summer black cherries and enjoyed their fleshy sweetness while going uphill. The church was full. I took a short dive into the sea of pilgrims, and made it in front of the sculptured portal. It displayed a story of how this religion was spread. I gassed for a while, interested in the lines of old medieval art.
After a refreshing pause, I resumed my journey westwards towards Charité-sur-Loire, the point where I planned to enter the Loire Valley. For a while, the road was downhill so I just enjoyed the scenery, hills drawn with straight, regular green lines of endless vineyards. From the highest points I could see small groups of pilgrims spread on the roads to Vézelay. Soon the hills flattened and were replaced by fields.
I passed a number of small stone houses and villages, well maintained, yet seemingly deserted. I thought that maybe everybody had left for Father’s Day. Again there were no open stores to be found, nor restaurants or boulangeries. And yet, slowly, village after village, something entered into my awareness. In almost every settlement one could find either an atelier or a poster inviting people to join the local choir or band or a club for painting nature. One place, in a small village on the road, had an iron workshop with imaginative sculptures made of recycled metal components. It made me realise that creativity and art were truly valued among the French. I would have expected to see that in Paris, but it was pervasive all over the countryside. After a short but powerful summer rain, the sun appeared and dried up my clothes in no time.
Perched atop Burgundy’s “eternal hill,” the Basilique Sainte-Marie-Madeleine makes Vézelay one of the most beautiful villages in Burgundy. It rises from a former 9th-century Benedictine abbey into one of medieval Christendom’s most magnetic pilgrimage sites, drawn there by the belief that it held the relics of Mary Magdalene and by its position on a key route to Santiago de Compostela. By the 12th century, the hill town swelled to nearly 10,000 inhabitants and became a stage for history: St Bernard preached the Second Crusade here in 1146 before Louis VII and Eleanor of Aquitaine, Richard the Lion-Hearted and Philip Augustus met here in 1190 before departing for the Third Crusade, and Francis of Assisi founded France’s first Franciscan house here in 1217. Beyond its historical weight, the basilica is a high point of Burgundian Romanesque art, its nave defined by bicolored horseshoe arches and a remarkable range of carved capitals, while the sculpted portal between nave and narthex, crowned by a tympanum depicting Christ in Glory commissioning the apostles to convert the nations, remains one of the most celebrated and singular works of the entire Romanesque period.
Meeting the artist: An unexpected encounter with Romanian artists, marble sculptor and painter
Soon afterwards I reached water-clean-cobblestone-glimmering Varzy. A summer festival was in bloom there, so I decided to cross the town walking slowly, taking in the joy and music. At one of the tables I heard romanian and on the spur of the moment I decided to make my presence known. And so I met Viorel and Maria, a couple of Romanian artists around their 60s, established in France. I told them about my trip and they invited me to rest for the night at their place, situated only 12 km away from where we were. It was one of those moments when I realised how much openness and a friendly attitude can bring.
The Enache Ateliers work in stone as restorers of France’s monumental heritage, and the list of sites their hands have touched reads like an itinerary of the country’s grandest facades. They have restored statuary groups from Notre-Dame de Paris and the Louvre, from the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel and the Église de la Madeleine, the Tuileries Gardens and the Château de Villers-Cotterêts, the church of Saint-Eustache, the Lutetia and The Peninsula hotels, the Court of Appeal of Dijon and the seat of the French Council of State, the chapel of the Hôtel de Cluny and the Gare de Lyon, the cathedral of Saint-Étienne in Meaux and the Château de Chambord, the Notre-Dame cathedrals of Le Havre, Arques-la-Bataille and Reims, the Holy Cross Cathedral of Orléans, and the Porte Saint-Nicolas of Nancy.
One finds an inédite feeling in visiting art ateliers. In the barn, that labour stands assembled in a pale congregation, plaster and marble crowded shoulder to shoulder under a single fluorescent tube. Nearest the door a shako-capped soldier of the Napoleonic line keeps a stiff sentry’s watch, musket grounded, a fragment of carved cartouche behind him. The mythological figures gather at the centre: a draped goddess, Diana-like in her calm, gazing sidelong; a slender youth in the pose of a resting Hermes or Bacchus, half-nude with the fabric slipping from his hip; a graceful woman lifting a tambourine, a bacchante or muse caught mid-dance; and a muscular, helmeted Mercury beside them, the wing of his cap just visible. Presiding over all of it, rising nearly to the rafters, looms a colossal armoured figure: Joan of Arc in mailed skirt and breastplate, hand raised, dwarfing the workbenches, the grinders and the sawdust of a workshop still very much in use. What wonders can one discover by slow travel France.
Their home was a true nest for artists. Blocks of partially finished marbles were spread all over the grass inside of their generous courtyard. There were two huge barns filled with statuary groups, some belonging to the master, some being there for restoration.
The place was a typical French countryside farm before they bought it and transformed it into their summer home.
Greek gods, ancient heroes, French noblemen, one huge Joan of Arc, and a couple of statuary groups from Notre Dame de Paris (that I was not allowed to photograph), not to mention the masters’ own creations. I must have fallen through a secret rabbit hole and ended up in the wonderland of marbles.
Art was their way of life and they made a living from it. Twenty years ago, they started a firm for marble restoration, which slowly grew, and now they have contracts all over France.
Their house itself was an exhibition to be lived in. Her paintings, his marbles shared the space with them. Maria specialised in shadows, plays of light, and the diaphanous aspects of the world: pale representations of a vegetal world, rays of light through unseen foliage. He, too, sometimes searched for forms in the vegetal world. Fructul părea să fie o temă recurentă. Fructul ca rod. Rod al gândirii. They were a couple, joined by way of being and by purpose.
“Sometimes it’s more difficult moneywise. But money is not the most important thing in life. Sometimes you have it, sometimes you don’t.”
What seem to be the seeds of thought near a golden brain
They left right after the Romanian revolution. It was not easy for them to make a living and a name in Paris in the 90s. They also raised two children, who turned out quite pragmatic, and in a way opposed to their artistic natures.
Well-formed artistic identities, contraries of the same artistic virtues. One dealing with the immutable material, the other with the immaterial. One liking to be seen more than the other. She still looked with tender eyes and amazement every time he drew another thought from the heart of stone.
The next morning was cold and didn’t tempt you out from under the down quilt. The peasant room hadn’t been heated at all. I raised from the bed and quickly, quickly crossed the creaking floor to the shower. I loved places that were completely new and foreign. Then and there the passion for life turned from smoldering fire into blaze. I could hardly wait for the day to begin, to learn more about the two artists. I opened the magazine they left for me and began reading about the sculptor’s life.
I closed the magazine, jumped into my clothes, packed the few things I had with me, and left the room. The courtyard full of sculptures was only just beginning to stir under the first rays of morning. A Ulysses watched shyly from beneath a ram’s fleece. A Janus twisted, trying to shield one face from the other.
Stones that had been given life lay scattered across the lawn, like fairy eggs on Calypso’s beach. The sculptor was already bustling about the kitchen: on a wooden board he had set a coffee pot, three cups, and a tray of toast, and beside it a jar of plum jam. Realizing that I was there he asked for help.
They set everything outside on the white marble table and sat down themselves. The smell of the coffee was inviting, though the taste recalled the stovetop it had been brewed on.
Janus twisted with one face gazing towards future, the other to the past
They wanted to know who I was, but there was a reticence in me, to let everything else that I was to transpire through the travelers’ mantle. I had different sides inside me that I didn’t want to fuse one into another. I told them, like it was not about me, like it was the story of another. I told them because one story from the other side of me was meant for them. So I told them about the man who was a sculpture at the bottom of the ocean for thousands and thousands of years.
Ulysses hidden beneath a ram’s fleece
I remembered the look into his blue and stormy eyes, our conversation up to that point was peculiar, as far as conversations go, but not so abnormal for alienists. I was just asking my routine questions:
“And what were you, in your life?” “I was… a sculpture at the bottom of the ocean for thousands of years.”
I wanted to know what one feels and thinks when one gives shapes to marbles. He tried to answer to my countless questions, in the end he succumbed saying:
Just before leaving, they invited me to their teaching summer camp for sculptors. It was a possibility of becoming that never crossed my mind. It was tempting and I left weighing the thought for the rest of the day.
After the deeply enriching breakfast, I recommenced my cycling through Burgundy. The hills were mellow and I was mostly going downwards towards the Loire valley
At the next crossroads I stopped to chat with a group of villagers. French elections were going on and, as expected, they were the main topic for chatter. They were supporters of Rassemblement National. I wondered why someone living from agriculture would support a far-right group standing for liberal markets and bans against immigration. Then they asked me why I was traveling in that area, so I told them about the marble sculptor and the barn full of statues.
“Ah, those two…” Their tone was marked with at least a tint of disapproval.
And yet, this was a country where artists were generally valued, the proof of their successful life.
Homage to the artist: Imaginative play on the subjective experience of sculpting
The sculptor picked up the chisel, thoughtfully. He was still under the influence of the conversation just finished with his wife. He had practiced a whole lifetime to chase away the unpleasant states their conversations left behind. Some he had transformed into stone. And yet, it irritated him that she, even to this day, still nagged him about irrelevant trifles. It was true that he failed to finish even half of the sculptures he started. But did she have to remind him constantly? And in front of strangers? He felt the rough surface he was working on. This one he was sure he would finish. The idea spoke to him in a personal way. He wanted to see it gain substance.
He glanced at the napkin the young doctor had left for him. “And what were you, in your life?” “A sculpture at the bottom of the ocean for thousands of years.”
With eyes sunk into the orbit of time. What does stone skin feel like, after being bathed by water for so long? It escapes me! How could I understand or represent that span of time? My lifetime, a thousand times over. If I had lived that long, would I have been wiser? Could I have built a wisdom that was petrified, patient, unshakeable? After how many lifetimes would that have happened? What have I learned about the wisdom of stone, in this life? Sculpting in stone, you are in fact sculpting yourself. I believe I managed to pass that on to two of my apprentices. Setting off from exactly where I left them, will they manage to add another layer of wisdom? And then the next generation, another layer still, and so on? What would wisdom look like, after so many layers?
If he had set off directly from the idea that to sculpt in stone is in fact to sculpt oneself, his first work would have been The Liberation of the Mind, and perhaps by the end of his career he would no longer have been a sculptor.
I have sculpted my own self throughout my life; the essence remained the same, and the surface was a long attempt to reach perfection. In essence I remained a sculptor, and I tried to pass my sculptor’s essence onward.
A shy angel hidden behind its wings
That is all I managed to understand about life: how to transform myself by transforming stone. How to put frustration, shortcomings, fear into stone, and have it answer me back with a longing for transcendence.
He remembered how the young woman had wondered how such a clear thought could have come from such a troubled mind. The young woman asked him many questions he didn’t quite know how to answer. As if she thought in other concepts or other terms.
“If I had been a writer I would have had better words to describe my works, but I am a sculptor. I say what I have to say through stone.”
As for myself, they hinted to my youthful understanding of people. Maybe it is so, youthful eyes, regard the people and the world as new.
Need advice with a France by bike trip?
If you desire to have a personalised bicycle trip, or if you want to find France’s hidden gems, let yourself be guided by The Verse Voyager’s personality-based travel planning. It will help you find the right idea for your desired bicycle lane. Whether you dream of slow travel through the villages of Burgundy, cycling past vineyards and Romanesque stone, discovering the most beautiful towns in France like Vézelay, or seeking out hidden artistic gems and non-touristy things to do outside of Paris, your journey can be shaped around who you are. You can make a plan that leaves space for the unexpected. From prehistoric cave paintings to unexpected encounters with artists in their ateliers, the best places to visit in Burgundy await, matched to your own pace and curiosity.
TLDR
TL;DR: This is a slow travel journey through Burgundy by bike, one of the best places to visit in France outside of Paris. Starting with what to do in Dijon ( the Owl’s Trail, and Central Asian dances), the route follows the Yonne through French villages and hidden gems: prehistoric cave paintings in Arcy-sur-Cure, hammock sleeping by the river, and one of the most beautiful towns in France, Vézelay, during its Father’s Day pilgrimage. The heart of the story is an unexpected encounter—meeting the artists Viorel and Maria, a Romanian marble sculptor and painter, and visiting their art ateliers full of statues. It closes with an imaginative meditation on the subjective experience of sculpting. A guide to non-touristy things to do in France, blending a travel guide to Burgundy with its hidden artistic gems.
Where Did This Journey Actually Start? An Erasmus Experience in Nancy
In a globalized world it seems easier to move from one place to another for longer or shorter periods of time, whether for work or for studies. Yet, it’s worth remembering that this holds true more for some parts of the world than others. There are still borders in this world that become life projects. But for those who have this freedom of movement, sometimes travelling happens so slowly that you actually settle for a while in a place. And as you try to slowly comprehend and take in all the novelty of your new environment, you discover one powerful form of immersive travel.
I was one of the many Erasmus students at the University of Lorraine, a huge international hub. As with all Erasmus experiences, it happens both in the University, as well as in everything that surrounds it. France has traditionally gathered bright minds from its former colonies. In places like this, everybody arrives with a story, and that was my favourite part of the semester there: the fact that the place itself was open to the world. France is a social hub, a node that ties together all the far-reaching arms of la Francophonie, and nowadays, through programs like Erasmus Mundus, even more than that.
There were all these extraordinarily interesting students, coming from every corner of the world through an Erasmus Mundus Master, all having the opportunity to experience local living in France. Most of them were from French-speaking African countries, but others came from Asia, the United States, and Latin America. Studying abroad in France like this, in a university city with deep historical roots, offered a broad contact with various cultures around the globe.
The French teacher was the main agent of acculturation. His role was far more than simply helping us improve our French. With every lesson he introduced us to French history, traditions, geography, and various representative cultural productions. We were fed French culture by the spoonful, from iconic bande dessinée characters such as Lucky Luke to ongoing political tensions. He gave us rather neutral advice, making us aware that we were about to be put under some forces of tension and to be moulded in yet another shape:
“You all come from different countries all around the world. All of you received a certain education and now you should look around, question your beliefs and decide what to keep, what to let go and what to adopt.”
The university was central to life in Nancy. A good part of the city’s infrastructure and activities revolved around higher education. The city filled with young people when the autumn semester started and emptied again in summer.
Art Nouveau Nancy: Where Stone Grows and Iron Blooms
One student association offered city tours, and during one sunny weekend, I joined. The guide was actually a student of architecture and he could very eloquently speak about the elegant elements of the buildings. Nancy is one of the most rewarding places to visit in France outside of Paris precisely because it offers this kind of layered, walkable local experience, one that belongs entirely to its own history rather than performing itself for visitors.
The building you see here is the Huot Houses, designed between 1902 and 1903 by Émile André (1871–1933), one of the most distinctly regionalist architects of the École de Nancy (the alliance of artists, craftsmen, and industrialists that made this small city, improbably, one of the great capitals of Art Nouveau in Europe). What arrests the eye immediately is the façade’s refusal to behave like stone: it breathes, curves, erupts into organic ornament. The characteristic wheel-shaped window at ground level, its radiating white mullions encased in green ceramic tile, evokes a cross-section of a plant stem or a dragonfly wing caught mid-flight. Above it, carved surrounds frame the windows like frozen tendrils, while the steeply pointed gables and sculpted finials reach upward with an almost Gothic restlessness, softened by the warm golden grès vosgien sandstone that gives Nancy’s Art Nouveau its deeply rooted, earthly character. Shell and fan motifs line the plinth; sinuous ironwork guards the gate. These were not mere decorative choices. André was, according to historian Peter Clericuzio, the most committed regionalist among Nancy’s architects: a designer who studied local flora, Vosges vernacular architecture, and the iconography of Lorraine’s troubled political history to create buildings that were, in the fullest sense, of their place. The École de Nancy believed that ornament should carry meaning: the thistle, emblem of Nancy’s civic motto “Non inultus premor” (Latin for ‘I am not injured unavenged’), the Lorraine cross, the monnaie-du-pape flower all appear across the city’s façades as a semiotic landscape of regional pride and, beneath it, the unhealed wound of the 1871 annexation of Alsace-Lorraine by Germany. Nancy’s Art Nouveau was never merely aesthetic; it was a manifesto in stone, iron, and glass, insisting that a province could challenge a capital, and that beauty could carry the weight of history.
At the beginning of the tour, we followed the Circuit Art Nouveau de Nancy. We passed the Huot Houses and into the Quartier Saurupt, the garden suburb that André himself helped plan and populate with experimental cottages. The trail also takes in the Villa Majorelle, the Brasserie Excelsior, and numerous façades along the rue Félix Faure and avenue Foch, where one can enjoy the full richness of this school: stained glass by Jacques Gruber, ironwork by Louis Majorelle and beautifully carved stone.
One of the Best Local Experience in Nancy: History and Architecture Through an Insider’s Eyes
There were only three of us, so alongside the story of the city, I also got the story of our tour guide. He was Algerian and I knew a little about the long and complicated relationship between Algerians and the French. He was born in Aïn Témouchent, and I do remember this small detail because I too had passed through this absolutely random small provincial city in Algeria for about thirty minutes between two buses. Stumbling on this coincidence made us more inclined to converse through our true selves, the kind of meeting with locals that completes one’s understanding of a place with irreplaceable details.
We stopped first at the Porte de la Craffe, one of the last surviving medieval gates of Nancy, its two round towers rising with the stubborn permanence of things that have outlasted everything around them. Our guide explained that Nancy had been the capital of the independent Duchy of Lorraine since the 11th century, a buffer territory perpetually squeezed between the ambitions of France to the west and the Germanic world to the east.
It was here, he reminded us, that in 1477 Duke René II defeated Charles the Bold of Burgundy in the Battle of Nancy, a victory so decisive that Charles was found dead in a frozen pond outside the city walls. Lorraine had always been a land that others wanted, and testimony to that was the Cross of Lorraine. Our guide explained that the distinctive double-barred cross originated as the heraldic symbol of the medieval Dukes of Lorraine.
After the Franco-Prussian War and the German annexation of 1871, it took on a second, more poignant meaning: the upper bar came to represent the lost city of Metz, the lower bar Nancy, and the cross itself became a quiet, defiant symbol of a divided province that refused to forget it had once been whole, a meaning that resonated so deeply it was later adopted by de Gaulle as the emblem of the Free French Forces in World War II.
We then turned onto the rue de la Craffe, the ancient spine of the old city, the route that once carried pilgrims, merchants, and ducal processions southward through the medieval fabric of Nancy. The street has the particular quality of old urban arteries everywhere: slightly too narrow, slightly too crooked, slightly too layered with centuries to feel entirely of the present. It led us toward the Palais des Ducs de Lorraine, the former seat of the Duchy’s rulers, a handsome Renaissance structure whose courtyard still breathes something of the sixteenth-century confidence of the dukes who commissioned it.
Immediately beside it stands the Chapelle des Cordeliers, the ducal mausoleum where many of those same rulers are buried. The chapel’s interior holds one of the most quietly extraordinary optical events I encountered in Nancy: a stained glass rose window through which, in the afternoon hours, a pattern of coloured rays fans out across the stone floor, deep reds and blues dissolving into amber as the light shifts.
At some point we crossed the rue Poincaré, and so I discovered that he was born in Nancy in 1854. I remembered him from high school with the specific fondness one reserves for intellectual heroes encountered young. He was one of the most extraordinary mathematical minds France ever produced, a man whose work on topology, chaos theory, and the philosophy of science still echoes through contemporary thought.
We took a detour through the Parc de la Pépinière, which was originally laid out in the eighteenth century as a tree nursery. Today it is the living room of Nancy’s student local community. On that particular sunny afternoon, small groups were scattered all over the grass, relaxing, reading, discussing, and engaged in various activities from sports to projects related to the university.
We exited through the Place de la Carrière, a long, elegant esplanade flanked by uniform Baroque façades, and walked under the triumphal arch, directly into the Place Stanislas. We stopped for a while to listen to an impressive One Man Band musician that brought the light, flowing, jazzy atmosphere to our ears, all by himself.
When you arrive in Place Stanislas you know beyond any doubt that you are in France. The grandiose space, the opulent Baroque façades, the opera house, the imposing fountains and the gilded ironwork gates. There is nonetheless an elegance in this opulence. The lamp posts had gentle golden flower-like petals, floating during the night like glimpsed from a wonderland.
We stopped for a while and listened to the story of King Stanislas. By family name Leszczyński, he had been King of Poland twice and lost the throne both times. After his second deposition, his son-in-law, who happened to be Louis XV of France, having married Stanislas’s daughter Marie, arranged a comfortable consolation: the Duchy of Lorraine, which Stanislas would rule for the rest of his life, after which it would pass peacefully to France. It was, in essence, a gilded retirement, and Stanislas, generous, cultivated, and apparently genuinely beloved by his subjects, spent it building. He gave Nancy the square that now bears his name, a fountain of Neptune, a triumphal arch connecting the old and new towns, and a reputation for Rococo civic grandeur that Nancy has never quite relinquished. At the centre of the square stands his statue, gesturing with the benevolent authority.
The photo shows the Hôtel de Ville de Nancy. The building was designed by Emmanuel Héré de Corny in neoclassical style, built in ashlar stone, opening officially in 1755. Three projecting bays break up the long façade, the central one crowned by a pediment bearing the Stanislas coat of arms; flanking the central clock are two allegorical statues representing Justice and Prudence. Inside, though not visible here, the building holds a grand staircase with wrought-iron banisters by Jean Lamour and ceiling murals painted by Jean Girardet.
The bronze statue on the right is Stanislas Leszczyński himself, standing on the pedestal at the centre of the square. The square was originally called Place Royale, built to honour Louis XV and it was actually a statue of Louis XV that originally stood on the pedestal now occupied by the duke. The square’s name changed to Place du Peuple during the Revolution, and only later took the name Place Stanislas in recognition of “the Beneficent” duke — so the statue you’re looking at is a later addition honouring Stanislas, not an original royal monument.
Our guide noted, with a smile, that the city of Metz, Nancy’s great historical rival sitting barely fifty kilometres to the north, had for much of the nineteenth century actually been the larger and more industrially significant of the two. When the Franco-Prussian War ended in 1871 and Germany annexed most of Alsace and the northern third of Lorraine, Metz found itself suddenly on the other side of the new border, swallowed into the German Empire. Nancy, meanwhile, absorbed a flood of refugees, industrialists, glassmakers, and artists from the lost territories.
That sudden influx of talent and grief and displaced regional pride became, against all expectation, the seed of the École de Nancy and the extraordinary flowering of Art Nouveau that would make the city internationally famous. The loss of Metz, in other words, made Nancy. History, as it so often does in Lorraine, had turned catastrophe into something unexpectedly luminous.
Meeting the Locals: The Architect Who Wouldn’t Cut Corners
We went to a nearby café. Talking to a tour guide is a handy way to start conversing with locals. One sip after another, I found out his story of becoming.
He didn’t particularly want to become an architect, it was his best friend who did. Yet through an irony of fate, he passed the admission exam and his friend didn’t. He was a good student, eloquent, charming, liked by the best teachers, possessing a promising ambition. Algiers la Blanche is an interesting place to mould a mind that in turn will shape the aspect of physical reality.
I shared with him my fleeting impressions of Algiers, among them the white, impenetrable front de mer, imposing the elegance of French imperialism. We talked and discovered that in this world we live in, the stories are no longer one-sided. Some voices are louder and you may think that is everything that can be heard, but if you listen carefully you will hear the whispered-loud voices of the sirocco from the nearby desert.
It takes a while to discover what you are, who you are, and a longer while to accept what you are.
How does one’s life influence one’s artistic thought? After all, Art Nouveau was a revolt against recycling. Maybe at that time, change was confused with revolt. And they decided to run away from the rigours of classicism and from the opulence of Rococo into gentle emulations of nature.
The buildings framing the statue of Emir Abdelkader are classic Haussmann-style apartment blocks: wrought-iron balconies, symmetrical window bays, mansard-adjacent rooflines, and ground-floor arcades for shopfronts. The same motives that you’d find in Paris or Lyon, transplanted wholesale during the colonial period when French planners rebuilt central Algiers as an extension of the metropole. This is the layer locals call “Algiers the White”: the gleaming, French-built downtown that contrasts sharply with the Ottoman-era Casbah just up the hill. The square’s surrounding buildings, including the nearby Grande Poste, were built in Neo-Moorish style, a 19th-century movement that combined European engineering with traditional Arabic decorative elements such as horseshoe arches, mosaics, and domes.
The bronze equestrian figure depicts Emir Abdelkader (1808–1883), an Algerian religious and military leader who led a struggle against the French colonial invasion in the mid-19th century, an Islamic scholar and Sufi who unexpectedly found himself leading a military campaign, building up a collection of Algerian tribesmen that for years successfully held out against one of the most advanced armies in Europe. He’s remembered too for his conduct toward enemies: his consistent regard for what would now be called human rights, especially toward his Christian opponents, and his crucial intervention to save the Christian community of Damascus from a massacre in 1860, which brought him honours from around the world.
The square’s other layer of history sits at its southern edge: the famous Milk Bar café, which was the site of an FLN attack during the Battle of Algiers on 30 September 1956.
My one-time conversation companion continued to recall his life.
“I was quite vehement against moving to France.”
“I remember from my time there, that for many young people, university was just a way to earn a visa.” I told him.
“It was not my case. I went through all the stages. I tried to change myself, become involved socially, change the others around me, change the system.”
He told the story of how, after university, he was employed by an architecture bureau. He worked for them for a while, but the relationship was tense. Algeria was going through a boom in construction. Tall apartment buildings sprang up one after another in the suburbs of major cities. Yet one thing was written on the structural plans and another turned out to be built in reality.
He did not want to cut corners on construction materials in order to increase his and the company’s earnings. His bosses thought he would eventually give up his youthful stubbornness. But he did not, especially not after what happened with the earthquake at the Turkish-Syrian border, where many buildings did not comply with construction norms. After he obstructed a project once, twice, a third time, he was removed from the bureau. The idea of constructing safer, yet more expensive buildings had not taken hold in that particular Algerian company.
That evening, I was left wondering: how this particular architect of Algerian origins, with such a strong personality, will shape the physical reality. How a mind familiarized with the mellow hills of the Atlas in a country brewing with tumultuous change and controversy will, in turn, shape the art of leaving.
Find your own local experience
If this guided walk through the architectural gems of Nancy sparked something in you, or if you find the concept of local living and discovering a place through immersive travel appealing, let yourself be guided by The Verse Voyager’s personality-based travel planning — it will help you find the right idea for your desired length of stay.
TL;DR:
A six-month Erasmus experience at the University of Lorraine, part of an Erasmus Mundus master’s program, becomes a deep dive into local living in Nancy: an evening with a One Man Band in Place Stanislas, a walking tour through Art Nouveau Nancy with a fellow student, layers of history and architecture from the Porte de la Craffe to the Cross of Lorraine, and a café conversation with locals that opens into the immersive travel local experience travel writing rarely captures. The post closes with a postscript on French architectural influence in Algiers, connecting the local community of Nancy’s Art Nouveau builders to the colonial-era streets of Algiers the White. For anyone looking for places to visit in France outside of Paris, Nancy offers history, beauty, and human connection in equal measure.
Can one just decide to go on a Leh Ladakh motorcycle trip one day from another?
I was surprised to see that what seemed an intangible childhood dream came together in a single phone call from the Dhaka airport at nine in the evening, three days before my schedule could afford to let me disappear. The man on the other end arranged the bike, the hotel, the special Inner Line Permit and even the airport taxi in under ten minutes. The next morning I was on a small Airbus rising through the smog of Delhi towards Leh, watching the Indo-Gangetic plain disappear under clouds and the first glaciers of the Himalayas rise into view.
What follows is the story of those three days. A solo trip across the Ladakh range by motorcycle, following the itinerary: starting from Leh through the Kardung La Pass to Nubra Valley and back through the Wari La Pass. A Himalaya adventure I had not been ready for and yet, in some quiet way, had been preparing for over years. If you are considering your own Leh Ladakh road trip, or simply curious what it is like to ride alone across the roof of the world, this is one honest account of how it actually went.
Table of Contents
Planning a Spontaneous Leh Ladakh Motorcycle Trip
Everything went smoothly. I adjusted my trip to the time constraints of a modern traveler bound by a job in her own country. While waiting in the airport of Dhaka, I searched for a motorcycle rental in Leh, the capital of the north-western region of India. It was 9pm, so I was quite surprised when I received an instantaneous reply. After a short phone call, everything was arranged, including things that I haven’t been expecting to solve through a motorcycle renting business: like the hotel I was going to stay in, the special permit one needed in order to roam around Ladakh, full motorcycle gear and even the taxi from the airport.
Usually I am reticent in accepting services that I haven’t been purposefully asking for, but the whole incursion in Ladakh was last minute arranged and somehow the guy from the bike shop seemed genuinely helpful and trustworthy. Even though it wasn’t a proper expedition, it was going to be a first taste of the Himalayas.
After four hours of flight, a short stay in a cheap-close-to-the-airport-hotel and a chicken masala, next morning at 7 am, I found myself in the small airbus serving the domestic flight to Leh. When we took off, the sun was rising through the smog of Delhi. I was extremely happy with my decision. Maybe Mughal architecture had its enchantments, but for three days, I hoped to take a rest from humankind.
I was lucky to have a seat near the window and soon enough I watched how we rose above the sea of clouds. Everything that was below a certain altitude was covered by a thick layer of white-yellowish foam, so that there was nothing to be seen from the Indo-Gangetic plain. I let my thoughts wander, far in front of me to the mountain ranges that were rising in the north. And soon enough, beneath us, gentle fingers of fog were trying to climb up through the green pine forests of the Shiwalik Range.
First Impressions of Leh: Where the Himalaya Adventure Begins
What did I actually know about Ladakh? That it was neighbouring the infamously beautiful Kashmir and supposedly also sharing its beauties, that it was also sometimes torn by political forces that rise between huge nations, that it was disputed by China, Pakistan and India, and yet it remained Indian territory, that people were proud of their glacier water and that it bordered what once seemed to me intangible dreamy dreams: the Karakoram mountain ranges, whose most famous peaks rise just across the border. Let’s not forget the Indian movie Three Idiots, referred to by everyone in Bangladesh immediately after Ladakh was mentioned.
The flight to Leh was a treat on its own. We were flying above endless rows of mountain ridges and unpopulated valleys. The scenery looked tough, steep, corroded by unfinished ice ages. I had never before seen such massive glaciers: long tongues of ice slithering away toward the lower ends of valleys, endless plains of bluish ice, wrinkled and cracked by time. This was not a sight made for the living, and yet life crawled its way up as high as it could.
The atmosphere was perfectly clear, nothing like the lower Indian plains. One had the impression that one could see all the details of the surface and follow with the gaze each distinct crevice. The broken surface of steep glaciers was slowly flowing down, bordered by rocky moraines and glacial steps.
The anthropic markers were scarce. Every five valleys, one could trace a tiny road; every tenth valley, one could find a small settlement. The mountains seemed somehow loaded with ice, as if the last ice age had never ended. And yet it was the end of summer, and the rocky crests showed just a few traces of new snow. I could imagine myself walking on these endless plains of ice. I had not yet landed in Ladakh, but a desire for more had arisen, a desire to return to a place I had not yet been.
The Ladakh Range and the Zanskar Range frame the broad Indus Valley, while to the north, the Karakoram rises to some of the highest peaks on earth. Across the border in Pakistan-administered Karakoram stands K2, the world’s second highest mountain, alongside Broad Peak, the Gasherbrums and endless unnamed ridges of ice and rock. Karakoram hosts the largest concentration of high-altitude glaciers outside the polar regions, earning it the title of the Third Pole. For the adventure traveler, Ladakh is among the best places to go in Asia: home to some of the highest motorable roads in the world, including the legendary Khardung La Pass at over 5,300 meters. The Nubra Valley, the Shyok Valley and the remote Wari La Pass remain among the last truly off-the-beaten-path destinations in Asia.
Soon, the Zanskar Range decreased in altitude; the glaciers were replaced by turquoise strings of water and occasional mountain lakes. As we were nearing the broad Indus Valley, we were also nearing our destination: Leh. We circled the city one and a half times as the plane was trying to lose altitude and approach the landing line from a suitable angle. Little gray houses with surprisingly flat rooftops were spread across the flat and broad Indus Valley. A huge dune of reddish sand was gathered just outside the town, where the steep heights of Ladakh Range were starting.
The banks of the Indus and the city of Leh didn’t look so barren, as endless spikes of tall poplars alternated with rows of houses. Here we were already at 3,500 m altitude, and it seemed that autumn had already arrived. All the poplars had already lost their foliage and looked like an army holding high spikes. We landed. Near the airport was a military base, one of many in this region. As I would learn from my half day in New Delhi, army personnel were a common sight in this country, and so were military bases in Ladakh.
The airport was very small and had the air of a mountain hut decorated with timber structures sculptured with Tibetan geometric patterns. I had to complete a few formalities, nothing taking longer than 15 min, due to the special political status of Ladakh (they are governed by India, but have some degree of local autonomy through the hill development councils). Another particularity is that you require a SIM card from this region, but luckily for me, I found someone nice enough to share some internet with me. I remembered what struck me, as I entered the plane: it was filled mostly by men with darker skin shades and central Asian features.
As I exited the airport, a warm, gentle breeze enveloped me. I was at 3500m in November, but nonetheless this mountain region was warmer than its equivalents in Europe. On the way to the hotel, I was absorbed by the wooden Tibetan houses and by the fact that yet again in a very short interval I was immersing myself in a new environment. I tried to take it all in: the white stupas with tinted gold rooftops, the imposing walls of Namgyal Tsemo Fortress overlooking the city, the desert dust and the mountain air, occasional street fruit and food merchants, smiling people walking in a relaxed manner.
I went straight up the hill, on the Old Leh road, which eventually stopped at the gates of the fortress. Soon I reached the hotel, another wooden structure carved with Tibetan ridges, with broad glass windows. The reception was warm, in the most proper sense of the word: they welcomed me with a classical Ladakhi salty butter tea: Po Cha.
As I drank my tea, two black cows with thorny horns passed down the street and then Thin arrived with the motorcycle. He was all smiles; I could see he had experience with tourists: both communication and understanding were easy with him.
“You know, I have a permit, and I went to a good motorcycling school, but I must be honest with you: in the past 4 years I have ridden the motorcycle only once and I am rusty in my riding skills.”
By the way he reacted to this information, I knew that we were kindred minds. He proposed that he would accompany me on my first day and help me remember how to ride a motorcycle. He showed no sign whatsoever that he wouldn’t entrust me with the beautiful Himalayan Enduro 450cc for the following three days.
After a short practice ride he handed me the motorcycle. I was afraid! I felt like I didn’t know anything anymore about this powerful animal. I started really slowly, easing the clutch into first gear. In a way, I thought to myself, this is the perfect place to relearn how to ride a motorcycle: lightly trafficked, steep and twisted roads. I tested the brakes, front and rear, foot and hand, and tested the clutch a couple of times. I was feeling quite unsure of myself: taking turns, changing gear, braking in time, avoiding potholes.
After a short ride around, I returned to Thin and found him in a state of distress. The thing is that I had left without my phone and he was unsure that I would find my way back on the labyrinthine streets. And yet he very quickly switched to what I came to realise was his normal serene state.
The next hour we spent crossing the town to visit various friends of his in order to gather all the equipment I needed for the trip: helmet, gloves, jacket. On the outskirts the roads were dusty and unpaved. We almost reached the big red dune outside the town, and from there we picked up a big warm jacket for me and two large sacks filled with unprocessed wool for him. At that moment I felt like I was in a proper Himalayan movie.
One needs a special permit to drive around Ladakh. Luckily for me, Thin knew where to get it and how to get it in less than a half of a day.
We went to the local tourism office, filled in the forms, and then roamed around the city center for about one hour, until the permit was ready.
Geared up, and with only half a day left we decided to drive down the Indus valley to the famous Thiksey monastery. I let him drive, since I was not yet comfortable driving on national roads. I tried to relax as the back passenger, and to remember how to minimally shift my center of gravity. We flew along a turquoise strip of the Indus. I was quite anxious. I felt exposed. Only on the two wheels, 50km/h felt too fast, the occasional cars and trucks seemed massive in comparison with us. I was tense, hypervigilant and rigid.
Thiksey Monastery: Buddhist Art, Butter Tea and Motorcycle Driving Lessons
After a sudden and pointy curve of the road, we saw the world-renowned Thiksey monastery. A forest of white 2-3 story buildings climbing up in terraces on the shoulder of a prominent mountain ridge. It was built to dominate the Indus Valley. We left the main road, passed by a row of white stupas with golden towers with lotus leaves on the top. Thin accelerated, the road was empty and took a very broad turn that almost followed the altitude line.
We parked inside the second wall. It was a new area of the monastery, newly painted for the visit of the 14th Dalai Lama. A huge, wooden cylinder, painted and adorned with metal, was constructed right after the second gate. Thin explained that it was a lakhkar, a Buddhist praying wheel. One could turn it around the spindle and it was as if one read all the mantras written on it.
Thiksey Monastery is twelve-story complex houses an extraordinary collection of Buddhist art including stupas, thangkas, statues, and richly detailed wall paintings. The crown jewel is the Maitreya Temple, built to commemorate the 14th Dalai Lama’s visit in 1970, which houses a 15-meter tall statue of Maitreya, the Future Buddha, the largest such statue in Ladakh, spanning two full floors of the building. An active place of worship and learning, the monastery is home to around 60 monks, who can be observed performing daily rituals, chanting prayers, and engaging in philosophical debate. Each year, the Gustor Festival brings the monastery to life with vibrant Cham mask dances performed by the monks, depicting the triumph of good over evil.
Nothing moved, not even the colorful Buddhist flags. Everything was very clean; the red, black, and yellow paint looked no more than a year old. But the monks were nowhere to be seen. We took off our shoes and climbed a set of steep stairs. We entered through a short doorway that forced me to lower my head. Candles were lit, the intense smell of incense enveloped me, and slowly, slowly my eyes adjusted to the semidarkness. Almost all the space in the room was occupied by a gigantic Buddha head. Maitreya Buddha, or the Future Buddha. I understood why it was named like this: its serene gaze, looked somewhere beyond.
On the walls various Buddhist saints and Buddha incarnations were depicted surrounded by their own mythology. I was such an ignorant profane. In that instant, I wanted to know all the stories and mythology behind the Buddhist iconography. And yet, in general, I was so saturated by information. I just wanted to to directly engage with the paintings without any prior knowledge. To ignore my unsatisfied thirst for factual information. To make this visit purely experiential. I left behind the huge buddha head and the numerous instances of painted buddhas.
Down and up on the steep sets of stairs, I found my way to the old side of the monastery. Here the iconography was even richer. Ultramarine gods and humans, surrounded by hollows of clouds and flames, were protecting the entrance in the main praying hall. I was fascinated by the details and richness of symbols unknown to me. This hall was dated back to the 15th century, the paintings were old, the time and smoke left their marks on them.
Part of the experience was that I knew nothing about those creatures: gods, humans and other kinds. Rows of heads, heads flowering from other heads, looking grotesque, evil, comic, threatening or serene. Battling, playing music, practicing yoga, making love in heavenly ways.
These paintings must have had a striking impact on the neofite, who could for the first time see with his own eyes what the heavens and underworlds contained, to whom upon the entrance in the monastery, what was previously hidden from his mundane eyes was suddenly relieved.
This wall painting is located in the Gonkhang, Thiksey’s temple of guardian deities, believed to be among the oldest structures in the complex, dating to the sixteenth or seventeenth century. The entrance mural on its south wall depicts protector deities in a visual style that shows a strong Chinese influence, differing from the more traditional Tibetan iconographic conventions found elsewhere in the monastery. The central figure is Dhritarashtra (Yul Khor Srung in Tibetan), Guardian of the Eastern Direction and King of the Gandharvas, celestial musicians. He is recognizable by his broad square face, his moustache and beard, and above all by the lute (vina) he holds and plays. In Buddhist iconography, the lute is not decorative: music is considered a medium capable of teaching the Dharma and subduing negativity. To his left is the darker, fiercer Virudhaka, Guardian of the South. Both figures are traditionally placed at monastery entrances, worldly deities powerful enough to guard the threshold, yet not permitted inside the sacred inner halls. What makes this mural particularly compelling is precisely what art historians note about the Gonkhang’s style: the swirling clouds, the fluid drapery, and the vivid ultramarine ground all reflect Chinese pictorial influence absorbed into a Tibetan iconographic framework, a visual record of the cultural crossroads that Ladakh has always occupied.
On one of the walls, I have recognised some gods performing yoga poses. All of them were couples depicted in some ritualistic entanglement. I made a note to myself: sometime in the future, when I will have time to travel through my memories, I will try to learn more about this foreign pantheon, about the deeds and misdeeds of these creatures, about what is to be strived for inside this system.
This mural belongs to a room reserved for tantric initiation rites within a Tibetan monastery. Flaming halos, skull garlands, bulging eyes, and trampling bodies can strike the uninitiated viewer as jarring, hard to reconcile with the popular notion of Buddhism as a serene religion. Yet these figures are not expressions of uncontrolled rage, but carefully coded embodiments of protection and transformative clarity. Their flames burn away ignorance, their weapons cut through delusion. The dominant central figure, multi-armed, deep blue, wreathed in fire, is almost certainly Mahakala (“the Protector”), the Great Black One, chief among the wrathful dharmapalas, whose temples are traditionally decorated with weapons, animal skins, and murals painted against deep, dark backgrounds. His crown of five skulls symbolizes the transformation of the five poisons (ignorance, anger, desire, pride, and jealousy) into the five wisdoms. The white figure riding a mule in the upper left is Palden Lhamo, the only female among the Eight Great Dharmapalas and Tibet’s principal protector deity, personal guardian of all fourteen Dalai Lamas. Emaciated and fearful, she rides her mule surrounded by flames and retinue. The yellow-green figure below is likely Kubera or a regional yaksha protector, one of several guardian deities represented in Thiksey’s Gonkhang alongside Vajrabhairava and Dharmaraja. Together they form a pantheon of fierce compassion, guardians standing at the precise threshold between the sacred and the profane, between this world and liberation.
This frieze, running along the upper register of one of Thiksey’s inner halls, depicts a row of yidams, tantric meditational deities, shown in the characteristic yab-yum (“father-mother”) embrace. In Vajrayana iconography, this union is never erotic in the mundane sense: the sexual embrace symbolizes the union of wisdom and compassion, the two inseparable pillars of Buddhist enlightenment. The dominant central figure, dark blue, multi-headed, radiating dozens of arms, is almost certainly Vajrabhairava (Dorje Jigje), also known as Yamantaka. Yamantaka, the “Destroyer of Death,” is the paramount yidam of the Gelugpa school, the very tradition that governs Thiksey Monastery. A guardian and destroyer of death, he is represented with thirty-four arms brandishing weapons, his sixteen legs trampling birds, dogs, and deities, holding his consort Vajravetali in sacred union, the couple encircled by a flaming aureole. Each anatomical detail carries precise symbolic meaning: his nine heads represent the nine scriptural categories; his thirty-four arms the thirty-seven limbs of enlightenment; his sixteen legs the sixteen types of emptiness. The golden-yellow figure to the left in a wide dancing stance is likely Chakrasamvara or a related heruka, one of the three principal meditational deities of the Gelug school alongside Vajrabhairava and Guhyasamaja. All figures stand on prostrate bodies, not acts of cruelty, but a standard iconographic statement: the trampling of ego, delusion, and the forces that bind beings to samsara.
On one of the old walls, one could see the famous Wheel of Life, the Samsara, the depiction of the realms of Buddhist cosmogony. How many realms did I know of the world, such as I knew it? The first was the realm of schools and grooming institutions. The second was the realm of the countryside and remote areas. The realm of hospitals and healing institutions. The antechamber of death, where elderly people spend their last years of life. Then there were the sub-realms of different professions and the structures they form in order to organize.
The sub-realm, yet popular realm, of corporations. The virtual, vast and illusory realm of the internet, where all sorts of intellectual productions were dispersed by humankind for humankind. The realms of solitary natural places. The urban-anthropic realms. The underworld, the realm to which all the misfits belonged.
The realm of our minds. The realm of fashion, theater, circus and other performing arts, all glittering sub-worlds of show. The universe, beyond our planet, as we reach it through our scientific instruments and with our model-building, hypothesis-forming minds. The world of decisionmakers and powerful people, overlapping with the realm of capital holders.
A fundamental cosmological diagram of Vajrayana Buddhism, painted in the Thangka style within a Himalayan monastery. The wheel is gripped by Yama, the fearsome Lord of Death, whose presence reminds that no being escapes impermanence. At the center, three animals (a pig, snake, and rooster) represent the Three Poisons: ignorance, hatred, and desire, the root causes of all suffering. Radiating outward, the wheel’s segments illustrate the Six Realms of Samsara (gods, demigods, humans, animals, hungry ghosts, and hell beings) into which consciousness is reborn according to karma. The outermost ring depicts the Twelve Nidanas, the chain of dependent origination perpetuating cyclic existence. Crucially, a golden Buddha figure outside the wheel points toward liberation, offering the path beyond Samsara. This image embodies the Buddha’s core teaching: that recognizing the Three Poisons is the first step toward breaking the cycle of rebirth and attaining Nirvana.
I moved on to the other chambers of the monastery. Maybe because I associated the air of reclusiveness with reflection, I let my train of thoughts flow. There was this feeling through which, already for one even two years, I started seeing people. I saw their personality features, or had thoughts with common labels for social cognition. But it was as if all their asperities and rough edges stopped in a thick layer of universal acceptance of the human condition.
I wondered where the point is where acceptance becomes anesthesia or anergia. If you reach the point where you just witness the world and others, you are no longer part of the world. And I do want to participate in the world, in its continuous shaping. I have yet to learn where the point where acceptance turns into detachment. I am not interested in detachment.
The Indus Valley is the spine of Ladakh: the river that carved it, known locally as Singge Chu, the Lion River, rises near Mount Kailash on the Tibetan Plateau at over 5,000 metres and travels some 3,180 kilometres before emptying into the Arabian Sea in Pakistan, making it one of the longest rivers in Asia. In Ladakh, it runs west through a valley unusually broad for a Himalayan river system, wide enough to sustain irrigated fields of barley and wheat, poplar-lined villages, and one of the highest-altitude cities on earth — Leh, at 3,524 metres. The valley’s exceptional fertility, rare at this elevation, made it a natural corridor for the ancient Silk Road, and it was along these banks that Buddhism entered the Indian subcontinent from Central Asia, leaving behind a density of monasteries unmatched in the region: Hemis, founded in the 11th century and home to one of Ladakh’s most important annual festivals; Thiksey, whose tiered white architecture mirrors Tibet’s Potala Palace; and Shey, the former summer capital of the Ladakhi kings. The river itself, impossibly turquoise at altitude, fed by the snowmelt of both the Zanskar and Ladakh ranges, has been shaping this civilisation — architecturally, spiritually, agriculturally — for over a thousand years.
On the rooftop, Thin rejoined me. We took a couple of photos and then, out of the blue, he asked me:
“You live in your own world, don’t you?”
“I live in the world that I have constructed for myself.”
He didn’t say anything, I pondered on my own reply. I wondered if it was as such, or if it was just a fitting answer.
We went down to the kitchen. There were three monks inside, all of them dressed in their red clocks, with rough hands and square features. These were people used to hard manual labour. The monastery, after all, was self-sustaining. The room was darker than the others. Smoked by the great cooking stove placed in the middle. One of them went outside and brought some more firewood. Another moved a big pot from the sides to the center, and then added some ingredients.
Thin conversed with the monks. I asked, and he said it’s just about some local ongoings. Curious as I was, I didn’t pursue it further. Then we drank another butter tea with spices. I smiled, as it was my only means of communication. They smiled back and charged us through some QR-reading wallet app. Secluded, yet not running from the modern world? Courteous and welcoming, yet not charity.
After the Thiksey Monastery, I said to myself, the time to drive the two wheeled vehicle has come. I needed to overcome this mental blockage or drop the idea of crossing the Ladakh range on my own altogether. We had one other stop for the day: Hemis Monastery, that was a little bit further down the Indus. I was very tense, until the point I could start to say that I was fearful. It was even harder to drive with a passenger.
Firstly we went with 15km/h, which worked perfectly fine until the cross with the national road. Even so, I decided to not go faster than 20km/h. Thin calmly gave advice when they were necessary. I tried to relax, but my knuckles were white on the handlebar. I had thoughts of little stones flowing towards my helmet, or cars suddenly breaking in front of me, or trucks not giving me enough space.
The road was low circulated, the asphalt impeccable and clean and visibility perfect. I used to go faster with the bike when I went downhill. My stress increased further when I saw that on the secondary road leading to Hemis, I needed to take sharper turns. Funnily enough, I took the turns and my motor stopped on a straight strip of the road where it turns out, I should have accelerated more. I gave back the wheel to the master and soon enough we reached the monastery, which was of similar esthetics with the first one.
On the way back, we took the road on the other side of the Indus and Thin told me the stories of the land. Many had cattle and lived out of it, some also had gardens and orchards. Apricots, apples and grapes were popular in the region. A good percentage of the male population worked for the army. And then it was tourism, mostly for the people living in the town. The sunset scenery bypassed us peacefully. Kinetic beauty: Reddish barren rocks taking shades of purple in the sunset. What I love about it is the continuous change of scenery, the preserved delight of the unknown.
We didn’t quite eat anything that day, apart from the butter tea and bread in Thiksey. We stopped near what looked like a small local road shop mixed with a very rudimentary tavern. The protocol was like this: you basically shopped for ingredients on the shelves, paid for them and then went to the stove at the back and cooked them.
Nestled in the dramatic mountains of Ladakh, about 45 km southeast of Leh, Hemis Monastery is the largest and wealthiest Buddhist monastery in the region. Founded in the 17th century and belonging to the Drukpa lineage of Tibetan Buddhism, it is renowned for its stunning architecture, sacred murals, and impressive collection of ancient thangkas, statues, and religious artifacts. Hemis is best known for the annual Hemis Festival, held each summer in honor of Guru Padmasambhava. During the festival, monks perform vibrant masked dances (Cham dances), attracting visitors from around the world. Surrounded by the rugged landscapes of the Himalayas and located near the famous Hemis National Park, the monastery offers both a spiritual and cultural highlight for travelers exploring Ladakh.
We bought some local spicy noodles, and because I was with a local connoisseur, he asked for the local specialty, Gyuma: sheep intestines filled with blood and spices, boiled and then cooked in a huge pan, over a huge fire in front of us. I told them that we too in Romania have this type of dish, except that ours are intestines filled with rice and blood. My barbarous side liked it quite a lot. Afterwards we raced against the sunset. I was finally feeling comfortable on the motorcycle.
A Solo Adventure Begins: Riding Through Khardung La Pass
The next day, I was supposed to meet Thin at 8 am in front of the hotel to sign some paperwork. He arrived at 9 am with a car, trying to convince me to rent the car for my trip. Initially, I was persuaded. He said that the road is not asphalted all the way up, and given my riding skills, it would be quite challenging. But then he added that they don’t rent cars without a driver. And that was a dealbreaker. I needed solitude. I wanted to have two days alone.
The Leh Ladakh motorcycle trip is one of the most iconic rides in the world, and the road from Leh to Khardung La Pass is its crown jewel. Rising to an altitude of approximately 5,359 meters (17,582 ft), Khardung La is among the highest motorable roads on Earth and serves as the gateway to Nubra Valley. Starting from Leh at around 3,500 meters, riders face a rapid altitude gain on a winding mountain road that climbs nearly 1,800 meters in less than 40 km. The Leh to Nubra Valley distance via Khardung La is approximately 120 km, while the climb from Leh to the pass itself is around 39–40 km.
When he saw that I was headstrong, he offered me the keys. We signed the papers, and he refused any kind of advance, deposit, or insurance. He basically just gave me the motorcycle, hoping that I would bring it back in the same condition, myself included. He also said that if anything happened to me on the road, I should give them a call and they would send someone with a car after me. That was soothing, since there were no emergency services to call in this area.
In the end, he offered to accompany me with the car, just a few km above Leh, to make sure that I could handle the road. And so, my first solo motorcycle adventure through the Himalayas started.
In the first 20km there were indeed a couple of road portions without asphalt. Again, I was driving at 25km/h. But afterwards the asphalt was impeccable and the road was scarcely circulated. Even though I had gloves and the sun was up, after passing 3000m, I had to stop from time to time to warm my hands. The road was a continuous exercise for my driving skills. With every curve, I rose a little bit higher and I had an increasingly broader perspective over Indus valley and Leh. On the other side of the broad valley, the icy crests of the Zanskar Range were rising like a dream.
Soon, I too have reached the realm of ice and snow. The asphalt was clean, but the crests that I was climbing were powdered with snow. Right before completely leaving behind the Indus valley, I had to stop for a mandatory check. The permit that I have obtained, was not after all useless. As I drove deeper and deeper into the mountains, the Indus disappeared, and I was entering the realm of glaciers.
The road to Khardung La Pass was famous for travelers, bikers, adventurers and tourists alike. Yet the season almost ended.
The road surface is generally well maintained. Apart from a short stretch of broken asphalt just above Leh, the road from Leh to Khardung La is in good condition. Up to South Pullu, the asphalt is excellent. The first permit checkpoint is located at South Pullu; if you have not obtained the required permit in Leh, you will not be allowed to proceed beyond this point. After crossing Khardung La, on the northern side of the mountain crest, riders may encounter occasional sections of broken pavement, loose gravel, and, toward the end of autumn, patches of ice. Early morning departures are recommended, as road conditions are typically more stable and traffic is lighter.
To those that are wondering, I must say that the road remained free of ice and snow all the way.
I was hyperattentive to the prospect of encountering either regular ice or black ice. Funnily enough, I did manage to find a strip of ice. It was right at the end of the climb, in the parking lot of the Khardung La Pass. Right when I wanted to stop, I slipped on a small frozen puddle and fell with the motorcycle in front of the tourist crowd that had stopped there for photos.
Beyond the technical challenge, this route delivers one of the most spectacular experiences of any Leh Ladakh road trip. Hairpin bends snake through barren Himalayan landscapes, prayer flags flutter across the road, buddhist gates mark various passages and panoramic views stretch toward the Karakoram Range. It is the perfect combination of extreme riding and unforgettable scenery, making it a bucket-list Himalaya adventure for motorcyclists worldwide.
I did not feel ridiculous. I was actually quite glad that I fell there at 0 km/h, surrounded by people and not somewhere else. At least three people came to my aid, and together we lifted the motorcycle. In theory, I knew how to do it on my own (back against the saddle, using the strength of the quadriceps, pushing it upright with my backside), but I was glad I had help.
Khardung La Pass and the Road from Leh to Nubra Valley
Khardung La Pass, situated at over 5,300 meters above sea level, is known as one of the highest motorable roads in the world. A sign warned the drivers not to stop there for longer than 10 minutes, due to the risk of pulmonary edema.
I looked on the other side, and my gaze got lost in endless rows of rocky mountains. As the yellow board announced to me, I was just looking for the first time in my life towards the Karakoram Mountain Range.
I remembered an old dream of mine as a young adult reading a travelling book: crossing Karakoram by motorcycle. High mountain passes, altitude roads, torrent valleys and slithering, narrow roads.
I thanked all those that helped me put up the motorcycle, and I left. I was breathing deeply and heavily, there was no point in stopping until the lack of oxygen caught up with me.
The Leh to Nubra Valley distance via Khardung La is roughly 150 kilometres, and on a good day this can be ridden in five to six hours of careful pacing.
At an altitude of 5,359 m (17,582 ft), Khardung La is one of the highest motorable mountain passes in the world and the gateway to Nubra Valley. The pass offers breathtaking views of the Ladakh and Karakoram ranges, making it a must-stop destination on any Leh Ladakh road trip. However, due to the extreme altitude and low oxygen levels, visitors who are not fully acclimatized should limit their stay at the summit to no more than 10–15 minutes. Symptoms of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS), such as headache, dizziness, and shortness of breath, can develop quickly. Enjoy the views, take a few photos, and continue your Himalaya adventure to lower altitudes.
I mounted the motorcycle, eager to continue my journey. I was still driving slow, not confident enough to surpass 30km/h. The first 500m of altitude descent took all my attention span, I was on the northern side of the mountain and the temperature was somewhat lower. I had to make quite frequent stops to warm up my hands, because I started not feeling them on the handlebar. After I re-entered the realm of sun, the slopes decreased and even flattened into a broad glacial step.
A silent village, North Pullu, with 5 houses was nestled there, along with another mobile military base with a couple of rows of tents. There were some soldiers guarding the crossing point, but they didn’t stop me. With the sun above and fewer switchbacks, the degree of comfort increased. The scenery was magnificent and now I had the attentional resources to take it in.
I was euphoric, flowing through endless kinetic beauties. It was like euphoria invented itself in various nuances with every new detail of the scenery that I took in. For the little creature that I am, the broad valleys and the massive, rock-solid ridges that were rising 3000m above them, were generating a feeling of awe inside me.
Somewhere between Khardung La Pass and the descent into Nubra Valley, this truck became an unlikely companion. “Free Tibet” livery rolls as a quiet political statement through one of the most contested landscapes on earth. The Leh to Nubra Valley distance covers roughly 150 kilometres of this: bare mineral mountains, impeccable asphalt curving into the unknown, and a sky so deeply blue it looks painted. This is what a Leh Ladakh road trip actually feels like: not a postcard, but a moving, breathing thing. The Himalaya adventure is not in arriving. It is in following the road as it bends.
I am a veteran searcher for endless, empty, heavenly roads, as they are for me perfect metaphors for freedom. This Leh to Nubra Valley road didn’t disappoint: the sky was blue, the asphalt impeccable, there was no wind, and only a couple of other vehicles passed by me. My desires for freedom, solitude and kinetic beauty were satisfied all at once. I let part of my mind free to wander.
I remembered a conversation that I had with a professor of philosophy of the mind. “Be the woman, Alexandra”, he told me in a rather different context, yet the words stuck with me. I kept them in my mind to ponder upon in such a moment. “One is not born, but rather becomes a woman”, are de Beauvoir’s most famous words. I am sometimes a solo female traveler, and yet it is not a purpose in itself but rather a degree of freedom that I have and I quite enjoy.
Exploring the world helps one develop a mind of one’s own, and this is true for any young person. I do think that there are plenty of groups and countries where a feminist discourse still is quite necessary, as for myself I am not a feminist, nor do I seek to prove that I am capable of a certain thing despite the fact that I am a woman. The woman that I am, almost by chance, discovered that it is deliriously beautiful to drive through the Himalayas on a motorcycle.
Even though the asphalt was impeccable, the roads were broken from place to place by torrents during the summer, or by avalanches during the winter. People were brought from different regions of India to repair the damage every year. They worked all day long in harsh conditions, slept in modest tents, and were paid only 800 rupees a day. During one of the conversations that I had with Thin, I found out that they were regarded as outsiders by Ladakhi people, who mostly didn’t interact with them. I was also warned not to interact with these modern Sisyphs, who were removing rocks from the road with their bare hands.
Every summer, from May to mid-October, migrant workers arrive in Ladakh from some of India’s poorest states — Bihar, Jharkhand, Chhattisgarh, Madhya Pradesh — to do the work that makes every road journey in the region possible. They clear rockfall, carry heavy loads of mud and stone at altitudes between 3,350 and 5,490 metres. They work ten hours a day, six days a week, in harsh mountain sunlight, with almost no safety gear. At night, canvas tents by the roadside are their shelter. Despite being indispensable to Ladakh’s connectivity, and to its booming tourism, they remain socially invisible. Ladakh is increasingly worry about demographic change and the erosion of traditional communal labour, and the road workers are caught in this tension: economically necessary, socially marginalised.
Around 5pm, I reached the confluence of Shyok and Nubra River. After a short stop in a modest road restaurant, where I drank the classical spiced milk tea, and I had a delicious local dish, I turned left towards the Diskit Monastery and Shyok Valley.
Hunder Sand Dunes: A Night at the Edge of the Karakoram
On the left side, a huge golden statue of Buddha was overlooking the two valleys and gazing westward across the valley toward the disputed Siachen frontier. This deliberate orientation is deeply symbolic: it represents an eternal prayer for peace, compassion, and reconciliation across one of the world’s most contested borders.
It was already getting late, I didn’t want to drive after sunset. For accommodation, I have decided to follow Thin’s recommendation: a small resort in Hunder. The region of Nubra valley was rich in inedite natural sights. One could find in the same area: a small desert with sand dunes, hotwater springs and glaciers.
Dominating the adjacent hilltop is a 32-metre statue of Maitreya — the Future Buddha — inaugurated by the 14th Dalai Lama in 2010. In Buddhist cosmology, Maitreya is prophesied to reestablish the Dharma when the teachings of Shakyamuni have been entirely forgotten. He is depicted seated with legs pendant, signifying readiness to descend. The statue faces west toward the Siachen Glacier, the world’s highest battlefield at elevations between 5,400 and 6,400 metres, contested by India and Pakistan since 1984. A future Buddha of loving-kindness, gazing permanently toward one of the planet’s most protracted and meteorologically brutal military standoffs. The symbolism requires no elaboration.
Pacefull dogs and a dromedary
I was glad when I finally entered the village, the last 10 km were covered in patches of black ice. I drove slowly through the narrow streets of Hunder. The local dogs followed me with their gaze bored. Two villagers walked by spinning their portable Mani Wheels, the equivalent of a portable continuous generator of luck. Then I met the most beautiful and fluffy animal: a dromedary, returning home with his master.
I left the motorcycle at the resort. The dinner was at seven, so I had time for a short incursion in the Hunder sand dunes area. How can one have all these natural beauties at the same time? White sand dunes, lakes, mountains over 5000m and glaciers?
Slowly, slowly the sun went down. I set down on a dune, the sand had a minute granularity and was very smooth to the touch. Further away, also among the sand dunes, a group of nomads were camping in their yurts. I could see them because they had already made a big fire and the sparking ashes were confounding with the stars settling on the darkening sky.
Hunder Sand Dunes
Reluctantly, I had to return for dinner. The architecture of the resort respected the principles of local Ladakh houses: a big stove in the center of the dining room, little wooden tables distributed with cushions around them. Those that came for dinner were either Indian tourists or local Ladakh people. I timidly tried to insert myself in the conversation, but I met a clear linguistic barrier. At some point I could make out the fact that they were talking about local politics and Tibet. Sometimes I feel that I stepped into a narrative in which the others were frozen for a while.
Next morning, I woke up before the sunrise, drank lots of tea and saddled for my last day of adventures. As the sun rose up over the mountain ridges, I reached Diskit monastery again. I have only shortly interacted with the monks. An old one with very cool sunglasses let me take some photos with him. Another one, upon my return to the parking lot, helped me raise the motorcycle after it fell. He was kind and his English was impeccable.
The road down was quite steep, and I was unsure that my skills were adequate for it. His voice was calm, he told me to put the clutch on neutral and to move really slow down on the steep and narrow road. He also accompanied me for the first two turns. I expressed my gratitude along with my awe for the way some people in this region were: kind and knowing naturally when and with what to bring in the interactions with the others.
I had no time for the hot water springs of Panamik, but enough for a stop in the Sumoor Sand Dunes. There I found the most beautiful spot from my trip. I was literally in heaven, or anyhow my own personal version of it. There was everything at once to be grasped by my gaze: white sand dunes, the turquoise-blue waters of Nubra and high altitude mountains with glaciers in the background. There was no other soul to be seen as far as I could see.
I sat there on the little warm sand, trying to stop the normal race of my thoughts. I wanted to take the serenity in, to breathe it through my lungs, so that whenever I would need it I would have it in a room of my mind. Peace. I need to remember this feeling and keep it with me. Keep it at the roots of all of my endeavours. How does one make peace part of oneself? I am nowhere close to solving my own interior conflicts, I am getting into the habit of letting go of those that overpass me in complexity.
I dug my fingers into the white sand. I am just one human being. With plenty of faults and limited resources. Not to think of anything is a privilege. I attempted to switch from thoughts to sensations. I am part of the world and the world is part of me. And yet what shall I keep with me from my passage through the world. Emptying one’s mind requires practice. To empty it in order to gain control over the content of one’s mind. I am at the level of random associations of random mental garbage.
Sumoor Sand Dunes
“What type of human being are you?” Asked the philosophy of the mind teacher.
“There are no types of human beings.”
I stayed irritated. We typecast people for certain working models and yet, behind all these, at a fundamental level, I can’t see our nature anything but fluid.
Shyok Valley and the Wari La Pass: The Hardest Stretch of the Leh Ladakh Road Trip
I reluctantly left the white sand dunes, feeling that I didn’t have enough time for beauty and serenity. I was a little bit worried that I had left too late. With the experience gained from one full day of riding the motorcycle, I felt more confident in my driving skills, so I sped up to 50, 60 even 80km/h on straight parts of the road.
This time, after reaching the confluence of Nubra with Shyok, I followed downstream the broad Shyok valley, along the turquoise-blue interwoven arms of water.
Confluence of Nubra and Shyok
I have passed by two other sleepy military bases and a couple of villages. In between settlements, from time to time, one sees two or three yurts or a group of yaks grazing. I took a rest near such a group
These huge animals looked at me with kind but fearful eyes. I wondered: did they not realise how huge they were? I was amazed at how agile they were, given their massive, bulky bodies, going up and down on steep slopes with boulders.
At one point, the road was completely broken, taken by an avalanche during the last winter or by a torrent of water. The bridge was under construction and there was no other way to pass except through the river.
It was a river with boulders and water, from what I could appreciate from the shores, 2 or 3 palms deep. I took into consideration turning back and crossing the Ladakh Range through Khardung La Pass, but there was not enough daylight for that. The worst that could have happened would have been to slip in the middle of the river.
The solution for that would have been to ask the road workers for help to take out the motorcycle from the river. I hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. This was an adventure after all. I put it in second gear, made sure that I had enough speed, but not too much, and then without hesitation I ventured into the river. The adrenaline filled me, my hands were tightly clasped on the handlebar, trying to keep it straight despite the boulders underneath. My feet became soaking wet, but I didn’t dare to raise them like they do in adventure movies.
I resisted the need to give thanks to a silent god when I reached the asphalt again. For a while I continued my drive through the broad glacial valley, the road being completely empty and straight before me. I took the next road to the right. The path was less circulated and less known. The road was just a narrow, one lane for both directions, strip of asphalt. The first 2000m in altitude were quite enjoyable. Most of the turns weren’t that steep.
There were even some trees, a string of rapid waters, even more yaks. The road was rarely circulated, and I didn’t have access to the telecommunication network. In a couple of hours, only two or three cars passed in either direction.
When I reached the last stretch of the climb, the conditions became unsettling. The road was paved with cobblestones and from time to time it was covered by patches of 10 or 20 metres of ice, some of them covering steep and narrow turns. I was above 5000m on the northern side, and the temperature had decreased significantly. Luckily there were some car tracks that I could follow.
I could see Wari La Pass in a notch of the mountain ridge, all I had to do was to focus until I reached that place. I felt the potential danger that I was in. I tried to steer my mind to stay focused, but I had a number of self blaming thoughts: why didn’t I inform myself better about the road, why did I end up in a potentially dangerous situation again, do I really need the adrenaline, how will I tell this to my psychologist? And other irrelevant questions for the situation.
My hands were painful from the frost. And yet it was a small inconvenience. I should travel with others. This was an old conclusion that I meant to implement, yet not succeeded. I kept reminding myself to pay attention to the road, to the frost and the ice under my wheels. I felt like praying that everything would go on well, yet I was stubborn enough not to do it.
What a hypocrisy, to ask God’s help only when you are endangered. What a stereotypically cultural thought. Why wouldn’t I ask the help of a god that I don’t believe in, if this is the thought that comes to my mind when I am in danger. After all who says the relationship with God should respect the same norms as a friendship. “One does not get to disrespect the mountain twice.” The words of my father. One thing is sure, I do understand why people are closer to God or Gods in places like this.
Dining with the locals in Leh: discovering a glimpse of the mundane life of Ladakh
Thin was sincerely and tremendously happy to see me and his Himalayan Enduro intact. He lived somewhere in the outskirts of Leh in a house along with his family. In order to respect the local customs, we stopped on our way there at a fruit street merchant to buy a gift for the hosts. We bought a kilo of bananas and some eggs. I told him that in my culture this kind of gift for a dinner invitation would have been considered strange, and that we usually bring dessert or a bottle of wine. Here one could bring any kind of ingredients for cooking.
He lived in a classical Tibetan house, with a central room and a central wooden pillar. I met his sister, his cousin, the wife of the cousin and their child. His sister used to work in a big international corporation, she had studied computer science, and now was doing a local governmental job related to accounting. His cousin was an ex-military man, like many in the region, and now he was trying to get into local real estate, while his wife was teaching Hindi in the local school for first and second cycle children. They were all warm towards me and as curious about me as I was about them.
At first, they didn’t know what it was that I was doing as a job back in my country. And that made me weirdly happy. There was a corner in this world where my job did not exist. I find it quite healthy for one’s ego, to become aware of such alternatives from time to time. When I explained that I am a kind of doctor for the mind, Thin’s sister, the one that had been the most exposed to the big, diverse world, recognised the job. The others started to ask me for medical advice for their current troubles.
Ladakhi houses are traditionally built from sun-dried mud brick and stone, with flat rooftops designed to collect firewood, fodder, and dry apricots during summer. The roof functions as a working platform, not merely shelter. Walls are thick to insulate against the brutal winters. A prayer room (chokhang) occupies the highest, most sacred floor, often marked by juniper incense and small butter lamps. The wooden furniture is characteristic: warm pine, carved and lacquered in golden tones. The tiered cabinet (kongtse) displaying copper kettles and brass vessels is nearly universal in Ladakhi homes, a marker of household wealth and pride. Hospitality is near-sacred. A guest is immediately offered butter tea (gur gur cha): salted, churned with yak butter, and refusing is considered rude. Meals are often served sitting cross-legged on the floor on rugs or namda felt mats: cooking and serving from floor level, pots arranged directly on cloth, the family gathered around without a table as intermediary. This flattens hierarchy beautifully.
The grandmother had leg and back pain, the cousin suffered from pyrosis, his wife had occasional headaches. I happily provided advice, along with the recommendation to also see a local doctor. I was more happy to be treated as a travelling healer than I ever was being an employed doctor. It made me happy that I could use my skills to give something in return for their warm invitation. Maybe travelling and getting into a different context does help in resolving inner conflicts. With them, something melted inside me and I felt, for one evening, that I had actually enjoyed that part of me that was a doctor.
Thin drove me back to the hotel. The black Himalayan sky was punctured by countless stars. We parted as friends. I promised to return to Ladakh with more of my friends. I looked one more time at the perfect skies. No wonder this region also hosted one of the highest astronomical observatories in the world.
Why is Ladakh One of the Best Places to Go in Asia
Ladakh defies easy categorization. In a single journey, you move between glacier lakes and high-altitude sand dunes, between motorable roads that rank among the most scenic on earth and monastery walls where Buddhist mythology unfolds in pigment and silence across centuries-old frescoes.
The air is thin, the light extraordinary, and for those so inclined, the altitude itself becomes a kind of theology — a feeling of proximity to something beyond the ordinary world. The region sits at the gateway to the Karakoram, one of the most formidable mountain ranges on the planet, home to peaks of near-mythical stature.
Yet Ladakh is not merely wilderness: Leh offers comfortable lodging ( you could also try Thin recommendation), and villages like Hunder place you steps from the surreal: Bactrian camels drifting across cold dunes beneath snowfields. In the high pastures, Changpa nomads still move with the seasons, their black yak-hair tents anchored against winds that seem to come from the edge of the world. Ancient monasteries climb the hillsides as if reaching for the sky they’ve always belonged to. Ladakh is, in the end, a place that gives everything at once – and takes your breath away, quite literally.
If this journey has sparked something in you and you are wondering where to go next, The Verse Voyager offers personality-based travel planning: destinations matched to who you are, custom day-by-day itineraries, and guidebooks designed to take you deeper than any algorithm would. Travel planned around you and towards the future you.
A Word of Caution: Riding Solo at the Edge of the World
Before you romanticize this route into your own itinerary, a few honest warnings. Altitude sickness is not theoretical above 5,000m. Khardung La’s own signage limits stops to ten minutes for good reason, and headaches, dizziness or breathlessness can escalate fast if you push on regardless. The roads themselves shift by the hour: black ice on cobblestones near Wari La, river fords where bridges have washed out, and stretches with zero phone signal for hours. If something goes wrong: a fall, a stuck bike, a medical issue, there are no emergency services to call; your only safety net is whoever you arranged the bike with, and even that depends on a working signal. Riding solo, with rusty skills, on a borrowed Enduro, is not something to attempt without honestly assessing your own riding level first. Preferably do not ride solo. Acclimatize properly in Leh before climbing, carry warm layers for sudden temperature drops, and seriously consider telling someone your route and expected return time each day. The beauty here is real, but so is the risk. Ladakh doesn’t forgive carelessness twice.
TLDR
TLDR: A solo female traveler recounts a spontaneous, Leh Ladakh solo bike trip, three-day Himalayan road trip through Ladakh, India, arranged in a single phone call from Dhaka airport. Riding a 450cc Himalayan Enduro with minimal prior recent riding experience, she travels from Leh over Khardung La Pass (5,300m) to Nubra Valley, camps near the Hunder sand dunes, crosses the challenging Wari La Pass on icy cobblestone roads, and returns to Leh. The account weaves visceral road narrative with Buddhist monastery visits (Thiksey, Hemis, Diskit), reflections on solitude and freedom, and a dinner with a local Ladakhi family. Covers practical realities — Inner Line Permits, road conditions, altitude risks, seasonal timing — alongside the philosophical texture of solo travel at high altitude. Suitable for readers researching solo motorcycle trips in Ladakh, female solo travel in India, Nubra Valley itineraries, Khardung La Pass road conditions, and off-the-beaten-path destinations in the Indian Himalayas.
