Sunday, January 23, 2011
THE HOUSE
Built in 1942, this farmhouse is both traditional and unusual. The layout mimics a classic four-square farmhouse, with the floor plan divided into four equal quadrants on both the first and second floors. One room is the kitchen, the other a dining room, another the living room, and another the... Parlor? Upstairs, there used to be four bedrooms, but at some point, one of them was split in half. One half was turned into a bathroom and the other was turned into storage. An unfinished basement and attic complete the traditional ensemble, and I have faithfully avoided all opportunities to actually see these dank, dark locales. Joshua has spent a great deal of time in the basement as of late, and he informs me that there is a ton of moldy, water damaged sheet rock. Yum yum. His current project involves wearing a mask ala Darth Vader and ripping out the sheet rock to create usable storage space downstairs. At one point, he informed me that he has visions of one day finishing the basement into a recreation room. I have visions of cold cement floors and pool tables with canned beer. I suspect that I will spend about the same amount of time in the finished basement as I will in the unfinished basement.
To get to the attic, you have to walk through the bathroom, through the storage half-room, and into a closet-sized space with a ladder. At the top of the ladder is one of those non-user-friendly lifty doors that leads to the attic. The other day, Joshua and I walked into the closet-sized space with intentions of exploring the attic, a place that I was actually willing to go in my grandparents' old farm house (it helped that all of the vintage clothing, shoes, and various keepsakes of yore were stored in the attic by my pack-princess grandmother).
But no. As soon as I saw the ladder, I decided to forgo all attic-related explorations. Joshua, infinitely braver, began his sojourn upwards but bailed at the last moment when he encountered mouse poop and an entirely dark room above.
The story of the attic continues when, a week later, Dave informs us that he has dared to go where Joshua and I have not dared to go before. Armed with a flashlight and a disregard of creepy-crawly creatures that go bump in the attic, Dave climbed the proverbial ladder. At the top, he conducted an ill-lit investigation: where is that goddamn water coming from? Luckily, he ascertained that roof is not riddled with holes that will soon tear us asunder (which is what I assume, what keeps me sweating and tossing and turning in the night). Instead, it's the 'flashing' around the chimney. Don't ask me what 'flashing' is; as far as I know, it's one of those boy-terms that means something to other boys (Joshua nods sagely) and means absolutely nothing to me.
But the story isn't over yet. The flashlight flickers out, and having spied a bare light bulb with a descending string below, Dave gives said string an experimental tug. Ooooo! What's that, you ask? Well, it's two lover-bats clinging to the end of the string. Partners in crime. Hangin' upside down. Chillin' like villains.
Dave, not easily shaken, strikes out. When the stiff, dry bodies of the lover-bats shatter and fall, Dave breathes a sigh of relief. As we all know, lover-bat battles are unpleasant experiences all around.
LESSON #1: Don't go into the attic. Don't get into fights with lover-bats.
Other traditional features include lovely maple floors, extensive oak woodwork, and lots of wall paper. My current project involves removing the wall paper from our bedroom. Although I recall the labors of removing wall paper from my bedrooms of yesterday, removing the wall paper here was blissfully easy. Joshua and I simply pried loose a corner with our finger nails and then tore it off in whole, satisfying pieces. Underneath, the walls were bare, save a few small scraps of previous wall papers. Unlike the smooth, finished walls of newer homes, these walls looked like cement. Joshua and Dave talked sagely about lathe and a plaster mix. Whatever it is, it was deeply pitted and had never been painted.
Joshua and I spent the next couple of days painstakingly filling in the holes in the wall and cracks in the ceiling (oh? I forgot to mention that our home is listing to one corner, causing the floors to slope dramatically toward the Northwest, the ceilings to crack, and my heart to palpitate) with putty.
This was my first experience with putty, and I must say, the first three or four hours were quite enjoyable. It's a little like fussing with play-dough, and scraping the putty-knife across the top releases a satisfyingly professional swick-thwack. However, the seams between walls and the wall and ceiling are trickier, and I soon tossed my trusty putty-knife to the wayside, in favor of the tips of my fingers.
After a few more hours, the enchantment of putty and swick-thwack putty-knives wore off, and the tips of my fingers were a few layers short of an epidermis. Finally, Joshua agreed that we were finished. We let the putty dry for 24 hours.
LESSON #2: Don't use your fingers to apply vast amounts of putty to rough, unpainted plaster mix walls.
The next day, cracking open a can of KILLZ primer (because, baby, this is WAR), we began the labor-intensive process of coating unpainted walls with their virgin layer of paint. Using a roller with plenty of nap (wha?), Joshua smoothly, evenly coated the surface. Handing the roller to me, he relinquished control of the priming process for approximately 20 minutes. It wasn't pretty.
Retreating to a paint-brush and trim work, We moved about the room, making sure every last inch of cement and putty was covered in white. Throwing caution to the wind, Joshua said 'sod it' and began priming the wall, without placing a drop-cloth on the furniture first.
Before we could begin painting in color, I got down on my hands and knees with a razor and a pungent, potent can of chemicals that swears to remove paint from floors. I removed all immediately visible spots, but unfortunately, there is a fine spray of tiny paint particles over the entire room.
LESSON #3: Always use a drop cloth over floors and furniture when painting the ceiling.
Applying colored paint was, in comparison, a walk in the park. Even in my novice hands, the roller ran smooth and even. In less than an hour, the walls were a custardy-yellow (actually, 'Banana Split'), and we were feeling more than a little bit pleased with the transformation.
The only problem was that the fabric that I had chosen for the curtains didn't match.
Let me rewind for a moment by explaining a habit of mine. I tend to do things a bit backwards. For example, most women choose their wedding dress first, and then they move on to more minor accessories, such as shoes, jewelry, and hair things. Not me. Walking through a market in Ecuador, I spied a gorgeous necklace. With seven strands and a gorgeous, coral-pink hue, it reminded me of an Egyptian collar or Aztec-princess costume. I bought it and decided right then and there that this was the necklace I would wear on my wedding day. Everything else had to match the NECKLACE.
The curtains are a similar story. In Nepal, Joshua and I walked into a fabric shop, and sitting cross-legged on an elevated display stage, we watched the shopkeeper unroll silks in a dozen different weaves and colors. When he unrolled a golden, rough-woven stretch of silk, it was love at first sight.
When Joshua and I went to the hardware store to select our paint, we brought the silk and held it up to each option. On paper, 'Banana Split' suited our tastes just fine.
On the wall, however, it didn't suit, and I prayed that our stencils would rescue our color mismatch. Luckily, our stencil arrived in the mail on the very same day, and I was able to begin painting the next morning.
Allow me to rewind again. When I say 'stencils' I fear that many of you may have visions of tacky cornucopia borders from the eighties, but I am here to tell you that the stencil market has changed. Gone are the dark days of wheat sprigs and sea shells. There's no sponge-painting here, my friends. Now, with the miracle of stencils, you can either hearken back to the wallpapers of the 20s and 30s, or you can go modern, using edgy, lovely graphics to uniquely adorn your walls. If you don't believe me, check out etsy.com and search for wall stencils. Cutting Edge designs are my favorite.
Anyway, after much deliberation, Joshua and I selected a design with peonies. A little feminine and little art nouveau, we hoped the stencil would provide us with that vintage look without the hassles and price of upscale wall paper. When we chose 'Banana Split' at the hardware store, we also selected white for the peonies and a muddy brownish-green for the stem.
Using painting tape and mini-rollers, I test drove the stencil on cardboard and then set to work. After a bit, I got the hang of it, and when Joshua offered to take over, I informed him that I was a stenciling pro and he should step aside. 'Flashing' and 'lathe' might be boy-speak, but this is my domain, honey. Give me a stencil and a mini-roller, and I'll give you beauty.
It took me two and a half hours to use the stencil 26 times. During that time, I was able to cover one whole wall. It may sound like slow going, but already, the husband and in-laws were in awe. With a whole wall finished, I compared my golden silk and discovered - to my infinite relief - that the colors suit each other beautifully. It's a match!
LESSON #4: Stencils ROCK.
Quickly followed by...
LESSON #5: Stencils take a very, very, very long time.
It's been days. I've navigated corners and windows. I've painted for hours and hours. Our bed looks forlorn, sitting smack-dab in the middle of the room, boxed in every side by our dressers and night stands. I still have one wall left.
***
These features are traditional. The lovely wooden floors, the four-square floor plan, the unfinished attic and basement, and even the listing corners, water damage, and wall paper are characteristics that our farm house holds in common with a hundred other farm houses. So what makes this place unusual?
When I was a little girl, the most iconic building in the Twin Cities was the 'Witches' Tower.' I'm not sure if this is the Christian name of this historic piece of masonry, but it's the name my dad and I used. Whenever we drove by, my dad would faithfully say, 'Hey look! It's the 'Witches' Tower!' (in much the same way, he religiously noted any and all sightings of birds of prey: 'Hey look!' he would say, 'it's a red-tailed hawk!').
The concept of turret in a home was and is almost to good to be true. My very own Witches' Tower? Are you shitting me? In my mind, the turret on the Southeast corner of our 70 year old farm house is THE defining architectural feature. Downstairs, the turret manifests in a bumped-out, rounded corner filled with windows. This feature is repeated upstairs in our bedroom (hence the crowning golden curtains), and both lovelies are topped with a witch's hat.
Another unusual feature lies in our imported stained glass and window etching. In the living room, the widest window is topped by a beautiful green and yellow swath of colored glass. In the very same room, the door displays a frosted glass etching of a man shootin' birds with his huntin' hounds nearby.
Finally, the porch. When Joshua and I left New Orleans, I mourned the departure of lovely wooden scroll work and lazy Southern porches from my life. I hadn't realized that, apparently, most of the farm houses outside of Ellsworth have the same beautiful, summer-afternoon porches, and our new home is no different. Unfortunately, the roof and floor of the open, wrap-around porch is in pretty bad shape, and at some point, we'll probably have to tear it down, save the ornate columns and scroll work, and then rebuild.
Speaking of which, rebuilding seems to be a bit of theme around here. The roof is shot; we need another. There's water damage around the chimney and on the wall connected to the garage. We need to replace the sheet rock. In the mud room, we need to rip everything down to the studs and then rebuild so that we can have a functional entry-way. Downstairs, we need to do the same. The walls need wall paper removed, primer, and paint. The downstairs' bathroom needs a new tub, an extra wall, and a door. The outside needs to be painted. Due to well water that smells like raunchy eggs and stains every surface like a sloppy serial killer, we need a water softener and filter that costs 4,000 dollars. The windows are drafty as hell, and we need to reseal every single one of them.
Then there are the things that aren't strictly necessary: we would like to take out the ramshackle cabinets and install recycled cabinets from Joshua's grandparents' home. They're the old, 50s metal kind, and I'm in love with them. We want to tear out the linoleum and refinish the floors with something reclaimed. In the back room, we want to bump back the walls to take away a nasty crawl space and extend the back room. Upstairs, we want to make the bathroom bigger and add a laundry room.
It's a gargantuan project, and when I'm not enjoying stenciling or puttying or playing with all of the animals (more on that later), I'm terrified.
But we're doing it. Joshua says that, in order to gain something different, something without precedent, something special, you have to be willing to take the risks. I've wanted this farm for years, but somehow, flipping through the glossy pages of Country Living magazine never quite prepared me for the accompanying terror of stencils and barn-wood reclamation.
Recently, I asked my mother-in-law to clarify a theological point for me. She's the expert on God and dogma around here (no, seriously, she's a minister), and I respect her studied perspective on all things religious. Anyway, we're looking at the house, we're thinking about big and scary stuff like mortgages, insurance, and taxes, and I say, 'is it true that you don't believe in prayers of petition? Because even if you don't, I could use a big old prayer right about now.'
I've only been back in the country a month, but I'm already praying to a god I'm not sure that I believe in, smearing putty with my fingers, and avoiding the creepy-crawly creatures that go bump in the attic.
To get to the attic, you have to walk through the bathroom, through the storage half-room, and into a closet-sized space with a ladder. At the top of the ladder is one of those non-user-friendly lifty doors that leads to the attic. The other day, Joshua and I walked into the closet-sized space with intentions of exploring the attic, a place that I was actually willing to go in my grandparents' old farm house (it helped that all of the vintage clothing, shoes, and various keepsakes of yore were stored in the attic by my pack-princess grandmother).
But no. As soon as I saw the ladder, I decided to forgo all attic-related explorations. Joshua, infinitely braver, began his sojourn upwards but bailed at the last moment when he encountered mouse poop and an entirely dark room above.
The story of the attic continues when, a week later, Dave informs us that he has dared to go where Joshua and I have not dared to go before. Armed with a flashlight and a disregard of creepy-crawly creatures that go bump in the attic, Dave climbed the proverbial ladder. At the top, he conducted an ill-lit investigation: where is that goddamn water coming from? Luckily, he ascertained that roof is not riddled with holes that will soon tear us asunder (which is what I assume, what keeps me sweating and tossing and turning in the night). Instead, it's the 'flashing' around the chimney. Don't ask me what 'flashing' is; as far as I know, it's one of those boy-terms that means something to other boys (Joshua nods sagely) and means absolutely nothing to me.
But the story isn't over yet. The flashlight flickers out, and having spied a bare light bulb with a descending string below, Dave gives said string an experimental tug. Ooooo! What's that, you ask? Well, it's two lover-bats clinging to the end of the string. Partners in crime. Hangin' upside down. Chillin' like villains.
Dave, not easily shaken, strikes out. When the stiff, dry bodies of the lover-bats shatter and fall, Dave breathes a sigh of relief. As we all know, lover-bat battles are unpleasant experiences all around.
LESSON #1: Don't go into the attic. Don't get into fights with lover-bats.
Other traditional features include lovely maple floors, extensive oak woodwork, and lots of wall paper. My current project involves removing the wall paper from our bedroom. Although I recall the labors of removing wall paper from my bedrooms of yesterday, removing the wall paper here was blissfully easy. Joshua and I simply pried loose a corner with our finger nails and then tore it off in whole, satisfying pieces. Underneath, the walls were bare, save a few small scraps of previous wall papers. Unlike the smooth, finished walls of newer homes, these walls looked like cement. Joshua and Dave talked sagely about lathe and a plaster mix. Whatever it is, it was deeply pitted and had never been painted.
Joshua and I spent the next couple of days painstakingly filling in the holes in the wall and cracks in the ceiling (oh? I forgot to mention that our home is listing to one corner, causing the floors to slope dramatically toward the Northwest, the ceilings to crack, and my heart to palpitate) with putty.
This was my first experience with putty, and I must say, the first three or four hours were quite enjoyable. It's a little like fussing with play-dough, and scraping the putty-knife across the top releases a satisfyingly professional swick-thwack. However, the seams between walls and the wall and ceiling are trickier, and I soon tossed my trusty putty-knife to the wayside, in favor of the tips of my fingers.
After a few more hours, the enchantment of putty and swick-thwack putty-knives wore off, and the tips of my fingers were a few layers short of an epidermis. Finally, Joshua agreed that we were finished. We let the putty dry for 24 hours.
LESSON #2: Don't use your fingers to apply vast amounts of putty to rough, unpainted plaster mix walls.
The next day, cracking open a can of KILLZ primer (because, baby, this is WAR), we began the labor-intensive process of coating unpainted walls with their virgin layer of paint. Using a roller with plenty of nap (wha?), Joshua smoothly, evenly coated the surface. Handing the roller to me, he relinquished control of the priming process for approximately 20 minutes. It wasn't pretty.
Retreating to a paint-brush and trim work, We moved about the room, making sure every last inch of cement and putty was covered in white. Throwing caution to the wind, Joshua said 'sod it' and began priming the wall, without placing a drop-cloth on the furniture first.
Before we could begin painting in color, I got down on my hands and knees with a razor and a pungent, potent can of chemicals that swears to remove paint from floors. I removed all immediately visible spots, but unfortunately, there is a fine spray of tiny paint particles over the entire room.
LESSON #3: Always use a drop cloth over floors and furniture when painting the ceiling.
Applying colored paint was, in comparison, a walk in the park. Even in my novice hands, the roller ran smooth and even. In less than an hour, the walls were a custardy-yellow (actually, 'Banana Split'), and we were feeling more than a little bit pleased with the transformation.
The only problem was that the fabric that I had chosen for the curtains didn't match.
Let me rewind for a moment by explaining a habit of mine. I tend to do things a bit backwards. For example, most women choose their wedding dress first, and then they move on to more minor accessories, such as shoes, jewelry, and hair things. Not me. Walking through a market in Ecuador, I spied a gorgeous necklace. With seven strands and a gorgeous, coral-pink hue, it reminded me of an Egyptian collar or Aztec-princess costume. I bought it and decided right then and there that this was the necklace I would wear on my wedding day. Everything else had to match the NECKLACE.
The curtains are a similar story. In Nepal, Joshua and I walked into a fabric shop, and sitting cross-legged on an elevated display stage, we watched the shopkeeper unroll silks in a dozen different weaves and colors. When he unrolled a golden, rough-woven stretch of silk, it was love at first sight.
When Joshua and I went to the hardware store to select our paint, we brought the silk and held it up to each option. On paper, 'Banana Split' suited our tastes just fine.
On the wall, however, it didn't suit, and I prayed that our stencils would rescue our color mismatch. Luckily, our stencil arrived in the mail on the very same day, and I was able to begin painting the next morning.
Allow me to rewind again. When I say 'stencils' I fear that many of you may have visions of tacky cornucopia borders from the eighties, but I am here to tell you that the stencil market has changed. Gone are the dark days of wheat sprigs and sea shells. There's no sponge-painting here, my friends. Now, with the miracle of stencils, you can either hearken back to the wallpapers of the 20s and 30s, or you can go modern, using edgy, lovely graphics to uniquely adorn your walls. If you don't believe me, check out etsy.com and search for wall stencils. Cutting Edge designs are my favorite.
Anyway, after much deliberation, Joshua and I selected a design with peonies. A little feminine and little art nouveau, we hoped the stencil would provide us with that vintage look without the hassles and price of upscale wall paper. When we chose 'Banana Split' at the hardware store, we also selected white for the peonies and a muddy brownish-green for the stem.
Using painting tape and mini-rollers, I test drove the stencil on cardboard and then set to work. After a bit, I got the hang of it, and when Joshua offered to take over, I informed him that I was a stenciling pro and he should step aside. 'Flashing' and 'lathe' might be boy-speak, but this is my domain, honey. Give me a stencil and a mini-roller, and I'll give you beauty.
It took me two and a half hours to use the stencil 26 times. During that time, I was able to cover one whole wall. It may sound like slow going, but already, the husband and in-laws were in awe. With a whole wall finished, I compared my golden silk and discovered - to my infinite relief - that the colors suit each other beautifully. It's a match!
LESSON #4: Stencils ROCK.
Quickly followed by...
LESSON #5: Stencils take a very, very, very long time.
It's been days. I've navigated corners and windows. I've painted for hours and hours. Our bed looks forlorn, sitting smack-dab in the middle of the room, boxed in every side by our dressers and night stands. I still have one wall left.
***
These features are traditional. The lovely wooden floors, the four-square floor plan, the unfinished attic and basement, and even the listing corners, water damage, and wall paper are characteristics that our farm house holds in common with a hundred other farm houses. So what makes this place unusual?
When I was a little girl, the most iconic building in the Twin Cities was the 'Witches' Tower.' I'm not sure if this is the Christian name of this historic piece of masonry, but it's the name my dad and I used. Whenever we drove by, my dad would faithfully say, 'Hey look! It's the 'Witches' Tower!' (in much the same way, he religiously noted any and all sightings of birds of prey: 'Hey look!' he would say, 'it's a red-tailed hawk!').
The concept of turret in a home was and is almost to good to be true. My very own Witches' Tower? Are you shitting me? In my mind, the turret on the Southeast corner of our 70 year old farm house is THE defining architectural feature. Downstairs, the turret manifests in a bumped-out, rounded corner filled with windows. This feature is repeated upstairs in our bedroom (hence the crowning golden curtains), and both lovelies are topped with a witch's hat.
Another unusual feature lies in our imported stained glass and window etching. In the living room, the widest window is topped by a beautiful green and yellow swath of colored glass. In the very same room, the door displays a frosted glass etching of a man shootin' birds with his huntin' hounds nearby.
Finally, the porch. When Joshua and I left New Orleans, I mourned the departure of lovely wooden scroll work and lazy Southern porches from my life. I hadn't realized that, apparently, most of the farm houses outside of Ellsworth have the same beautiful, summer-afternoon porches, and our new home is no different. Unfortunately, the roof and floor of the open, wrap-around porch is in pretty bad shape, and at some point, we'll probably have to tear it down, save the ornate columns and scroll work, and then rebuild.
Speaking of which, rebuilding seems to be a bit of theme around here. The roof is shot; we need another. There's water damage around the chimney and on the wall connected to the garage. We need to replace the sheet rock. In the mud room, we need to rip everything down to the studs and then rebuild so that we can have a functional entry-way. Downstairs, we need to do the same. The walls need wall paper removed, primer, and paint. The downstairs' bathroom needs a new tub, an extra wall, and a door. The outside needs to be painted. Due to well water that smells like raunchy eggs and stains every surface like a sloppy serial killer, we need a water softener and filter that costs 4,000 dollars. The windows are drafty as hell, and we need to reseal every single one of them.
Then there are the things that aren't strictly necessary: we would like to take out the ramshackle cabinets and install recycled cabinets from Joshua's grandparents' home. They're the old, 50s metal kind, and I'm in love with them. We want to tear out the linoleum and refinish the floors with something reclaimed. In the back room, we want to bump back the walls to take away a nasty crawl space and extend the back room. Upstairs, we want to make the bathroom bigger and add a laundry room.
It's a gargantuan project, and when I'm not enjoying stenciling or puttying or playing with all of the animals (more on that later), I'm terrified.
But we're doing it. Joshua says that, in order to gain something different, something without precedent, something special, you have to be willing to take the risks. I've wanted this farm for years, but somehow, flipping through the glossy pages of Country Living magazine never quite prepared me for the accompanying terror of stencils and barn-wood reclamation.
Recently, I asked my mother-in-law to clarify a theological point for me. She's the expert on God and dogma around here (no, seriously, she's a minister), and I respect her studied perspective on all things religious. Anyway, we're looking at the house, we're thinking about big and scary stuff like mortgages, insurance, and taxes, and I say, 'is it true that you don't believe in prayers of petition? Because even if you don't, I could use a big old prayer right about now.'
I've only been back in the country a month, but I'm already praying to a god I'm not sure that I believe in, smearing putty with my fingers, and avoiding the creepy-crawly creatures that go bump in the attic.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Nagthali All View Point Guest House
While Joshua and I were trekking in the Langtang region of Nepal, we took a detour through the Tamang Heritage Trek. Among the many villages on this cultural trek, we stayed in Bridim, Nagthali, and Tatopani. While we had wonderful experiences at all three of these villages, our stay at Nagthali was by far the most memorable.
Unlike most of the villages along the Tamang Heritage Trek, Nagthali is not a permanent community. Although this is usually a signal of poorer accommodations, Nagthali All View Point Guest House not only defied our expectations, it also proved to be one of the very best guest houses in all of Langtang, Gosaikund, Helambu, and Annapurna.
Gyurme and Nima have asked me to post their information on my blog, and I've attached a number of photos to illustrate their lovely, cozy guest house. However, beyond looks and feel, the thing that made our stay with Gyurme and Nima so memorable was their company. Nima is a phenomenal cook and served us the best dal bhaat in Nepal, and Gyurme was incredibly friendly and accommodating. If you find yourself on the Tamang Heritage Trek in Nepal, both Joshua and I highly recommend that you stay with this lovely couple in this gorgeous place.
The dining room has plenty of windows and beautiful views of the Langtang mountain range. With a wood burning stove, this spot is perfect to relax in the warmth after a long day trekking.
Gyurme and Nima are the owners and hosts of the Nagthali All View Point Guest House. They are absolutely wonderful, and we couldn't have asked for better company (or food!).
This is the view from the dining room of Nagthali All View Point Guest House.
This is where the magic happens. Nima cooked us the best dal bhaat in Nepal on this very stove. (It's also where we warmed our toes!)
Here's the sign and the phone number. Call 016915184 to make reservations, or just stop by.
Painted white with yellow trim, Nagthali All View Point Guest House is as cute as a button. And look at the view!
Tell Gyurme and Nima we sent you :)
Unlike most of the villages along the Tamang Heritage Trek, Nagthali is not a permanent community. Although this is usually a signal of poorer accommodations, Nagthali All View Point Guest House not only defied our expectations, it also proved to be one of the very best guest houses in all of Langtang, Gosaikund, Helambu, and Annapurna.
Gyurme and Nima have asked me to post their information on my blog, and I've attached a number of photos to illustrate their lovely, cozy guest house. However, beyond looks and feel, the thing that made our stay with Gyurme and Nima so memorable was their company. Nima is a phenomenal cook and served us the best dal bhaat in Nepal, and Gyurme was incredibly friendly and accommodating. If you find yourself on the Tamang Heritage Trek in Nepal, both Joshua and I highly recommend that you stay with this lovely couple in this gorgeous place.
The dining room has plenty of windows and beautiful views of the Langtang mountain range. With a wood burning stove, this spot is perfect to relax in the warmth after a long day trekking.
Gyurme and Nima are the owners and hosts of the Nagthali All View Point Guest House. They are absolutely wonderful, and we couldn't have asked for better company (or food!).
This is the view from the dining room of Nagthali All View Point Guest House.
This is where the magic happens. Nima cooked us the best dal bhaat in Nepal on this very stove. (It's also where we warmed our toes!)
Here's the sign and the phone number. Call 016915184 to make reservations, or just stop by.
Painted white with yellow trim, Nagthali All View Point Guest House is as cute as a button. And look at the view!Tell Gyurme and Nima we sent you :)
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