McLeod Ganj/Dharamsala, India

Dharamsala sounds like trucks climbing the hills in first gear and a rhythmic, scratchy sweeping as local women tidy the steep alleys with straw-bundled brooms. It sounds like school children singing in the morning just down the stone steps below my guesthouse and packs of dogs barking at night until I fall asleep. It sounds like "namaste" and Indian men asking me to look in their jewelry shop. Hindi, Tibetan and English conversations.
Sometimes it sounds quiet, or of peaceful noises like the constant mantra recording coming from the temple, "Om Mani Padme Om...Om Mani Padme Om.."
It smells like woodsmoke from a hundred cook fires burning in villages across the valley, incense and spices, and of fresh mountain air.
Dharamsala looks like maroon-robed monks, down-clad Westerners, old Tibetan refugees with toothless grins and their hipster grandchildren. It looks like Himalayan mountains, layers of massive, terraced foothills and then sharp, craggy peaks that look like knives rising into the low clouds behind them. It looks like a million prayer flags strung between trees, "Free Tibet" insignia, posters announcing peace, freedom, yoga classes, reiki workshops and cooking courses. It looks like a few beggars, bright sunshine, litter in the gulches, dilapidated buildings and rosy cheeks after the sun sets.
It is welcoming, always an offering of tea. I think it is a place where people come and stay for a long time.