Bangladesh

Bangladesh caught me off guard in the best way. I came expecting a flat, crowded delta and left with memories of faded pink palaces, Armenian churches half-buried in graffiti-covered graves, and rickshaw murals so detailed they felt like paintings in a gallery — except they were just on a street wall in Old Dhaka.

The food alone was worth the trip. A small bowl of fuchka eaten under a tree somewhere near the waterfront — that sharp, sour tamarind water flooding the crispy shell — is the kind of thing you think about on the flight home. The evenings got stranger and more fun; one bar had a full-sized car mounted to the ceiling above a roulette wheel, and I sat there with a cold Hunter Beer just trying to take it all in.

What I keep coming back to is Old Dhaka. The Armenian Church standing quietly in its walled compound, Ahsan Manzil glowing that impossible shade of pink against a hazy sky, the Durga Puja pandals lit up at night with their painted gods. Dhaka moves fast and loud, but every now and then it stops and shows you something that has been there for a very long time.