Dominica

Dominica came into my life through a cruise port, which is maybe the most tourist way to arrive, but the island didn't let that define the experience. The moment I stepped off the ship, those giant painted letters hit me — the whole "DOMINICA" sign is splashed with turtles and parrots and tropical colour, and behind it, the volcanic hills just rose straight out of the water. It was warm but not suffocating, the sky an electric blue with fat white clouds drifting in from the Atlantic.

The port area around Roseau had this easy, unpretentious energy. The Three Monkeys bar stall was hand-painted with real care, the craft stalls had locally carved wooden pieces and bags printed with the island's name, and at a small spot called Le Petit Paris I got a cold Kubuli — Dominica's own beer. It's the kind of place where nothing feels imported or performed for tourists.

From the plane flying out, I pressed my face against the window. The island from above is this narrow green ridge splitting turquoise water on both sides, clouds hugging the interior highlands where the rainforest sits. Coming from Kathmandu where everything is vertical and landlocked, looking down at that coastline — the deep Caribbean blue bleeding into shallow teal — was one of those moments I keep turning over in my head.