1
On the side wall of the reception desk hung a framed photo of the hotel’s exterior. I was sure it was the first time I had seen it; I had booked the room without much browsing on the site. Yet something about the image rang with an eerie familiarity, as if I had encountered it before. Deep down, I knew that impression was false. I took the room key from the woman behind the counter and walked toward the elevator, the photo of the hotel lingering in my mind even after I entered.
The room was of moderate size, clean, with pleasant décor. It had a window view—I hadn’t realized that when booking. I walked over to the small couch by the window, put down my suitcase, my back to the bed, and sat down almost without thought. Through the wide glass, I saw the hills in the distance, and in the foreground a small, lonely structure of traditional Chinese style: a temple, as it is called here, or perhaps a large shrine, bathed in the afternoon sun—golden, mystic. I sat motionless, back straight, for several minutes, perhaps longer; I had no clear sense of time.
2
On the far side of the street, opposite the hotel, stood a well-known Buddhist temple with a long and illustrious history. First built around the 8th century AD, it was called Potala Temple, named after the sacred mountain of Avalokiteśvara. The compound stretched from the street front all the way to the foothills above, with its main structures—the halls, their courtyards, and the wing houses in the middle part of the compound.
Since I had the rest of the day free, I decided to check out the small, mysterious temple I couldn’t help but notice every time I looked from the window. I figured it must be part of the Potala Temple, at least from the way it appeared from my room. I wasn’t particularly interested in the Buddhist temple itself, but I wanted to see that small temple—or shrine—on the hills behind it. There was something about it I couldn’t explain.
I paid the entrance fee and walked across the compound until I reached its back walls. But that was it: only walls. There was no door, no gate that would allow me to continue up into the hills where I believed the small temple stood. I asked a monk—or more likely a temple administrator dressed in a monk’s robe. He was rude, dismissive, and told me in an exasperated tone that no such temple existed, neither within the compound nor “up on the hills.”
I left Potala Temple confused and disappointed. How could that be possible? I thought. I could see it clearly from my hotel room. It wasn’t as if I had lost my mind, or entered some altered state. I was in my right mind—as much as anyone else, if not more. If I could see it, and see it every time from my room, then it had to be there.
I pulled out my phone, opened Google Maps in satellite view—and to my surprise, every detail of Potala compound was there, only there was no structure on the spot I was interested in. It showed nothing but bare hills. “Those Americans in Silicon Valley really ought to update their maps,” I muttered. I closed Google Maps and opened Gaode. Nothing. I tried Baidu Maps in desperation. Still nothing. No structure at all. Just empty hillside. Astonishing. Things are really getting weird, I told myself.
Back at the hotel, I went straight to the window. There it was: the small temple—or shrine, call it what you will. Small, plain-looking, but bathed in sunlight, glowing golden. And around it, a faint but unmistakable mist—or perhaps just hot air—seemed to rise, moving in small, wave-like motions as it drifted.
3
I rose early and stepped out of the hotel to hail a taxi. Today was my mother’s burial day, and the cemetery lay about twenty miles away. The driver spoke with a distinct accent. I asked where he was from, and he told me. I mentioned the purpose of my trip.
He grew sympathetic, his face solemn, as if he might cry. Then he began to talk about his father, who, he said, had been ill for many years—a burden on the family both emotionally and financially. “Not doing too well lately,” he added. “Doesn’t take food much anymore, but still smokes. Guess he’s ready for it.”
As we neared the cemetery entrance, the driver took a call. Since return fares were rare, I paid and let him go.
About two dozen family members and friends were already there. I joined them, chitchatted with a few, and joked around with a few others. Everyone seemed relaxed, and the atmosphere felt less like a burial than a family gathering on some special occasion.
Whatever one thought of these cemeteries and their customer service, the attendant in charge of my mother’s ceremony was a professional in every sense. As the stone mansion lowered the urn with my mother’s ashes into the pit, she recited the words—no doubt the same words she had memorized and repeated at every burial—so mournfully that I choked up. I had to take a tissue from a woman standing next to me, and even that wasn’t enough; I was handed a second one.
4
The morning after the burial I stood once again before the window, staring at the small temple. How is this even possible? My curiosity was turning into frustration. How could all the map apps miss something so obvious? There it is—clear as day—the temple, perched on the hillside, patches of exposed soil and stone beneath it, scattered among shrubs and low trees!
I felt compelled to get to the bottom of it, if only to prove a point. On my phone I opened a map service and saw that the hills behind the Buddhist temple formed a park, which also contained the city’s only zoo. Judging from the location, the small temple might be accessible from inside the park, or perhaps it was part of the park itself, unrelated to the larger Buddhist compound.
The nearest entrance lay at the east end of the street where my hotel stood. I bought a ticket for the zoo and headed toward the spot. It was Saturday, and the park was full of children and their parents. I walked among the tide of humanity, but as I drew closer to the location, the crowd thinned. Soon I was alone, standing before an abandoned stretch of land. From there I could see my hotel. I counted the windows and picked out my own. Judging from the lay of the land, there was no mistaking it: this was the very spot my eyes had fixed on ever since I checked in.
But there was no temple. No structure of any kind. Only shrubs, patches of red soil and pale rock. The sun burned overhead, and the grass stirred in the wind.
You mean to tell me there was no temple from the very start, that only I was seeing things? Or that there was a temple, under an open sky, submerged in the sun and golden, but one that existed only when I looked from my window—and disappeared when I came out here to search for it?
For the life of me—my dear mother—where are you? Do something, make it happen, so I know it’s real, that I’m not just seeing things! And to God I say, is this meant to be a test for me—that I’ve not gone mad, only that others have not been paying attention?
Yego’s Chronicles 