There’s something strangely intimate about airplane conversations. Suspended thousands of feet above the earth, sealed inside a metal tube hurtling across the sky, time seems to loosen its grip. Perhaps it’s the shared vulnerability of being neither here nor there, or the fleeting certainty that these exchanges exist in a pocket outside the demands of daily life. Whatever it is, I’ve noticed it happens often to me. Almost every time I travel by plane, I end up in conversation with someone remarkable. But perhaps it’s not that I’m unusually lucky—maybe it’s that everyone becomes remarkable when you really listen.

On this flight from Amsterdam to Istanbul, I find myself next to a sturdy, tall man with Asian features. There’s something about the openness in his eyes—clear, curious, and unguarded. Before long, we’re talking.

“Short transfer in Istanbul as well?” I ask.

He smiles, and the conversation begins.

When I mention that I’m on my way to Kathmandu, he raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Ah, so you’re one of those hippies? Going to smoke hashish in the mountains?”

I laugh. “Well, do I look like a hippie who smokes hashish? I mean, I do have long hair.”

He chuckles, and I let the humor linger. It’s a light moment, one I don’t feel the need to explain. The truth is, my hair isn’t about style or rebellion—it’s part of my yogic tradition. But honestly, it doesn’t matter much to me what people think.

When I tell him I’m not traveling for leisure, but for a Buddhist pilgrimage, I see his curiosity sharpen. His posture shifts slightly, and the chatter of the cabin seems to recede as we lean into a conversation that feels less like small talk and more like discovery.

I learn that he’s Uyghur. He came to the Netherlands years ago as a refugee, spent two years in a refugee center, and eventually became a Dutch citizen. He’s lived in the Netherlands for a long time now, long enough to understand Dutch culture—not just its surface politeness, but the deeper rhythms of its modern life.

He shares openly about his experiences—his search for meaning, his frustrations with modernity, and the sense of emptiness that followed years of living a lifestyle shaped by Western ideals. He speaks candidly about things he struggled with: dating culture, fleeting connections, the party life that promised so much excitement but delivered so little satisfaction.

Screens, apps, and endless options—all of it created the illusion of abundance, but left him feeling isolated and unfulfilled. Over time, he realized there had to be more to life than what the modern world was offering.

In response, he returned to Islam. It wasn’t a dramatic moment of revelation, but a gradual return—an anchoring into something older, something solid. He speaks about his faith with warmth and clarity, and there’s a quiet strength in the way he carries it.

But beneath his calm and steady demeanor, there’s also pain—a deep, unspoken hurt that surfaces briefly when he shares a more personal story. His mother was in a re-education camp for two years. He doesn’t say much about it, but the weight of it hangs in the air between us. There’s a fragility in his voice when he mentions it, and I can see the trauma in his eyes, even if he doesn’t put it into words.

I don’t push further. Some silences are better left undisturbed, some pain too raw to probe. Instead, I listen, offering space for whatever he feels comfortable sharing.

When our conversation drifts to Buddhism, he already knows that it doesn’t involve a creator deity. But when he asks how Buddhists understand the source of everything, I feel myself treading carefully.

“What many faiths might call God,” I begin slowly, “we’d call Buddha Nature or True Nature. It’s not an external being or a creator overseeing the universe. It’s… the essence of everything. The ground of being itself.”

He listens, his brow furrowed slightly in thought.

“But at the end of the day,” I continue, “mind is at the heart of it all. In Buddhism, everything—every experience, every appearance—depends on the mind. The world we see, the suffering we feel, the peace we might find… it all comes back to the mind.”

I can sense the conversation reaching a threshold. The nuances of these concepts are difficult to express, especially to someone whose worldview is shaped by an Abrahamic perspective. It’s like trying to explain color to someone who’s only seen shades of gray—not because they lack understanding, but because the frameworks are fundamentally different.

Yet, we find common ground again when we speak of Sufi mysticism—of Rumi and Hafiz. There’s admiration in his voice, but also caution.

“It’s beautiful,” he says softly, “but also… dangerous.”

I tread carefully here. I don’t push, don’t press. Instead, the conversation lingers in that space between admiration and caution, remaining open, respectful, human.

Throughout our exchange, I notice something about him—an unspoken dignity, a quiet directness. There’s a clarity to him, a grounded confidence in how he carries his faith and his values. It’s a quality I’ve noticed before in Tibetans I’ve met—a kind of warrior-like presence, not in aggression, but in steadfastness. A quality that combines deep humility with an unshakable sense of purpose.

It’s inspiring. And it reminds me that we, as Western Buddhists, have something to learn here. Too often, Buddhism is perceived as abstract, overly philosophical, or detached. But that’s not the Buddhism I know. Guru Rinpoche embodies this perfectly—a figure of unwavering clarity, directness, and confidence.

We, too, need to exude that confidence. Not in a way that’s aggressive or rigid, but in a way that carries the weight of conviction—lived, embodied, and unshakable.

The hours pass unnoticed as we speak—nearly the entire three-and-a-half-hour flight. Faith, life, culture, politics, the emptiness of modernity, and the search for meaning—we cover everything, flowing seamlessly from one topic to the next.

As I walk through the sprawling airport, softly reciting mantras under my breath, I feel a deep sense of lightness—almost floating, yet firmly rooted.

Istanbul—Constantinople, as I still sometimes call it—is a place steeped in history, where East and West have always met.

This encounter feels like the perfect beginning to my journey. A reminder of why I travel—to broaden my horizons, to meet people who challenge and inspire me, and to carry their stories with me.

The path ahead feels alive with possibility. My heart feels open, my steps feel light, and a faint smile lingers on my lips as I walk towards my gate, mantras humming softly in my mind.