Mongolian Dreams

 

 

Today, my hallowed tradition of Pizza Friday has been tragically broken. A breach of such sacred ritual would normally weigh heavy on my soul, but this time, the burden is shared with a formidable foe: a hangover of epic proportions. Last night, my adversaries were not the usual fiends from the shadows but a peculiar and potent trio—wine, cheese fondue, and a wretched fermented Mongolian liquor brewed from yak and sheep milk. That last one, my friends, is no ordinary beverage but a cunning trickster that has left me incapacitated.

I write now as a mere ghost of myself, unfit for the divinity of a proper pizza feast. Instead of indulging in bubbling cheese and golden crust, I am nursing a fragile state with water, regret, and fleeting resolutions to never drink fermented yak milk again. Yet, amidst this fog of self-pity and nausea, something profound stirs.

You see, last night’s misadventure wasn't entirely without merit. My host, an experienced traveler to Mongolia, spoke with such affection and vividness about the land that it rekindled memories of my dear friend Munkhbat. Munkhbat was my guide into the heart of Mongolia long before I’d even considered it a real destination. Though it has been over a decade since I last saw him, his warmth, humor, and quiet strength remain etched into my memory, just like the epic tales of his homeland that he once shared.

Mongolia—a vast land of endless skies, rugged mountains, nomadic spirit, and mystery. It has been slumbering on my bucket list for years, patiently waiting for the right moment to rise. And now, as I lay here weak and vulnerable, the dream of Mongolia is suddenly awake, calling to me with newfound urgency.

I picture galloping across the steppe on horseback, the wind roaring in my ears. I imagine sipping a cup of suutei tsai, salty milk tea, while the warmth of a yurt fire thaws the chill of the high-altitude air. I long to see the Naadam Festival in all its glory, to hear the haunting melodies of throat singing echoing across the plains, and to stand beneath the towering statue of Genghis Khan, pondering the vastness of the empire he built.

Perhaps this hangover was meant to humble me, to strip away my invincible veneer and remind me of the beauty in longing and anticipation. Mongolia waits for me, as it has for years, but now the pull is undeniable. One day, I’ll make that dream real. Until then, I'll raise a glass—not of fermented yak milk but something gentler—and toast to the nomads, to Munkhbat, and to the adventures that await.

Hangovers fade, but dreams endure.