Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was expecting something out of Star Wars. Or maybe The Lord of the Rings. Some kind of city shrouded in clouds, where the Dalai Lama and his government-in-exile magically weaved Buddhism and international politics together.

It is a good thing that appearances can be deceiving, because when I first arrived in Dharamsala (“THUH-rum-SHAH-lah”) and neighboring Mcleod Ganj, I felt like I was some place else entirely. Sure, the Himalayan foothills loomed over us. And sure, the real snow-capped Himalayas loomed over them.

But the travel brokers, hotels, and hippie tourists gave the town an inauthentic feel. Yes, there were Tibetan flags everywhere. And yes, there were plenty of Tibetan (and a few foreign) monks as well. But the touristy shops seemed to sweep away any kind of geographic mysticism that I was expecting.

Fortunately for my American friends and I, a local guide had befriended us. He was “local” by way of Seattle, but Peter and his Mexican-born wife Jessica had been living in Mcleod Ganj for nearly a year now. He was an international radio journalist, and they were both students of Buddhism.

My friends Scott and Cat had arrived from the U.S. a few days before, and we had all decided to take the 13 hour trip from New Delhi to the Dalai Lama’s home. First, an overnight train through Punjab to the tiny town of Pathankot (“puh-TAHN-coat”). Then, a 2.5 hour taxi ride out of Punjab and into the state of Himachal Pradesh, where thousands of Tibetan exiles had found a tiny corner they could call home.

When a slim Seattle-esque white guy asked us about sharing the taxi, we said yes. And in time, Peter and Jessica would introduce us to the world beyond souvenir shops, guest lodges, and euro-dreadlocks. There is a real community here, and we’ve been fortunate to get a peek.