She called once, speaking pretty good English, and as with many other calls that come to my home looking for the Aro Gar Center, I tried to be as polite and helpful as I could be, attempting to sum up the Aro gTer in under 30 seconds. Long distance is expensive. (I remember the call that came at 6 a.m. one Sunday, from Italy, someone asking for a free copy of vision.) This lady sounded far away, too; there was some noise on the line, crosstalk. I asked where she was calling from. Taiwan.

Then six weeks later she called back again, on a Friday night. Could she visit the `centre' the next day, with about ten others? Please?

Who were they, if they didn't mind my asking? Nyingma practitioners from Taiwan, she said. Did we have any photos of Dudjom Rinpoche?

I had expected a curious person, a web surfer on spring break, a businesswoman perhaps, but here was a delegation. For whom was she calling? Was I going to step out of my house to greet an important Lama and his or her entourage? Over the course of the conversation I found out they'd be in this country for two weeks on some sort of self-created West Coast Dharma centers junket. It is an interesting turning point in history when Asians come to California to tour Buddhist centers.

Saturday morning she called four times. Could they still come over? Did I find any photos? How about noon?

I had the feeling she was furiously jotting down notes on my replies to her many questions, then translating for Someone Else after hanging up, then calling back after Someone Else asked her a few more questions. Was I sure I didn't have any photos?

She was kind and concerned with my welfare, though, sorry to `bother my telephone' so much.

They arrived right on time, after calling again from the freeway off-ramp to say they'd be here in ten minutes. I still had no idea who or what to expect rolling up here in front of this little house in the suburbs. As they pulled up in two rented vans, I half expected to see a couple of guys in dark suits with sunglasses and earpieces pile out and scan for threats from behind the tinted glass. It was a surprise to see the doors slide open and instead of bodyguards, four men gently and efficiently helping a handicapped man and woman out. It seemed a well-practiced maneuver. They stepped out into the bright sun and, squinting, checked the address, looked around intently for some sort of sign or plaque, checked their bags and straightened their clothes, then suddenly stopped, mouths open, to see me standing on the path in my robes, waiting. With wide smiles and bows and folded hands they asked, "Are you like this all the time?"

We stepped around the house to the door of the shrine room, and I had the feeling they thought the Dharma-goods-for-sale table in the foyer was the whole thing. They took their time, expressing much appreciation. Did I have any other pictures?

I had to apologize; no I didn't, but would they like to see the shrine room? Ohh... You mean there's more?

As we entered the shrine room itself, there were audible gasps and then stunned silence. Those who were able prostrated; the handicapped man and woman each put a hand to their hearts and bowed their heads. They asked permission to sit.

As I answered their questions about the colors, the images of Yidams and Lamas on the lhakang and the protector shrine, it became clear that one man with uncut hair, in a loose-fitting Chinese-style silk outfit, was the center of their circle. Everyone listened intently as he asked questions in Chinese, which were then translated for me. I guess they liked the answers to my questions, as they nodded in appreciation and asked some more: about the nature of the lineage, about Ngak'chang Rinpoche and Khandro Dechen and their root teachers, about our practice and my practice and whether we had anymore photos.

They also had connection with some of our practices, including chod ; they noticed the drum and kangling, they asked about the kapalas, all very amazed to see the proper and traditional items displayed and being used. I answered many questions about Ngak'chang Rinpoche's teachers, including Kyabje Dudjom Rinpoche, and his other four main teachers. They recognized Kyabje Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche's name, but not the others. Then someone noticed the photo of Kyabje Kunzang Dorje Rinpoche, and pointed it out to their leader. There was another wave of excited applause as he explained in Chinese. Apparently he had been to Nepal and spent time with Kunzang Dorje Rinpoche, but knew him by the name Karma Gyalpo, and that Kunzang Dorje Rinpoche had given him an old gomthag.

They asked if I knew what this was, and they fairly exploded with applause when I pulled out my own gomthag and put it over my shoulder, then held my knees up with another one. They somehow seemed to take this as an indication that I was or we were the real thing, bona fide.

Then they asked for a photo of Kunzang Dorje Rinpoche, which I did give them; I took it out of the frame on the shrine. They looked at the red leather-bound copy of the Aro songbook I had bound for myself, and expressed their appreciation for it. I could see where this was going. I gave them each a photocopy of the songbook with all the images and songs, but they said they really liked the red one. I said if they wished I'd make them one, and send it to them. Could they have that one? Please?

Not because of the fancy binding but because I had received it at my ordination in Baarlo, I had a certain attachment to it. I apologized: sorry, no.

They seemed disappointed, but accepted this and moved on. Perhaps in Taiwan it is the custom to give whatever is asked for. They then asked if I would like a small piece of the old gomthag Kunzang Dorje Rinpoche had given them, as a relic. Yes, thank you very much! They said they'd send it after they returned home.

With a tangible awkwardness in the air, they said it was time for them to go; they had two more centers to see that day. Another lady asked me on the way out if they could have the songbook, please, and I apologized again.

Then, on the sidewalk as they approached the vans, one lady stopped. This was the one on crutches, with a deformity in her legs. She faced me, with tears in her eyes, struggling with English and emotion, attempting to fold her hands and still stay upright with the crutches pressed into her armpits: "We've been to many Dharma centers and bookstores over the last two weeks. We've seen many wonderful things and spoken to many wonderful people. Today, in your beautiful shrine, with this red book, it was the first time I've seen my Important One so interested in and appreciative of anything. I haven't seen him respond to anything that way before. In this life I am unfortunate, suffering from some misdeed in a past existence. I have a chance in this life to establish my connection to the Dharma through my teacher. Please offer the book to help me to do this. Please."

Finally I could not resist; not because of the tears now streaming down her face, not out of pity for her, and not out of any particular respect for her teacher, whom I knew nothing about. I had to give it to her because of empathy for a fellow practitioner who, in her longing, would beg shamelessly, who would do anything to strengthen her connection with her teacher, who wanted more than anything to increase that and establish that in certainty. I went back in and wrapped the book in a kathag and gave it to her. She immediately gave it to the Important One, bowing, as he sat in the van. They both thanked me, he with a wave and a strong moment's gaze, she with bowing and more tears. Two men helped her into her seat and with much waving and smiling, they drove off down Eagle Avenue. Next stop, Land of the Medicine Buddha.

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