the rain is heavy in jackson heights. my stomach is full.

‘do you know where i can buy tsampa?’ i ask, after i pay at phayul restaurant. 

‘there is a tibetan store to the right of the subway.’

i walk and walk, i find no store. but i find sweets to eat, and more restaurants.

‘do you know where i can buy tsampa?’ i ask at spicy tibet restaurant.

‘tsampa? no.’ someone comes, ‘tsampa?’

she goes back and asks the old chef,

‘he says there is a truck down that way’

i walk and walk, i find no truck.

‘do you know where i can buy tsampa?’ i ask at lhasa new york restaurant.

‘no, not here.’

‘you don’t cook with it?’ i ask.

‘we use normal flour.’

‘do you know where i can buy tsampa?’ i ask at cbtm bistro.

‘what? tsampa?’

‘yes like barley.’

‘no. no.’

and a man sitting near by, ‘what did he ask?’

‘tsampa’ she says, as i open the door to leave.

‘tsampa, brother!’ he calls to me, ‘you can buy it at that truck over there, and if not, there is a truck down that way.’

‘thank you!’

‘tsampa?’ i ask at the amdo momo truck.

‘yes tsampa,’ he smiles, ‘very good. $20.’ cash only.