Thimphu

Thimphu is the world's only capital without a single traffic light: they installed one once, the city found it cold, and asked for the white-gloved policeman back — he still conducts the main junction like a slow orchestra. This is the seat of a kingdom that measures Gross National Happiness with a straight face and a methodology, where the dzong is monastery and ministry in one massive whitewashed breath, and a fifty-meter golden Buddha watches the valley learn the twenty-first century at its own chosen speed.

The sensible traveller visits the Tashichho Dzong at five, when the offices close and the monks' side reclaims the courtyards; climbs to the Buddha Dordenma for the whole valley in one bowl; watches an archery match — the national sport, played in full dress with singing and taunts —; walks the weekend market for chilies and cheese, the national dish's two ingredients; and keeps a day for the ride to Punakha or the cliffside Tiger's Nest, which is the kingdom's true handshake.

The Guide's honesty: Bhutan charges a Sustainable Development Fee by the night — the kingdom chose fewer travellers over more, deliberately, and the Guide respects countries that read their own instruments —; guides arrange most things and that is the system, not a scheme; dress for dzongs: long sleeves, long trousers, hats off; and the chilies are not a garnish here but the vegetable itself. Ema datshi tells you who you are.