Interview Max Simon Wants You to Get Self-Centered: A Traveler’s Realization

🌧️ The moment I sat cross-legged on a rain-slicked stone step in Pokhara—shivering, soaked, and utterly done—I realized Max Simon wasn’t urging narcissism. He was prescribing clinical self-attunement. How to get self-centered while traveling isn’t about ignoring others; it’s about recognizing when your body says ‘no’ before your brain rationalizes ‘yes’. That afternoon, I’d just abandoned a sunrise hike up Sarangkot because my knees ached, my throat burned, and my breath came shallow—signs I’d ignored for three days. And that surrender, not the summit, became the pivot of the whole trip.

I arrived in Kathmandu on October 12, 2023—a shoulder season sweet spot, or so the blogs claimed. Dry air, clear skies, fewer crowds. I’d booked a 12-day independent trekking itinerary across the Annapurna foothills: Bhaktapur → Bandipur → Pokhara → Ghandruk → Jhinu Danda → back to Pokhara. My plan was tight: pre-booked guesthouse stays, shared jeep transfers, one guided day near Ghorepani, then solo walking with printed maps and offline GPX files. Budget: $42/day average, including food, transport, and lodging. No flights—just buses, walks, and occasional shared jeeps. I’d spent six weeks researching altitude sickness symptoms, bus departure times from Machhapuchhre Bus Park, and which teahouses accept cash-only payments. I’d even memorized the Nepali phrase for ‘I need rest’ (Maile virodh garna parcha). But none of that prepared me for the quiet erosion of listening to myself.

Kathmandu’s chaos hit like humidity: motorbikes weaving inches from pedestrians, temple bells clanging over honking scooters, incense thick enough to taste. I stayed in Thamel, in a third-floor room above a metal workshop where hammers struck rhythmically until midnight. The first morning, I walked to Swayambhunath—the Monkey Temple—with a backpack full of water, trail mix, and optimism. Sunlight glinted off prayer flags strung between white stupas. Monkeys scrambled over ancient stone railings. I snapped photos 📸, bought roasted corn from a vendor who grinned with gold-capped teeth ☕, and felt, briefly, like the traveler I’d imagined. But by noon, my temples throbbed. Not from altitude—Kathmandu sits at 1,400m—but from sensory overload: the constant vibration of street drums, the glare off whitewashed walls, the weight of expectation I’d packed alongside my sleeping bag.

🚌 The turning point wasn’t dramatic. It was a 4 a.m. bus departure from Kathmandu to Pokhara.

The vehicle was a battered Tata Sumo, its vinyl seats cracked and warm from yesterday’s sun. Thirty people squeezed in: two monks in maroon robes, a family with three sleeping children bundled in blankets, a German couple sharing earbuds, and me—rigid with caffeine and resolve. We crawled out of the city past open sewers and laundry strung between power lines. Then the road narrowed. Hairpin after hairpin wound up the Trishuli River gorge. Landslides had scarred the cliffsides; fresh gravel still littered the pavement. Every time the driver braked hard, my stomach dropped. At 7:17 a.m., as we rounded a bend slick with monsoon runoff, the bus shuddered—and stopped. Not for passengers. Not for fuel. For a goat lying motionless in the middle of the lane.

No one panicked. A man got out, gently lifted the animal—alive, just dazed—and carried it into the scrub. The driver lit a cigarette. Someone passed around boiled sweets. I watched, detached, as my carefully calibrated schedule dissolved. My internal timer ticked: Pokhara arrival delayed → guesthouse check-in window closing → missed tea with the owner who promised local hiking tips → ripple effect on tomorrow’s walk to Ghandruk. I pulled out my phone. No signal. My map app froze mid-zoom. I closed my eyes—and felt something unfamiliar: not frustration, but exhaustion so deep it hollowed my chest. That’s when I heard Max Simon’s voice, not from memory, but from the podcast I’d listened to on the flight over: ‘You don’t need permission to recalibrate. In fact, asking for it is how you lose agency.’

🎭 The discovery began with silence—and a woman named Bina.

We reached Pokhara late, unceremoniously dumped at the Prithvi Highway bus park. I found my guesthouse—Sunrise Lodge, run by Bina K.C., a former schoolteacher whose hands moved like she was folding origami as she poured ginger tea. She didn’t ask about my itinerary. She asked, “What did your body tell you today?” I blinked. No one had phrased it that way. I told her about the goat, the stop, the hollow feeling. She nodded, placed a warm cloth over my shoulders, and said, “In Nepali, we say ātmā ko sāthī banāūnā—become a friend to your own soul. Not your ego. Your breath. Your hunger. Your tiredness.”

That evening, instead of forcing myself to visit Phewa Lake at sunset (a ‘must-do’, per every guidebook), I sat on the lodge’s rooftop terrace with Bina and her daughter, Maya, who was studying nursing in Bharatpur. They taught me to identify medicinal herbs growing in clay pots: chiraito for fever, giloy for immunity, basil for calm. Maya showed me how to press dried marigold petals into a notebook—genda ko phool, used in festivals and for sore throats. No grand revelations. Just tactile, grounded moments: the gritty texture of crushed leaves, the sharp green scent released when rubbed between fingers, the warmth of steam rising from a cup held both hands. My phone stayed in my pocket. My to-do list remained unwritten.

The next morning, Bina handed me a folded piece of paper—not a map, but a list:

• 🌄 Walk to Devi’s Falls only if your ankles feel steady
• 🍜 Eat momos only if your stomach feels light (not just hungry)
• 📸 Take photos only if the light makes you pause—not because you ‘should’
• 🤝 Say ‘no’ to group hikes if your lungs need quiet

It wasn’t permission. It was calibration. And it worked. I walked slowly along the Seti River, noticing how light fractured on fast-moving water 🌅. I skipped Devi’s Falls—my knees protested at the first downward step—and instead sat at a roadside stall, eating sel roti (sweet rice doughnuts) while watching kids chase kites shaped like eagles 🎭. I bought no souvenirs. I took three photos all day—one of a weathered wooden door carved with peacocks, one of steam rising from a clay kettle, one of my own hand holding a steaming cup against a grey sky ☁️.

🏔️ The journey continued—not forward, but inward.

I delayed my departure to Ghandruk by two days. Instead of rushing, I walked the World Peace Pagoda trail alone, stopping whenever my breath quickened. At 1,100m, altitude wasn’t the issue—it was pacing. I learned to gauge exertion not by heart rate monitors (I didn’t have one), but by whether I could speak in full sentences without gasping. When I finally boarded the local bus to Nayapul—the trek’s gateway—I carried less gear, more awareness.

In Ghandruk, I stayed at a family-run teahouse where the owner, Rajan, brewed chiya with cardamom and milk he’d drawn that morning. His English was limited; mine in Nepali, basic. But we communicated in gestures, shared smiles, and tea refills. One afternoon, heavy clouds rolled in. Rain fell steadily, drumming on corrugated roofs. Most trekkers huddled inside, scrolling phones or complaining about ‘ruined plans’. I sat on the porch, wrapped in a borrowed wool blanket, watching mist swallow the Annapurna South ridge 🏔️. Rajan brought hot lemon water without being asked. No words. Just presence. That stillness—unplanned, uncurated—felt more authentic than any summit photo.

Later, on the steep descent to Jhinu Danda, I met two Australian hikers who’d pushed through a fever and vomiting for two days, insisting they’d ‘tough it out’ to reach the hot springs. They looked gray. Their guide urged them to rest in Naya Pul. They refused. I didn’t judge. But I remembered Bina’s words: ātmā ko sāthī banāūnā. I paused often. Drank water before thirst hit. Sat on rocks not to ‘take in the view’, but to feel my weight settle, my shoulders drop. When I reached Jhinu’s sulfur-scented pools at dusk, I soaked for 22 minutes—not the recommended 45, but exactly how long my lower back tolerated heat before tightening. That specificity—22 minutes—wasn’t arbitrary. It was data gathered from listening.

📝 Reflection: What this experience taught me about travel and myself

I used to think ‘self-centered travel’ meant curating Instagram feeds, booking luxury upgrades, or avoiding group dynamics. Max Simon’s framing—‘get self-centered’—wasn’t about privilege. It was about precision. About treating your physical and emotional thresholds with the same rigor you apply to visa requirements or bus schedules.

Travel fatigue isn’t always visible. It doesn’t announce itself with fever or vomiting. Often, it’s quieter: irritability over small delays, impatience with slow service, skipping meals, scrolling instead of observing, taking photos without seeing. In Nepal, those signals weren’t ‘weakness’. They were navigational data—like barometric pressure before a storm. Ignoring them didn’t make me resilient. It made me unreliable—to myself, and eventually, to others.

I also learned that cultural respect isn’t performative. It’s operational. When I stopped trying to ‘experience everything’, I started noticing what locals actually do: pause mid-morning for tea, rest under shade trees during peak heat, decline invitations without apology, adjust plans based on weather or mood. Their flexibility wasn’t laziness. It was sustainability. My rigid itinerary hadn’t honored Nepali time—it had imposed industrial time. And industrial time, in mountain terrain, is dangerous.

💡 Practical takeaways: What readers can apply to their own travels

None of this required money, apps, or special training. It required attention—and simple tools I now use on every trip:

Body Check-In Ritual: Every morning, before checking email or maps, I sit quietly for 90 seconds. I ask three questions: Where do I feel tension? What does my throat feel like? When did I last drink water? If answers are vague or negative, I adjust the day’s scope. This isn’t indulgence. It’s risk mitigation.

The ‘No’ Buffer: I build 1–2 ‘no’ slots into each day—not for activities, but for refusal. If someone invites me to dinner, I don’t say ‘maybe’. I say, ‘Let me check my energy at 5 p.m. and confirm.’ Then I do. Often, the answer is yes. Sometimes, it’s no. Either way, I’ve honored my capacity.

Altitude & Exhaustion Are Separate Metrics: In high-altitude regions, many conflate fatigue with AMS (acute mountain sickness). But exhaustion from poor sleep, dehydration, or emotional strain mimics early AMS symptoms. I now track both separately: altitude symptoms (headache + nausea + loss of appetite + worsening with exertion) vs. exhaustion symptoms (brain fog, low motivation, muscle soreness without exertion, irritability). They demand different responses—descent versus rest.

Local Time ≠ Clock Time: In places like Nepal, ‘10 a.m.’ means ‘when the sun clears the eastern ridge’. Buses leave when full, not on the hour. Markets close when vendors decide—not at 6 p.m. Trying to force clock time onto organic rhythms creates unnecessary stress. I now carry a small analog watch—but only to estimate daylight hours, not schedule fidelity.

⭐ Conclusion: How this trip changed my perspective

I didn’t summit Poon Hill. I didn’t photograph Machapuchhre at dawn. I didn’t collect stamps in a trekking permit book. What I gained was quieter, more durable: the ability to distinguish between discomfort that builds resilience and discomfort that erodes judgment. Max Simon wasn’t advocating selfishness. He was naming a skill set rarely taught in travel guides—yet essential for safety, authenticity, and longevity on the road. Getting self-centered isn’t the end of connection. It’s the prerequisite. Because you cannot truly see another person—or a place—if you’re too busy misreading your own signals.