Duh-na hun, Ethiopia

I’ve been here for four weeks already … staggering! I have come to feel very much at home here, right down to seeing people I know in Addis! How is that possible when I seldom see people I know in Albertson’s in Tehachapi?!

     The long goodbye started first thing in the morning with the kids … I was FINE … fine. I’ve been saying goodbye to kids for ten years, right?! Blahhhh … right up until Frewhiwot started crying, then Malkamu … then we all got into the act. Was tough. Little buggers … didn’t see that emotional torrent coming. I moaned to my friend Graham Frey, a headmaster at a school and therefore also in the business of “goodbyes”: “WHY was that so HARD?!” I whined. “I said goodbye to thousands of kids for ten years at Woodward! Nary a tear! Why now?!”

Kalid feels better.

     “Because those are comparatively rich kids—American kids anyway—and you know they’ll be fine,” he responded dryly. Grrr. Right. He was right. How would I know if Lemlem would stay in school and fulfill her intellectual promise? Would Kalid even make it in primary school? Certainly not this year. I wouldn’t know whether Abet would grow out of his morning grouchiness and refusal to talk until his belly was full or if Yabsra (girl) would get put into the highest learning group as I felt she was ready for. Sigh. Hayder … that kid is so eager to learn, so willing to absorb whatever information he can get his hands on. Frewhiwot should be reading … if only I could get her some Dr. Suess books. Thomas the Tank Engine! What Thomas paraphernalia could I send these kids from the U.S.? Or maybe new uniforms, aka T shirts … sigh.

     I miss them. Little buggers.

     I was all about a post-drama quick exit. Robin and I escaped via Gurma’s jalopy cab to let the kids (and ourselves) move forward; we checked in at the Churchill Hotel in downtown Addis. I hadn’t stayed there before because it’s expensive ($120/nt US), but it’s right across the feeding center, where we wanted to do our final shift; it’s close to the Merkato, where we wanted to do last-minute shopping; and they offer a free shuttle to the airport. Done. Bonus: we were able to check in at 10:00 a.m. and unload all of our gear (Robin is packed for 3 months’ of travel).

     We scooted across the street and were greeted by the regulars at the feeding center. They’d opened early so were in full swing with the first shift already seated. Eyob’s purple apron shielded his red polo shirt from sloshing soup; Daniel—also sporting a red polo shirt (the only shirt I’ve ever seen him wear, actually)—was directing traffic; and a group of about 10 Americans from a Wisconsin church were figuring out how everything worked. It was quickly apparently that there were too many cooks in the kitchen. It was fun (and highly unusual!) to have so many Americans to talk to, but I like being busy so was only half-hearted in my enthusiasm for their participation. I took it upon myself to help them navigate the various jobs so they could feel the privilege of helping as I had for the last month, but wasn’t terribly disappointed when they all had to pull out before the shift ended.

     Daniel’s face shone brightly among shabbily dressed throngs. He was almost always cheerful and if I ever detected the slighted gloom in him, he was easy to cheer up. I’d gotten in the habit of bringing him a few Starbursts when I worked my shift, but in my packing and goodbyes, I’d forgotten.

     “No!” he said, grinning. “It’s nothing! You don’t need to bring me candy.”

     “I know,” I said apologetically, “I just like to.”

Daniel at the Hope Feeding Center.

     “I just like to see you,” he said, still grinning. I searched his face to see if this was Ethiopian hospitality or flirtatiousness. “How I say,” he stumbled, “I miss you. Two days since I have seen you.” Ugh. Down boy. I’m old enough to be your mother. His bashful charms continued through the end of the shift when I hugged him goodbye and promised to send the photo I’d taken of he and I to Eyob for delivery. Some back-and-forth went on between he and Eyob in Ahmaric with grins on both sides, which I made effort to ignore and pulled out with Robin and Eyob.

     “He crushes on me, right?” I asked Eyob.

     “Yes,” Eyob replied. The end.

     The three of us headed down Churchill Street to the Loyal Restaurant above the Loyal Grocery for a farewell lunch, over which we resumed discussions about the future of the Mercy Ministry Happy Children Home efforts. During my stay, I’d asked Eyob pointed questions about the program’s financial situation, marketing, fund-raising, their support from Global Volunteer Network, etc., and he’s always been forthright in his responses. I believe there are several ways I can help them—through proposal writing for grants and donations; assisting with their developing Web site; and other communications needs. I feel like part of the family here and what they do resonates deeply with me. I see myself staying involved, hopefully in a number of ways, to try to get the program on more stable financial footing. I mean, for a lousy $150 a year, any of us can start a kid in school who would otherwise be herding sheep on the street. Hundred and fifty bucks. That’s about 37 grande caramel macchiatos with soy, extra pump, upside down, stirred, extra hot. For $2,250, we could have that entire class of kids set up for first grade: tuition, uniform, shoes, MEDICAL CARE, and three meals a day five days a week for fifteen children … for kids named Frewhiwot, Sintyhu, Fkadu, Lemlem, Abete, Hayder, Kalid, Tomesgen, Meseret, Hewot, Malkamu, Bahilu, and three Yabsras.… Who’s in …

Loved this artist (on the postcard) but never figured
out how to hook up with him.

     After lunch, Eyob drove us across town to an art show featuring women artists; we’d been searching for a specific art gallery for a couple weeks after admiring an artist’s work on post cards available around town. Every effort had been thwarted for one reason or another, but we were optimistic about finding the artist at this show. We walked around the gallery for a long time, admiring the work, constantly checking prices against the show brochure and my conversion app but mostly dreaming. And no artist. We had a gallery attendant use Robin’s Ethiopian phone to call the number we had and after typical communication challenges, it seemed we’d finally meet, but in the end we think we met with a gallery curator who represented the artist’s work; we looked at a couple pieces in a store room … confusing, disappointing but not a total waste. Bailed. It was late afternoon and we wanted to enjoy the hotel so headed back across town by foot and mini van.

     We entered our hotel room in eager anticipation of a hot shower, our weekly indulgence. I had bitten my tongue that morning before I jinxed myself by boasting that I hadn’t had any new fleabites for two days; apparently just thinking such thoughts is jinx enough as I’d been ravaged at the feeding center by the vermin and was itchy and squeamish about every wiggle I felt under my clothes, warranted or not. I started stripping the moment I entered the room, while Robin turned on the faucet. She returned, downtrodden: “No hot water.”

     No hot water. Sigh.

     And no point in dwelling, complaining, nor hoping … change of plans would be the only solution in Africa, I’d learned that much. I suggested we splurge and go out to dinner at an Italian restaurant Tom and Sara from the Ethiopian Skateboard Park Project had recommended as a consolation prize. Done. I turned my clothes inside out and vigorously shook them to liberate any persistent louses; we headed back out into the busy streets—streets that seemed to get busier as night drew on—and headed up the hill to Castelli’s, which we’d spotted only earlier that week, its inconspicuous sign was partway down an alleyway; steel doors painted white had barricaded the non-descript place that showed no other sign of life.

     The same was true that evening when we approached the imposing entrance at 6:45 p.m. Locked. Friday evening … almost 7 … hmmmm. A security-looking person was managing parking and thoroughfares as best as he was able and we waited to catch his attention. “Seven o’clock,” he called over his shoulder. Fifteen minutes to kill. We decided to head to Taitu Hotel, a popular hiker’s hotel just around the corner; Robin had coveted a painting there since her first (and last) stay at the Taitu in March but despite repeated attempts over the ensuing weeks, including a few in my company, she was unable to extract a price from the clerks in the gift shop on the first floor. Last chance.

     The shop was open, as it usually was but in all previous visits they had no cash register so for weeks, window shopping was the only option. On this visit, I habitually looked straight to the counter: lo and behold, a small cash register. “This might be your lucky day, Robin!” I said with enthusiasm. She approached the sales clerk, who recognized us both by then by our frequent inquiries to ask about the painting propped unimportantly against the counter.

     “These paintings,” Robin began, pointing to the same stack on the floor that she had shuffled through a dozen times, “do you have a price now? I see you have your register.”

     “Yes, yes!” exclaimed the clerk, proud of their new machine. “Finally,” she added. “But no, I'm sorry,” she continued. “This artist, he has not given us price on these pieces.”

     I smiled. Robin’s shoulders slumped, but a smile emerged. Yep. Same ole. “Okay,” she chirped. “I guess I’ll have to give up!” Another woman, younger, joined our conversation.

     “You have looked at the paintings in our art shop?” she asked, pointing back out the door.

     Robin and I responded in unison: “What art shop?”

     The associate led us out the door and pointed to the wide stairway a few feet away. Never went up there. Only a landing a few steps up was visible; nothing indicated that there was anything at the top of the dark wooden steps other than perhaps guest rooms. We began our climb with a few chortled words about lack of interest in making a sale and—as has proven to be typical of me—I offered aloud but to no one who cared some solutions for improved sales and marketing efforts. We made the requisite180° turn at the landing and a bright painting immediately seized my attention. I caught my breath in an audible gasp and stopped cold: “I LOVE THAT” I told Robin, staking my claim at first dibs should there be a remote possibility that I might leave Ethiopia with the treasure. From our art-seeking mission at the gallery earlier that day and in the previous weeks, Robin and I both confirmed that our tastes in African art outshone our pocketbook. Neither of us knew enough about art to recognize value or investment or any such thing, but we agreed that we knew what we liked and that was good enough “investment.” Regretfully, we both “liked” paintings that—while likely reasonable—were over US$1,000, far beyond my souvenir budget.

     I beheld the creation as best I could—it hung above the stairwell with only a narrow passage in front of it that prohibited the requisite “up close–step away” viewing that art warranted. My heart pounded.  “Easy, Debra …” I thought to myself. “Eeeeaaaaasy.” Butterflies danced in my stomach, but I coaxed my feet onward to circle the bleak gallery to consider the myriad works that hung unadorned. There were some beautiful pieces in a variety of media. Robin and I orbited the upper floor in silence as guests came and went from their rooms taking little notice of us. Eventually our trajectories intersected and I mumbled to her quietly, as if we were spies closing in on a suspect: “See anything you like?” I asked.

     “Too much,” she responded shortly. After a month of challenges, triumphs, sacrifices, and conquests, we understood one another with minimal communication.

     “Tell me the numbers of the ones you like and I’ll snap a photo to inquire.” Most of the paintings had a number in the bottom right corner, presumably as a reference to a price sheet; given our repeated failures at trying to purchase anything at the Taitu, our optimism was guarded, but our bridled enthusiasm demanded the effort.  Robin rattled off three numbers Morse code-style and I dutifully snapped the shots, along with one for my own prize.

     “Does that go with your décor?” Robin asked. Pfft. Décor. Okay, maybe she doesn’t know me all that well.

     “Anything I that makes my heart skip a beat goes with my décor,” I responded inoffensively. We trekked back down the stairs to try our hand at gathering pricing, fingers crossed.

     The woman who knew us from our previous visits, the woman who had never once mentioned that there was a gallery one floor above us despite our repeated inquiries about art, welcomed us again. “Can we get prices?” I asked with cautious hope.

     “Yes, I will call my owner to get,” she responded, phone at the ready. It was a step in the right direction, but experience in Ethiopia taught to keep our expectations low. She exchanged a few words in Ahmaric into the receiver. “What numbers?” she asked. My eyebrows raised.

     “Really?” I thought, a sneak of light escaping from the chamber in which I was keeping hope safeguarded. I opened my phone to pull up the photos. The woman who had revealed the clandestine veranda hurriedly found a tablet and pen to transcribe the numbers from the photos I showed her; there was a respectful confidence about her belied her own understanding that she was more clever than the other woman. She shared the information with the clerk on the phone and her tone gave me confidence that she understood our inquiry and that such an inquiry could ultimately lead to a sale … what a concept.

     The duller of the two took furious notes as she listened on the phone and mumbled, “Eesha” repeatedly, “okay” in Ahmaric, confirming her understanding. She wrote down a number and scratched it out, wrote some more in Ahmaric, and wrote other numbers. It was beyond me to decipher the ultimate answer so I waited silently.

     “Okay,” she said to me in English, putting down the phone and displaying the tablet like an easel for presentation. “My owner indicates that this painting was 7300 birr, but it is discounted to 6500.” She stopped without expounding on the other paintings.

     “Are they all the same price and discount?” I asked, confused, before I even pulled out my conversion app on my phone. The pieces were all roughly the same size, but by different artists, so I didn’t want to assume that they all demanded the same sale price.

     “Yes,” she replied simply. I powered on my phone and began punching a finger at it repeatedly to divulge the information I wanted.

     “Originally $415 US,” I said, directing my conclusion at Robin. “On sale, I guess, for $369 and change.” I looked up: “Let go to dinner.” Robin understood without further expansion: more code. Ethiopia is a bartering country, seldom “fixed price,” although I knew neither Robin nor I knew into which category art fell. “Heck, even in the US, the final price of art is up to the artist,” I thought.

     We explained our plan to the more astute clerk: we would return if we were interested. I knew we were interested. Both women graciously thanked us and we were off again.

     The streets were filling with throngs of hand-holding couples and honking cars. We’d often discussed the phenomenon of “everyone on the street” as night fell on Addis—no matter the day of the week, it seemed—and offered more theories between us as to the motivation for the revelry. We responded to innumerable bids of “Hal-lo!” “Miss! Miss!” and “Where you from?!” in our brief walk back to Castelli’s, which now emitted bright, welcoming light from the open door; we slipped in quickly, waving off our last hitchhiker.

     I wondered for a moment if we’d fallen into Alice’s Wonderland. Well-heeled waiters in crisp white uniforms stood erect in the cramped foyer; a smorgasbord of antipasto was laid in triumph at eye-level across the length of a counter to our left; a chef behind the counter carved a slab of some beast; and a fat, white man who reeked of Mafioso stood behind a counter to the right studying an open book in front of him, pen tapping in rhythm to his concentration. Tears welled in my eyes. A bona fide restaurant.

     “Two!” Robin sang, un-intimidated by the sagging jowls and stoney grimace of the fat man. I suspected he was the owner and felt his glare at the two gringos who had just found their way into his establishment. I anticipated “reservations” and “proper attire” forthcoming.

     “Rrrrrreservation,” he barked more than asked. Robin looked at me. Her hearing suffered some and it had become her habit to glance my way for interpretation, which I wasn’t always able to produce.

     “No,” I said to the man. “I’m sorry, no, we don’t have a reservation.” I stopped talking to leave room for sympathetic consideration. Unswayed by my apologetic groveling, the man’s glower returned to his book. I dared a glance down to determine the depth of our indiscretion. Gibberish to me. He stabbed an entry in the book with his pencil. “You be done by 8:30?” he snorted. Robin looked at me again in confusion.

     “Yes, yes!” I offered nervously. “He’s saying we can eat if we’re finished by 8:30; he has a reservation at that table,” I explained to Robin.

     “It’s quarter to eight!” she said as I pulled out my phone for the same information.

     “It’s only 7:30,” I reported quickly, showing her my phone. I didn’t want to make any move that would jeopardize the opportunity to eat there. “Let’s go.” I returned the phone to my travel wallet and offered a humble smile back to the Italian man: “Yes, no problem, no problem,” I confirmed.

     “Rrrrreservation at nine,” he offered, unsympathetically.

     “Yes, I understand,” I reassured him. “It’s no problem. We’ll be finished by 8:30.” A waiter was at the ready and guided us beyond the antipasto display and deeper into the rabbit hole. A hallway reminiscent of an old Victorian home with whitewashed walls and dark wood wainscoting bored back, disclosing small dining rooms on either side. The waiter directed us to the right. A long table hosting a hodgepodge group of Chinese, Westerners, and Ethiopians split the small room down the center; another odd medley encircled another table and a single Ethiopian man sat in the back, chewing hostilely.  We quickly settled in at the smallest table in the room, my chair positioned next to the threshold of the entryway, through which I sneaked a peak into the room across the hall: more Westerners at a table, well-dressed Ethiopian children in various levels of tolerance clamoring around them.

     “I’ve never seen so many Westerners in one place!” I whispered gleefully to Robin, who was already absorbing the wine list, a Cheshire grin on her face. I dove into the menu: “Antipasto,” “Salads,” “Entrees,” the titles announced in Italian. I could feel my eyes welling again. “I’m ordering dessert!” I announced triumphantly.

     We shared a trip to the antipasto bar as an appetizer; Robin sipped on her glass of red wine; we both ordered lasagna. Smiles were planted on our faces and giggles escaped us as we savored the delicacies from our antipasto plate: a soft, flavorful cheese; kidney beans enveloped in olive oil; baked eggplant; sweet squash. Heaven on a plate. Our hunk of lasagna arrived promptly; while not the deep, tomato-red sauce and gooey cheeses I’d envisioned, I uttered not a complaint and dug in deep. I glanced at my phone periodically to ensure respect for our 8:30 deadline, but time graciously crept.

     We maintained our pace: “Ice cream with chocolate!” I announced.

     “Tiramisu,” Robin responded. Our waiter obliged briskly.

     “Please kick me if I pick up this plate and lick it,” I warned Robin while savoring my dessert.

     Mr. Mafia had apparently been peeking his head into the room monitoring our progress as I indicated to Robin that it was 8:25. “We turn back into pumpkins any moment,” I thought. The waiter brought the bill, we stumbled over the tip amount (which is usually included as part of the bill, but I remembered noting on the menu that that was wisely not practiced here), piled our birr in the burgundy folder, and excused ourselves, offering our undying gratitude to our waiter and the fat man, who didn't even look up at our enthusiastic “Ciao!” as we floated out the door, back into the dark streets; the swarming crowds, even thicker now; the familiar smells; the unending “beep!” of taxis and cars alike, demanding their course be yielded.

Back at the Churchill, our glow was dulled when the faucets again failed to produce hot water. No bath. No shower. No relief from flea bites. I refused to come entirely off my Castelli’s high and bird-bathed again without protest. Clean jammies furthered my delight and I climbed into bed to email, Skype, post blogs … ahhhhhh. “My last night in Ethiopia,” I thought, contemplating that reality. How could it possibly have been four weeks? It seemed natural that I would be back in the classroom on Monday. I thought about the kids, about lessons. “Rrrraw-bin! Rrrraw-bin! Rrrraw-bin!” I called out to Robin, mimicking the kids’ exclamation when they completed any little morsel of work. She laughed affectionately. I felt so settled there, felt a sense of belonging and acceptance, of purpose and objective. Seemed premature to leave.

     I resigned myself to closure as I opened my computer and waited for the Internet to connect. And waited. Waited …

     No Internet. Sigh. Ha ha! Yep. “Still in Ethiopia,” I thought, scratching a constellation of bumpy, red flea bites through my pajamas.

We were woken the next morning by a gaggle of guests down the hallway, indifferent to the dawning hour. I rolled over to try my luck at Internet again to at least get a blog posted. Success. Robin pulled herself up with the hope of hot water. Nothing.

     “I’m half afraid to go downstairs to breakfast for fear it’s not included in the room price after all,” I chuckled sarcastically, not looking up from my computer screen so to not lose a moment of Internet connection. Robin agreed. I thought about our dinner in detail, then suddenly remembered the artwork at the Taitu, a reminder that sparkled a tickle like Christmas morning. “If you had to make a decision on that painting right now, what would …”

     “Yes!” Robin blurted out before I could finish.

     Before long we were dressed, motivated by hunger and a 9:00 a.m. meeting time in the Piazza with Magadee, who’d offered to sacrifice her Saturday morning to take us to the Merkado. We wandered into the dining room, pleased to confirm that the meager “buffet” was included in our room price. Robin ordered an omelet and I loaded up on corn flakes drowned in hot milk. “I have a thought about the paintings,” I offered. Robin nodded her interest over her cup of strong Ethiopian coffee. “I think we lowball them and let it go if we lose. We’re outta time.”

     “What’do you have in mind,” Robin asked.

     “They’re marked down from US$415 to $369, like 10 percent give or take,” I reasoned. “I think we offer them $300 each.” I pulled out my iPhone conversion app: “Five thousand, two hundred, seventy-five birr,” I read to Robin. “Compared to the sixty-three hundred they requested. It’s a bartering culture … I’m comfortable with that.” Robin agreed and the plan was laid.

     When we returned to the room to get our things to meet Magadee, I wrote a note with our offer for the artwork that we could drop off at the Taitu store, which surely wouldn’t be opened this early. I left Robin’s phone number and promised we’d check back in the afternoon after Merkado. When we got to Taitu, the doors to the store were locked so I tried wedging the note in the crack between them; an employee walked up to me and offered to deliver the note when the sales clerk arrived at “five o’clock.”

     “Five o’clock?!” I parroted back at her. We’d never get a deal done before I had to leave for the airport at 10:30 p.m.

     “Yes, five o’clock,” she repeated.

     My mind ticked … “Ohhhhh … five o’clock Ethiopian. Eleven a.m. Check,” I said to her blank stare; I thanked her and headed off, wondering if the note would even get delivered.

Little chairs for Yabsra and Kalid.

     Magadee met us at the prescribed time and we quickly found a mini van to the Merkado area where she knew there to be plastic items: I still sought out tiny chairs for the two littlest in the class, Kalid and Yabsra. Within a few minutes and after a couple inquiries at our destination, we found our source and Magadee bargained with the clerk in Ahamaric while I stood back, knowing that the price would sky rocket if they knew it was for me, a ferenji. “Seventy birr each,” Magadee finally announced: $3.98 each. Done.

     “Please pick two of the same color so there’s no argument between Yabsra and Kalid,” I dictated. Little Yabsra was the master of that pair and I didn't want to put Kalid in a position of hopeless defeat. Chairs in hand, we continued our shopping.

     Addis Ababa Merkado is the biggest open-air market in the world; it sprawls for miles and miles through the streets and alleyways of the city. Wares are loosely organized in different areas—plastic goods here, blocks of textiles over there, cereals, vegetables, leather goods,  mattresses, candy, mule saddles, fruits, baskets, spices, luggage, shoes, water jugs … it was all here. Somewhere. Robin and I had had our fill of the pandemonium in previous trips and didn’t want to spend our entire day probing every nook and cranny in search of the few souvenirs and gifts we wanted to pick up before our departure, hence we’d enlisted Magadee’s assistance. She gauged our interest in staying in the main market area, noted that it registered near zero, and loaded us up into another mini van to whisk us off to a small area on the outskirts of town that only a local would know. Ahhhhh … all the souvenirs and handcrafted items we could ever want in a small two- or three-block area and an Ethiopian at our side to negotiate for us. Perfect. Within ninety minutes, we’d haggled our last purchase and were back in the van heading back to the Churchill by noon. Sweet.

     We hugged Magadee goodbye and started back to the Taitu to see if our note about the artwork bore any fruit. Almost at the door, we heard the familiar call: “Hal-lo!! Hal-lo!!” The persistence in this greeting captured my attention and I turned to give a more thorough response; a heavy-set man jogged toward us with a smile of familiarity. “You do not remember me?!” he said in a jolly chiding. I looked hard at him.

     “Oh!” I declared as his form took shape in my memory, “you’re the travel agent guy!” I looked to Robin to gain her camaraderie in the greeting. “The man who set up our hotel stay in Lalibela!” I explained, the recognition dawning on her face. I turned back to the man: “I didn’t recognize you in street clothes,” I teased. He laughed.

     “Come, let’s have coffee,” he insisted turning to draw us along with him. I checked Robin’s face—the Taitu and answer to our artwork inquiry were within site, but she shrugged her shoulders in a “what-the-heck” gesture and we retraced our steps a few dozen yards to sit with our new friend Yemane. Despite a few off-color jokes he made in my direction and repeated requests just short of begging for me to meet him later for a beer, we enjoyed the half hour of company and coffee, but apologetically resumed our quest for artwork.

     The clerk was again alone in the store and greeted us merrily: “Hello! We tried to call your phone but you did not answer,” she said immediately. Robin dug through her purse to verify the accusation but no matter: “The owner has agreed to the price you offered,” she continued. I was stunned.

     “Really?” I said stupidly.

     “Yes,” she replied matter-of-factly.

     “Um,” was the best I could utter. I needed a moment to process the idea that we’d gotten our way and were the owners of original Ethiopian art. “Great!” I said at last. Robin and I dug through our wallets to determine our cash situation, something we clearly should have done earlier knowing that the banks would be closed on Saturday afternoon. We needed to buy more time before buying the art: “Let us get back to the Churchill,” I offered. “We’ll get organized, unload our bags, and be back this evening to pay and pick these up.” That was fine, she said. We agreed that the canvases would be removed from their wooden frames and rolled for transport. Cardboard tubes would certainly be a bonus but given the effort it took to find toilet paper, that was a detail we would forfeit without a battle. Robin and I floated back to our hotel, still reeling in a fog of disbelief.

     “We’re having the best 24 hours ever!” I noted. Robin agreed wholeheartedly.

     Back at the hotel, still without hot water, I toyed with the idea of heading down to the hotel spa for a pedicure … my poor feet. My hair and lips and nails and feet were dried to a crisp from my stay in the high elevation of Addis Ababa: my heels cracked, my toenails were chipped.

     “I’m going for it,” I told Robin, picking up the phone to see if I could muster an appointment with no notice. “And how much is a massage?” I asked the spa receptionist. “What about a hair wash?” I continued, a current of happiness whisking me out of control. “I’ll be right there.”

     Robin had a farewell dinner scheduled with Tewodros, her stalker; I figured I would have my treatments and be back in plenty of time to see her off at 4:30 and make a plan to reconnect in Kenya: my flight left Addis Ababa at 1:30 a.m.—less than 12 hours away—and Robin’s wouldn’t arrive for another 7 hours after mine landed. In the gap between countries, we would have no way to communicate so needed a rendezvous strategy and a back-up plan. The lag time between our flight arrivals was welcomed as I had skateboards to deal with, a hurdle that was making me more and more uneasy as the deadline approached. I headed downstairs while Robin reorganized her baggage and got ready to go out.

     I was welcomed at the spa by several staff members; I saw no other patrons, but was guided swiftly to a massage room and left alone to undress and wait on the table. It occurred to me after the therapist left that I had no idea of massage protocol in Ethiopia … naked? Not naked? Face down? Face up? I went for it all out and figured I was in for the adventure.

     WOW. That was a Top-10 massage. And at 150 birr … $8.53 … even China couldn’t touch that. I lugged my mushy muscles into the next room where a bucket of steaming hot water awaited my feet. I sat in a stupor as a woman worked fervently on callouses and dirt and all the ugly things that Ethiopia had imposed on my precious piggies. I glanced at the clock … it was pushing 4:15; I’d been there over 2 hours and wasn’t close to extracting my feet from the woman’s grasp. I needed to get together with Robin, who would be heading out to dinner any time. “Don’t stress,” I thought. “You’ll spoil your massage.” I realized we hadn’t picked up our paintings nor had I sorted out my payment method. “Don’t stress,” I demanded and closed my eyes.

     At 4:25, Robin walked into the spa: “Helllll-oooo!” she called out.

     “I’m over here!” I hollered at a respectable decibel. Robin was all pulled together for her dinner and obviously in a rush. “I’m sorry,” I offered. “I had no idea I’d be this long.” I wasn’t complaining.

     “I’ve left U.S. dollars in the room for the painting,” she said. She was always so organized, I thought. “You need to be there by five o’clock; they close at five.”

     ARGH!! Dang. Now that’s definitely going to spoil my massage, I fretted. And my hair wasn’t even washed yet. “Okay, no problem,” I responded, trying to sound casual; I didn’t want her to stress before her non-date date. “I’ll figure it out.”

     “I’ll be back before you leave for the airport,” she called back to me as she headed out the spa door.

     “Okay!” I called after her. “Have fun!”

     Hmmmmm … I had thirty minutes to run upstairs to our room; figure out cash; run uphill to the Taitu, at least a half-mile away, without damaging my pedicure; buy the paintings; get back to have my hair washed before the spa closed … DO NOT SPOIL YOUR MASSAGE, I thought again, noting that my feet were drowned lazily in a sudsy hot bucketful of water, nowhere near ready to alight me on my mission. “I have to go,” I told the woman, bewildered. “I will be back for my hair.” She seemed to barely understand the interruption and my sudden sense of urgency, which was perfectly reasonable … who leaves in the middle of a spa treatment? I pulled my feet from their bath, dried them, slipped on my sandals, and handed her 300 birr: “I will be back,” I repeated.

     With as much calmness as I could muster, I went through the motions of my quest: up the elevator; into the room; 4:42 p.m.; put on socks and shoes to protect my pampered feet; find Robin’s cash; procure my own cash, a flimsy conglomeration of dollars and birr; use calculator and conversion app to confirm total; breathe; do not spoil massage; disregard what my dirty, massaged hair must look like; elevator to lobby; 4:50 p.m. Walk very briskly up Churchill Street; breathe in the nose, out the mouth so to keep a steady flow of oxygen and not spoil massage; do not stress at corner … turn right here? Go straight? Ask policeman. Turn right. 4:54 p.m. Breathe; ignore calls of “Hal-lo!”; do not spoil massage; enter Taitu calmly through revolving door; approach shop. Closed.

     $#)(%*_)$(@*#+$

     That could definitely put a ding in the massage.

     A waitress hustled to greet me. “Are the closed for the evening,” I gasped, working feverishly at calmness and oxygen and politeness.

     “No,” she offered alertly. I must have looked like a deer in the headlights … a deer with a massaged head of unwashed hair, a fistful of cash in different currencies, and shoes and socks beneath a skirt. “She will reopen at five o’clock,” she explained. “Closed from three o’clock to five o’clock.”

     “Ahhhhhhhhh,” I responded. Yep. I dropped heavily into a nearby chair and conceded that my massage was now in the past.

     The clerk entered the store with a sense of urgency. The owner, whom we’d met before without realizing her position, arrived soon afterwards to supervise the canvas removal from the wooden framework and the packaging, which I appreciated. It was quite a production, which included one of the artists, who touched up an area with which he was displeased where the fold of the painting around the frame had given way a bit to the pressure. Within a half hour, I was handed two lengths of 4², gray PVC pipe, each stuffed with its respective treasure and taped securely at the ends to confine its cargo. With gratitude and goodbyes, I was off again, retracing my steps down the hill, through the calls, left onto Churchill Street, up the elevator, out of the shoes, back down the elevator, into the spa … ahhhhhhhhh. Please wash my nasty hair while I pretend I never left.

   Clean, refreshed, and the legitimate owner of what I believed to be a striking original oil painting, I happily cleared my $15.92 bill for spa services rendered, added roughly $2.50 in tips to be shared between the service providers, and headed back to the room to organize my belongings and set my mind on getting ten skateboards into Kenya.