Gondar, Gonder, Gondor, whatever you are called given the ridiculously inconsistent spelling habits of your country,

Children say they love me and then ask me for money

Since when is love so conditional?

They call me Mr. and say I’m fat so I call the boys girls and the girls boys and they storm off in an offense which says I will never speak to you again

Until tomorrow when I will again ask you for money and call you by Mr. or you, you, you, you, or on a good day, China or German.

Young and old, men and women, you shake your shoulders as if they were not connected to your body. I try and it looks like I am having a seizure. You take me to your Asmari bets where shoulder shaking abounds and you serenade ferange women with your traditional instruments using compliments such as, ‘your breasts are like papayas’

Your men are experts in spur of the moment marriage proposals and don’t seem to understand how an unmarried women could possibly turn down any of their tantalizing offers.

Your people are proud which I applaud you for and yet at the same time resistant to change and often unwilling to admit when you are wrong. The pride of the kings who built your great stone fortresses and castles is the same pride which resides in your own psyche and yet it is a pride which needs to be humbled if change is to be made.

Remnants of ancient castles litter the countryside and life is built around these testaments to your glory days of King Fasil and Queen Sheba.

Your injera is black and your shiro spicy and someone needs to tell the chef at Queen’s that cheese goes under the condiments on a pizza, not on top.

A menu is only a ‘suggestion’ for the possibilities of what one could hope to order if given an ideal world. You can order an egg sandwich and a cheese sandwich but you cannot order cheese on your egg sandwich. You mix tea with your coffee, Pepsi with your hard liquor and wine but if I mix my shiro with rice your people stare.

 The Muslim calls to worship can be heard melting into the chants of the monks coming from St. Michaels or St. Gabriel’s and If you are lucky to rise early enough in the morning you can see a countryside covered in white as natella clad worshippers embark on their daily pilgrimage to one of your 3,000 churches.

You try to charge me exorbitant prices for your daily transportation services and for wares in your market and you give me separate menus at restaurants and separate pricings for hotel stays. And yet when I choose to forgo your discriminatory practices and walk myself I am followed and sexually harassed or shunned for questioning your pricing. Please forgive me but this is a new practice to me. In my country we do not operate on a sliding scale where prices change depending upon skin color or country of origin.

You do not understand that I am not from Washington DC even though half of your population has relatives in Seattle, but you love Obama so for the most part you love me. He can be seen all over your town, playing pool by the bus stop, sporting the latest in fashion at your local souks,  flashing his grin on your shiny belt buckles,  and tattooed to the backs sides, wheels and windows of your bajaj’s and line taxis.

Thank you for your special fool, not sure what I could have done without it. It is indeed the breakfast of Champions. Thank you all the children who actually wanted to hold my hand with wanting nothing in return.  Thanks to the graciousness of all the church leaders. Thanks to Rosco my live in pet rat for always keeping things interesting.  Thank you Bose my crazy guard/housekeeper for testing my patience beyond the point which I thought humanly possible.  Thank you Dashen Brewery for your $1 fries and two buck glorious chuck and for so many other things which I am choosing to tactfully censor for the faint of heart. Gondar, parts of you I will miss and parts of you I will not.