Bring An Open Heart

Another FB post made me stop to reflect a bit and the result is this. Everyone who has the luxury of travel, and who is interested in an experience, should travel to Ethiopia. The reason I say this has to do with the aforementioned FB post which happened to be about the airport in Ethiopia's capital city.

Of all the airports in the world, the one that has made the best impression on me is the airport in Addis Ababa. It's not fancy but it's comfortable enough. Definitely busy. A bit chaotic inside. The parking lot is beyond insane given that it is not big to begin with and basically serves as the "arrival lounge" since you can't get into the airport building without holding a plane ticket. It's functionally clean - cleaner in many aspects than some airports in the U.S. although there probably won't be toilet paper in the bathrooms. It's reasonably efficient, especially given that it's an international airport with all that implies. I mean the amount of checked luggage being processed is a thing all unto itself. It has good last minute shopping opportunities, although at the point of departure I am usually broke. Great place for people watching. The worst I can say is that there is is one cafe where for some reason it's impossible to get your bill in a timely fashion. And yet, I've eaten there three times.

But all that aside, there is a level of courtesy that I encountered with the employees of the Addis Ababa Airport that is based on both common sense and kindness. For example:

- The visa processing agent who went along a very long line and pulled out everyone carrying a sleeping or crying child on their shoulder and expedited them at a different table.
- The porter who helped with our lost luggage and GOT.IT.DONE. Who told Atinafu in an moment of fussiness to "Sit" in polite but no uncertain terms. (And he sat, to the exhausted amazement myself and Roxann.) Who insisted on carrying 50 pound Johnathan at a moment when I was perilously near tears. He said to Johnathan "I will carry you" in that same courteous but no nonsense voice. Johnathan looked at him, looked at me, and promptly snuggled into this stranger's neck and went with it. 10 days later,as we were leaving, that same man popped out of the crowd in the parking lot to give Johnathan a hug and ask him how his trip had been.
- The janitor who, when asked where we could buy a card to load up my cell phone with minutes, promptly offered his own cell so we could call the people who were waiting for us in the parking lot.
- The wrapping service in the airport where for a small amount of money you can have that big item that you really wanted to bring home with you basically shrink wrapped quickly and expertly. No fuss/no muss.

Now I'm not stupid. With the exception of the visa agent, all of the above people made some money for providing a service. People have to make a living. Ethiopia can be a hard place to do that. And the combination of my white skin and obvious accent make me easily identifiable as an American. The chances of me being a profitable "customer" are probably better than decent. But the way that each individual provided service was so gracious and kind, that the fact that there was clearly Birr or Dollars involved seemed like an afterthought.

So that's what I have experienced in Ethiopia. As a tourist, the process of moving about from place to place, sightseeing, etc., is at a practical level all founded on the money. That is just a fact. Tourism is an industry, after all. In fact, it's my industry so I should know. But every place I have traveled in Ethiopia, I have been impressed with the fact that tourism is presented with an attitude of "Please, let me show you/let me help you". Kind people have run several blocks away to get bubbly water for my sick child. All the Amharic I know, I have learned in the back of a battered blue taxi cab. I had fun learning it and I remember it all. Many, many strangers in various restaurants and cafes have done what they can to entice my finicky children to eat. With a couple of tiny exceptions, no person I have encountered in Ethiopia has made me feel uncomfortable or unwelcome. And no one that I have met was not proud to show me their bit of Ethiopia.

That isn't to say that your attitude as a tourist doesn't makes a difference. I have seen some extremely rude tourists in Ethiopia, as in everywhere else in the world. I have seen people treat guest house hosts like servants. I've seen people be loud and demanding and entitled. I think that you reap what you sow. While touring a church complex in Axum, I was told very regretfully by the guide that there was parts of the grounds and one church building where women could not enter. Did I want to see the church? Sure. But... instead, while my father went and toured the church, I wrapped my scarf a little tighter around my head and went and sat on a boulder with a group of Axumite women who were there for a religious ceremony related to Lent. We exchanged shy smiles and head nods, shoulder shrugs indicating "gosh, it's a beautiful day", etc. We listened to the chants coming from the church. It was lovely and peaceful and a moment that had meaning to me. And then... we proceeded to watch a group of female American tourists, in shorts and tank tops no less, fuss loudly and harass their guide about the gender restriction and generally make asses of themselves. It was so embarrassing. Really, I blushed for them. From their guides frosty body language I am guessing that their tour was close to over and that if they took anything away from their experience that day, it was basically the same stuff they could have found in a guide book.

Ethiopia is a beautiful country. So much to see, so much history and culture and so many contrasting dynamics. But above all, a place where you can bring an open heart and a sincere interest and receive kindness and courtesy and true hospitality.

November 1 and Turkey Day approaches. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday because it’s all about sharing time with people we love. There are no other distractions, like presents or egg hunts. Just family and whatever friends land at our table. (Well, my dad's table. Not mine, for reasons that will soon be obvious.) November also makes me remember one very particular Thanksgiving dinner.

Way back when, I spent my junior year of University in Dijon, France, in a French language program for foreign students with lots and lots of people from all over the world. With the holiday approaching, my American compatriots and I decided to host a Thanksgiving dinner party for our friends to share our traditions. It was a great idea but the reality was slightly more complicated. We were all 19, 20, 21. Not one of us knew how to cook. This was before cell phones and internet. Reference materials were limited and there was no phoning home to mom for advice. Overall we did not clearly think this plan through before inviting a bunch of people to dinner.

Nevertheless, the menu was created & dishes assigned. I got pumpkin pies because I had made one once, from canned pumpkin pie product and frozen pie shells. There was some mixing involved, but overall it was pretty simple and I thought easy-peasy.

The following is the chain of events as I recall them.

•Go to grocery store and find frozen pie crusts but search for canned Libby’s Pumpkin Pie mix to no avail.

•Ask store employee for help but discover that I do not know the word for pumpkin and am not THAT good at charades.

•Search French/English dictionary for the word for pumpkin. Find a word that means roughly “gourd”. No dice, but one very amused employee suggests that “gourds” might be found in the weekly outdoor market.

•Stop to ponder the thought that I am in way, way, way over my head and am going to have to make the pie. As in make it from scratch. Totally from scratch.

•Deep breath. This should be interesting. (A smarter girl would have suggested a different desert at this moment.)

•Scour the market, interrogate numerous elderly market vendors. Find one green, roundish gourd thingy that has been cut in half to display orange interior.

•Sniff the gourd, decide that this is as good as it gets and make purchase along with a bunch of spices that smelled sort of right.

•Return to dorm to figure out how to reduce my gourd down to pumpkin pie filling. My tools: one knife, one bowl, one pot and a hot plate burner in the communal kitchen with one heat setting and a button that had to be pushed every 5 minutes to keep it on.

•(Let’s just skip the next four hours and say that it was not pretty.)

•Gather pie crust and resultant gourd filling. Get on the bus to the house where the pie will be cooked.

•Walk into chaos caused by the fact that, as it turns out, French turkeys are small. They are small because French ovens are small. There are two turkeys. One turkey has been squashed into the oven. It is cube shaped. The second waits to follow. Total cooking time line destroyed. My pie has been bumped.

•Gather group around the table to stare at pie components, completely nonplussed by turn of events.

•American with available oven identified on the other end of town. Two bus rides later, involving MANY stares and whispers from local commuters, the pie is in the oven.

•Struck by thought that I have no idea how long it needs to cook.

•Realize that it does not matter anyway. It has 30 minutes to cook and then it’s back on the bus to return to the party house before the guests arrive. The pie will have to finish, if need be, when the oven is free. (Those reading who know anything about food safety are now shuddering. I accept that.)

•Two pies eventually make it back into an oven and bake. And bake and bake. Or rather don’t bake. At least not into anything pumpkin pie like.

•People of various nationalities bravely scoop up pumpkin sludge and say things like “Yummy!” and “Wow!” and “May I have the recipe, please”. In French. Proving that the ability to "BS" for the sake of politeness is global.

•A fellow hostess hands me a glass of wine and says "Oh well. No one is dead and no one is bleeding. No biggie." And then hands me another glass of wine.

•Return in the morning to help clean up house. Find a table full of women eating the pumpkin pie that sat slowly cooking with the oven pilot light all night and is beautiful. And delicious.

All in all, it was a Thanksgiving adventure. I learned some things. 1) I am stubborn. 2) I am somewhat creative. Not necessarily in an efficient manner, but if it needs to be done, I can get it done. 3) Really, it's not a crisis if not one is dead and no one is bleeding. I have totally embraced that philosophy. Sometimes to the great annoyance of those around me. 4) Finally, and most important, I have great friends and people are kind.

Wishing everyone memorable adventures as we more into the holiday season.