“True.” He had a point. “So, remind me were farenji comes from? I mean, it sort of sounds like foreigner.”
“It’s always been the word used to describe someone from outside of Ethiopia. I think it comes from the Arabic word ‘farenji.’ And you’re correct, it does mean ‘foreigner.’”
I leaned back in my seat as we talked, already feeling way too comfortable with Elias. “I’m glad I’m fulfilling the expected behavior, at least so far. Anything else on the list I should make sure I do while I’m here? I don’t want to disappoint.”
My tone was teasing, and from the way his mouth turned up, I could tell Elias totally got my joke. “Well, lots of farenji want to go and eat kitfo—it’s raw beef with spices, like steak tartare. They always say if they take medicine, they won’t get sick from eating it. They take the medicine and still get sick. That happens a lot.” He shook his head in amused confusion as I chuckled.
“I can assure you that won’t be me. I don’t eat beef. I guess I’ll just get drunk and try to speak in bad Amharic.”
He let out a laugh at that, his deep voice full of humor when he spoke. “This also happens a lot.”
Oh man, he was so sexy.
Elias drove us through a particularly tricky intersection, and I used the quiet moment to take him in. He was wearing a gray fleece with the Aid USA logo on the breast pocket, and a thick leather bracelet watch that made his hands look like a warrior’s or something. He was also perfectly groomed. The nails of his strong hands were clipped and buffed, like he’d had a manicure. He was clean-shaven, but his hair was long enough that he needed to pull it back with an elastic band. It looked like a halo of tight curls around his head.
I realized that I’d been staring for way longer than could be considered polite, and turned my attention to looking out the window and getting familiar with the place I’d been tied to from before birth. Addis had seen an economic boom in the last fifteen years and the city was expanding, but as we got farther out, we saw less concrete.
An hour into the drive, we began passing mountains and green hills, each stretching as far as the eye could see. We also passed vendors by the side of the road. Women with babies strapped to their backs sat by tables full of huge honeycombs or bottles of water. I even spotted a few roadside artists.
It was beautiful, all of it. The sky was so big here. Huge boulders dotted the landscape, and occasionally we would see patches of flowering cacti lining the road.
Once it looked like we had gotten past the heavier traffic, Elias turned to me. “Do you want to put on some music? I have a cord here if you have your phone.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, not wanting to subject him to my music. “We can play what you like, since you’re the one driving. I’m pretty open—I’ll listen to anything. If it’s good.” I winked.
He chuckled at my attempt at humor. “I have very particular music taste. You may not like it.”
“Uh-huh. So tell me, what do you listen to?”
He gave me a look, and I knew he was a messing with me when he burst out laughing, “Actually, I can’t stop listening to Beyoncé lately!”
For some reason that made laugh too, “Hey, nothing wrong with Queen Bey. Lemonade is epic.”
At my words he turned serious and said, “I usually listen to a lot of blues and jazz, but that album is amazing. I think she tells a beautiful story.” He shook his head as I stared at him, once again bowled over by him. “Now I’ve made the whole thing too serious. No way will it live up to this introduction. Let’s hear some music you like.”
“Okay, but for the record, I could listen to Lemonade anytime,” I said as I got my iPhone out.
Knowing I’d be offline a lot during my trips outside of Addis, I’d downloaded a ton of music, podcasts, and audiobooks on my phone, so I had lots of choices. For some reason, being on this open road with what seemed like a never-ending range of mountains made me want to listen to something a bit melancholy.
I hit play and “Poison & Wine” came in through the speakers. I immediately felt the music affect me. The contrasting pulse of the guitar and light piano, like two heartbeats skittering in unison, wreaked havoc on my recently bruised heart. This playlist was one of my favorites to listen to while driving. But today, I felt exposed listening to it with Elias. Like he’d somehow figure out my sad love story.
Next to me, he grunted approval of the music. “I like this song,” he said, tapping the steering wheel. “Their voices are so perfect together.”
I smiled and turned to look at him. “The Civil Wars.”
He made another sound of approval at the name of the band, and we listened to the rest of the song in silence.
When it was over, I saw his jaw clench for a second, clearly thinking hard on whatever he was about to say. When he spoke, his voice was low, like he wasn’t totally sure it was a good idea. “The love in that song is the kind which can only survive if it’s tearing you apart or putting you back together.”
Damn. Drag me, Elias.
I had no idea how to respond to that. I sat there in silence, thinking of what he’d said, how exposed it made me feel, when I noticed Elias bopping his head, his dark brown curls bouncing as he sang around a big grin on his face. I turned my attention to the music and noticed the Civil Wars cover of “Billie Jean” was playing. I’d forgotten about
