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Li Ethiopian-style—with a slight bow and my left hand holding my right forearm. I could tell he and my mother ate it up.
    â€œCome,” the ambassador said, “I will give you a tour.” I followed obediently as Ambassador Li led us and the rest of the dinner guests inside the stadium.
    Suddenly I noticed the music that was being piped in throughout the arena. “Excuse me, is that Elvis?”
    Ambassador Li beamed. “American music in honor of our American guests.”
Weirder and weirder
.
    Our tour began in the arena, which, we were informed, could accommodate 15,000 spectators. “My, the seats look so comfortable, Ambassador Li!” I exclaimed. My mother gave me a warning look, and I flashed her a smile.
See how good I am?
    On our way to the prime minister’s personal viewing box, we passed the restrooms. My mother shot me another look, and this time I kept my mouth shut.
    When we were all seated in the box, Ambassador Li announced, “And now I have something very exciting to show my guests.” He leaned over and whispered to me, “Usually I do this only for the prime minister. But tonight”—he paused for dramatic effect—“I do it”—
pause
—“for you!”
    Suddenly jets of water erupted all over the field, pumping so hard they looked like fireworks.
    â€œThis is how we keep the grass healthy!” yelled Ambassador Li over the din. “The jets pump two tons of water per minute!”
    Two tons of water per minute in a country where more than a million people have died in droughts. I felt sick to my stomach.
    And dinner didn’t help.
    The dining room was large, a crazy mix of Chinese architecture, with red lacquered walls and black trim, and early-Ethiopian art in carved wood frames. Since the country is mostly Christian, all the paintings showed religious scenes, not that I recognized any of them, except for Saint George slaying the dragon. We had studied paintings like these in art class. It’s kind of cool, actually. Four hundred years ago there were all these studios with artists who specialized in one tiny detail: Master of the Eyelashes, Master of the Small Chin, and my personal favorite, Master of the Sagging Cheeks.
    We sat at a shiny black table in the center of the room underneath a huge gold chandelier. I looked at the endless spread of silverware and chopsticks in front of me and cringed. This was going to be a long night.
    Ambassador Li clapped his hands, and on cue three waiters swept into the room carrying silver traysoverflowing with food. They placed the mammoth platters on a giant lazy Susan in the middle of our table.
    I’m a pretty adventurous eater, but there was stuff here I’d never seen in my life. Something pale and spongy called fish maw (I found out later that
maw
means “stomach”!) and some squiggly stuff I didn’t even want to know about. Ever the dutiful daughter and under my mother’s eagle eye, I put a little bit of each dish on my plate. Lucky me, I was seated next to Ambassador Li, who made sure nothing got by me. Even worse, he confessed he had a “bad stomach” (
please, spare me the details!
) and graciously sent all his portions of spicy food to me.
Maybe if I throw up all over the table, it will liven up the party—you know, make the evening memorable
.
    Dr. Jonathan Clarke, from Chicago, the prime minister’s personal physician, sat on my other side. I have to give him credit—he really did try: “So, Lucy, I imagine you’ve been to lots of places around the world in your young life. How do you like living in Ethiopia?”
    â€œWell, to tell you the truth, Dr. Clarke,” I said in between bites, “most of the time I don’t feel likeI
am
living in Ethiopia. My mother doesn’t let me go out on my own, and visiting museums gets a little old after a while. So mostly I just go to school and sit around at