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snuck up on me. Or there was alcohol in our beer.”
    He chuckled and offered to give me a lift to my hotel for a much needed nap.
    Once in my room, I found my moleskine notebook and made a list of things I knew about Gerhard.
    Turned out, I didn’t know very much at all.
    Confused and frustrated, I fell onto the bed fully dressed and gave into beer and dairy sleepiness.
    Gerhard Hendriks was a Dutch enigma, much like the Flying Dutchman.

    I HAD A nap, a shower, and a new outlook on Gerhard.
    We had now.
    I was leaving; he was leaving. I wouldn’t spend the next thirty-six hours stewing. I didn’t stew. I wasn’t a stewer. Not over men.
    Forty-eight hours of going with the flow. I would be Selah Elmore, flow-goer.
    I admitted when I first woke up, groggy from another Gerhard, Norse God pirate dream, I thought about emailing Anita and asking about his preference for teammates when playing hide the salami, but while showering I decided it would be weird and desperate, and anti-flow-going.
    Instead, I would put on my lady pants and enjoy the company of a handsome man without wondering what it would be like to get in his pants.
    It would be a first in a long time for me.
    I loved getting inside men’s pants.
    Sighing, I dressed in a pair of black trousers and a flowy tunic decorated with a peacock pattern. Mature, classic, and flowy—very me.
    My plan crumbled when Gerhard showed up wearing jeans and a navy polo shirt. If possible, he looked better in jeans than he did in his suits. Gone were the polished banker shoes, replaced by gray Vans. A classic tank watch decorated his wrist instead of the cufflinks I wanted to undo with my teeth.
    I was in trouble.
    When he warmly greeted me with the double cheek kiss, his five o’clock shadow scraped deliciously across my jaw.
    Big trouble.
    My cheeks heated and I resisted the urge to try for the triple kiss, planning to miss his cheek. Of course, before I could pucker up, he pulled away, complimenting me on my shirt.
    Regaining my composure, I thanked him and asked, “Where are we going?”
    “To eat a multitude of foods you won’t be able to find in Ghana.”
    “I approve of your mission.”
    He smiled at me before licking the corner of his mouth. “What mission would that be?” He raised his eyebrows.
    “The feed Selah all forbidden foods mission.”
    “Ah, right. Well, next stop on the food mission, the traditional Rijsttafel .”
    “Sounds very Dutch.”
    “It means ‘rice table’ and it’s Indonesian. How do you feel about spicy?”
    “Love a little spice,” I flirted.
    “Good,” he replied, giving away nothing.
    Dinner equaled a table full of small dishes, most of which were spicy, saucy, and delicious. Pickles, various sauces, veggies, and mysterious condiments filled the bowls crowding any remaining table space not occupied by our wine glasses. It was a feast.
    A feast of confusion.
    Yep. Still no clue.
    We flirted and talked. His eyes twinkled, and my cheeks hurt from smiling.
    And still no idea.
    It didn’t matter. I had one of the best nights in memory. I laughed, he laughed. I snorted, he laughed harder. I spit spicy sambal into my napkin, and he almost spit out his water. The restaurant had cleared out when we finally paid the bill.
    Stumbling outside, still laughing, I rubbed my belly and called uncle. “No more. No more food. No more laughing. I can’t take any more.”
    Gerhardt wiped a stray tear from his face and nodded silently, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “Okay. I admit defeat.”
    I pulled a tissue from my purse and waved it, which only made him laugh again.
    We were punch drunk on each other, walking crookedly down the sidewalk, gaining odd looks from fellow pedestrians.
    After a handful of minutes of silence, broken only by the occasional residual giggle or snort, I realized we were walking in the direction of my hotel.
    Perhaps I was about to solve the mystery of Gerhard and what got him hard.

THE SAYING ABOUT assuming and