“Elias is a great guy, you know? The best.” The way she said that seemed far from casual, and I squirmed in my seat, wondering if people had been talking about the two of us.

“Umm, yeah, he is,” I said cautiously, scrutinizing her face for any evidence that she was aware of what was going on with Elias and me, but she just kept driving in silence, wearing a neutral expression.

The restaurant was fantastic. The owner had been an executive for one of those high-end burger franchises in the States and had come back to Addis Ababa to start her own business with a similar model. They had three kinds of burgers, fries, wine, and beer. Simple menu, but everything was delicious and had something of the local flavors mixed in.

I had a veggie burger topped with ayeb, a local cheese that resembled a chevre, with berbere fries, and loved it. I put another one in my mouth and moaned as Bonnie laughed at me. “Good, huh?”

“Oh my god, these are amazing. Tossing them in berbere is genius!” I was obsessed with the bright red thirteen-spice blend that was the base of Ethiopian cuisine. It was such a unique flavor, and apparently made everything delicious. The food and the company this evening had been great, and with my belly full of good food and two pints of St. George beer, I was feeling a lot more like myself.

I was sitting next to Brett, an Aussie who was in Addis working for Oxfam. I was half-listening to him tell a story about smuggling liters of vodka into Afghanistan in water bottles for some Marines who traded them for boxes of American cereal, butter and Ivory soap. So far the story was hilarious and involved various run-ins with camels. He kept looking at me and winking the more ridiculous the story got. I wasn’t sure if I was up for flirting, but it felt nice to be here. Familiar. The expat scene was always sort of the same no matter where. It felt uncomplicated to be out with this group, and tonight that was a welcome feeling.

We stayed at the restaurant until almost 10:00 p.m., but eventually Bonnie and I begged off, explaining I had an early drive to the field. I got in the car with her after she said my guesthouse was on the way and she could drop me off.

We were laughing about the end of Brett’s story—which involved carrying mac and cheese out of the Kabul embassy in condom boxes—when we pulled up to the guesthouse.

“He’s so funny,” I said. “And looks like I’m home. Thanks for letting me tag along. I had a great time.”