In the Land of Sheba: A Pilgrimage to Ethiopia

The trip's worst day coincides with my 37^th birthday. In the open-air market outside the walls of a 16^th-century Islamic town called Harar, I slip, fall, and scrape my left leg. Among the scrap metal heaps and Quran vendors, my knee starts to bleed, and I begin to cry. It's the mildest of scratches, but the sting and surprise is enough to make the dammed-up tears of a lonely trip fall. I scramble to find my cheap, knockoff sunglasses in my bag. I hate wearing sunglasses. In my embarrassment, I'm glad for them now.