Semqua and I were each on a fourth mini bottle of red wine. It was the most enjoyable intercontinental flight I'd ever taken alone.

My drunkenness was heightened by lack of sleep; I'd purposely stayed awake the previous night both to take care of all those niggling last-minute things and to crash hard on the flight. But thanks to Virgin Atlantic's impressive entertainment system and my inability to both guard my backpack and sleep soundly through my interminable Heathrow layover, I was still exhausted. I'd dozed a bit on the second leg, but upon waking for dinner, I chatted with Swedish-born Ethiopian and London university student Sem happily the rest of the BMI flight.

He taught me my first Amharic words—tadias (hello) and ameseganalehu (thanks)—then teased me when I tested out my new vocab at the airport bank counter at 4AM. With a hug and a kind offer to lodge me when I returned to Addis, my new friend bade me farewell while I headed off to Dire Dawa.

Ethiopian Air requires re-confirmation of all flights the day before departure. While many locals prefer face-to-face confirmation in the airline offices, I breezed through check-in at the domestic terminal thanks to the quick email I'd sent to the airline before leaving home.

Despite the second bag check at the gate, no one bothered to tell me my backpack was too large for the small plane's overhead compartments. The airline seemed pretty casual about the whole thing, flight attendants gently admonishing me with beautiful smiles and then simply tucking my pack into a corner. I noticed another passenger actually stood the entire flight so yeah...they weren't fussy.

Outside Dire Dawa's small airport, the taxi drivers fighting over me offered the option of taking a private car all the way to Harar rather than a minibus. Not ready to splurge so early in my trip, I insisted on getting to the minibus station, where I basically met a new man every few feet saying "Harar? Get on bus." They seemed to think I would lose my way in the 40 feet between the parking lot entrance and the minibuses.

I should have checked for seats on the apparently-full minibus, which took off immediately while mine sat for 30 minutes as I tried to ignore the ancient woman out the window with her pleading eyes and hand outstretched, and children reaching inside to sell tissues (locally referred to as "soft") and gum. Behind me, a man nonchalantly asked his plump seatmate if he'd purchased two seats because he was so fat. Making light of it, the Dutch tourist dryly said, "Thanks for the compliment!" Grinning, the Ethiopian replied, "It wasn't a compliment, it's a fact." Welcome to Africa!

The sweet young woman wedged in between me and driver smiled constantly but spoke no English. She'd caved and purchased gum from the hopeful children, immediately offering me a piece. Unable to make conversation, I found myself staring in awe at the rolling mountain scenery. I'd heard plenty about Ethiopia's beauty, but the green valleys were still an unexpected thrill.

The road between Dire Dawa and Harar is on good asphalt, but parts are still under construction. Slowed more by frequent stops to pick up new passengers along the way, a distance that could be covered in an hour took almost two. Shenanigans ensued when the driver informed us we had too many passengers to get through the customs check. What customs check? Where did the regional border begin? The line of minibuses pulled over, re-shuffled passengers until every minibus held no more than 12 passengers, and eventually drove on.

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