On our first day volunteering at AHOPE, T and I are assigned to sort through the medical supply closet with Tigist, the beautiful nurse. Supplies come in all the time, from families adopting through other organizations, and the closet is chock full of stuff. One plastic bin is almost entirely full of toothbrushes, and we find jar after jar of vitamins. We sort them by expiration date, putting them in boxes for 2008 and 2009, and chucking the ones that have already expired. We go through all the giant bins and manage to finish before lunch, but the triumph is shortlived, since more boxes will inevitably soon arrive.

In the afternoon, we go shopping. M and B teach us how to take the public taxis, which are Toyota Hiace vans in blue and white, with four rows of seats. Men hang out the windows of these vans, yelling their destination: Mexicomexico, or Piassapiassa. The taxis dont leave until theyre full, and by full, they mean three people in front, two in the first three seats, four in the back row, and people sitting on the back wheel.

We go to the Churchill St shops, since the girls say Mercado is too crazy. There is a short row of stores selling jewelry and art and other souvenirs; in the middle, there is a restaurant that the girls say has the best pineapple juice ever. We stop for some juice, and its so good that M and I each have two. I dont buy anything (which T thinks is a miracle), but the girls both get some small things.

For dinner, we go to an Indian restaurant on Bole Rd., one of the most famous roads in Addis. B doesnt think she likes Indian, so we decide that she just needs to know what to try. Our waiter is a man with a wide smile who helps us order, telling us we need X number of naan, and X number of dishes, and showing us which to eat in which order. I wasnt thrilled about eating Indian again, so soon after leaving and in another country, but the food is delicious and B does change her mind. Before we leave, I tell the waiter that we were just in India, and his food is just as good. He nods, knowingly, as though I have just told him I am not African, or something equally obvious and simple.

After dinner, the girls take us to Makush Gallery, just a few doors down from the restaurant. As we are walking up the stairs, the Americans in front of us start talking to T, and it turns out that they are law students from Northwestern who have been trying to get in touch with AHOPE for an adoption project theyre doing. They plan to visit the following day, and we check out the art, which is wonderful. I beg and plead with T to buy me some, but he says no, mostly because he is evil and wicked and hates beautiful things (me included, of course).

After the gallery, we are standing at Mexico Square waiting for our taxi home. Kids come up to us, begging, with the usual story: my mother and father dead, please, food. M gives our leftover rice to one little girl, and she sprints off into the night, with the other children at her heels.