One Last Farewell to Dire Dawa ❤️

1. They say goodbye gets easier with practice, but Dire Dawa didn’t get the memo. As I zipped up my backpack, the city’s morning hum seeped through the hotel window—the distant clatter of market stalls, a child’s laughter, the low rumble of a minibus. This wasn’t just a “see you later”; it was a final goodbye, and suddenly, every corner I’d wandered, every face I’d smiled at, felt sharper, more precious. Some places don’t just stay in your photos—they nestle in your chest, and Dire Dawa was one of them. 🧳🌅🔊 2. I started my last morning with a walk, retracing familiar streets like flipping through a favorite book. The Merkato was already alive: the same woman who’d sold me mangoes daily waved, her stall stacked high with ripe fruit glistening in the sun. A group of elders sat on a bench, sipping tea, and one called out, “Leaving today?” When I nodded, he clapped my shoulder. “Come back,” he said simply. No fanfare, just a quiet certainty that felt like a promise. I stopped at the juice cart, and the vendor—who’d learned I took extra lime—handed over a cup without asking. Some connections, even small ones, leave marks. 🥭🍵👋 3. The hotel lobby felt emptier than usual. The receptionist, who’d helped me navigate bus timetables on my first day, smiled as I handed over the key. “You liked the pasta?” she asked, referencing the carbonara that had become my comfort meal. I told her it was better than some I’d had in Rome, and her laugh echoed. “Chef will be proud,” she said, slipping a small packet into my hand—roasted peanuts, my guilty pleasure from the market. It was the kind of gesture that turns a hotel into a memory. 🏨🍝🥜 4. The taxi ride to the station was slower than I wanted, each block unspooling like a reel. We passed the tailor’s sidewalk workshop, where he still bent over his sewing machine, and the river where kids had splashed on my first afternoon. The driver must’ve noticed me staring; he slowed down, grinning. “Nice city, yes?” he said. “Very nice,” I replied, and meant it. Dire Dawa wasn’t perfect—its streets were chaotic, its heat relentless—but it was *unapologetic*, and that’s what I’d grown to love. 🚕🧵💦 5. At the station, I bought a ticket and found a bench, my bag at my feet. A woman sat down beside me, her toddler on her lap, and offered a piece of flatbread. I took it, and we watched the trains come and go, no need for words. When my bus pulled in, I stood, and the toddler waved—a tiny hand, a toothless grin. I waved back, and suddenly, leaving didn’t feel like an end. It felt like closing a chapter, knowing I’d revisit the pages. 🚌🍞👶 6. As the bus pulled away, I pressed my forehead to the window, memorizing the skyline—the domes of mosques, the spires of old churches, the way the sun hit the rooftops. Dire Dawa, with its noisy streets and quiet kindness, had snuck into my bones. Goodbyes hurt, but they’re proof you cared—and I cared, deeply. So I whispered it, soft, to the wind: “See you again, Dire Dawa.” And I meant that, too. 🌟 #FarewellDireDawa #EthiopiaMemories #LastGoodbyes #TravelTalesEastAfrica #WanderlustHeart