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A friend of mine invited me to a party last week. He mentioned it to me, and I knew immediately that I wanted to go. The next time I saw him, he produced a legit paper invitation. I think that the invitation was born as some sort of flyer, but found its way into my hands folded into an envelope with my name on it. The flyer-turned-invitation briefly explained a celebration for new hope for Somalia, because of the election of new president, Sheikh Sharif Ahmed, and new prime minister, Omar Abdirashiid Ali Sharmarke. The bottom informed me that the party was Sunday night from six to eleven at a public venue. It appeared to be quite a large party, so I took the chance of appearing incredibly rude, and asked if I could bring a friend. I knew that Jenny Boe planned on visiting, and that she would appreciate an event like this. My friend, who I will call Abdi, gave me the go-ahead. 

All day Sunday, while shopping for clothes for our upcoming trip to Ireland, Jenny Boe and I speculated about our elusive party. What should we wear? I had told her to bring a fairly conservative outfit before I was able to give her all the details that I knew, which did not amount to much. When I asked Abdi for insight on the dress-code he shrugged and smiled, paused for a bit and offered, "I don't know?" Never ask a man for fashion advice. Our lack of communication resulted in Jenny Boe bringing brown pants and a button-down shirt. It was an outfit that she later described as "something a banker would wear." We opted for casual dresses with tights and boots. 

{Author's note: Jenny Boe and I are not usually the kind of friends that coordinate outfits. I blame cultural uncertainty in both of the aforementioned circumstances as the cause of our co-dependence. Our actions are a pledge to each other. If we look stupid in our new surroundings, at least we look stupid together, because looking stupid together is something that we are comfortable with. We've had years of experience.} 

Jenny Boe and I got ready for the party that we were prepared to attend. As it turns out, we did not go to that party. That party was held in a large decorated ballroom (it even said ballroom on the invitation) crowded with Somalis and a smattering of white people mingling. At that party we would discuss politics and gain insight into something that neither of us knew anything about, discovering an appreciation for a government on the other side of the world, in solidarity with the city's Somali community. We would do all this while munching on delicious Somali food. We were banking on that part because we were hungry. So we walked in and made our way with uncertainty to an area buzzing with activity. We stood in the doorway of a gathering area. Organizers sat at a table to our right that was covered with images of leaders we didn't recognize, and Somali and American flags printed on 8x11 white paper and glued to wooden paint-stirrers. Three sets of doors interrupted the back wall of this small room. Beyond those doors we caught glimpses of an auditorium with a humongous screen as the stage backdrop, playing video from a faraway land. In white letters across the picture was the word "Muqdisho" (Mogadishu in English). We spotted a podium with a microphone occupying a position stage right, surrounded with various flags. More startling than the realization that we were at this party and not the one were prepared for, the fictional one that existed only in our heads, was the fact that there was no food in sight. "There is no food here," Jenny Boe said with wide eyes and panic rising in her voice. 

We decided to wait for Abdi, who was on his way. While we waited we second-guessed ourselves. We must have appeared aimless and out-of-place because a security guard approached us and asked us if we required assistance finding something. 

"Uh, we're just not sure if we are in the right place," I said. 

"This is the Somali thing," he told us. I think that blind people would have figured out that it was a Somali gathering by that point. 

"But is there another one? Or just the one?" I asked. He smiled. 

"This is it." 

"Then we are at the right place." 

He wondered what we were doing there. We told him that we were invited by a friend. He went on to share an enthralling story about ordering six plain cheese pizzas because "they can't eat anything". 

Not long after that, two young men approached us.

"Are you coming inside?" one asked. 

"Yeah, we are just waiting for a friend." 

"Oh, we thought that you were scared."

We were a little apprehensive, but only because we had no idea what was going on and how we were supposed to act. It was a very gracious gesture, and we both appreciated it. We didn't want to lurk, though, so we decided to walk down the hallway and around the corner to see if Abdi was there. We passed vending machines that sold coffee and bottled drinks. Jenny Boe made the comment that there wasn't even food in the vending machines. "Annie, I am going to be disruptive at this thing. My stomach is growling." 

As we made our way around the corner, I spotted Abdi. I greeted him and introduced him to Jenny Boe. Then I looked up and saw one of my students from the ESL class that I used to volunteer in. He is an elderly man, and his writing was some of my favorite. I was excited to see him. I lit up, ran over and hugged him. It was not a half-assed hug. The rest of the group looked at me. I made a mental note not to throw myself at any more men. 

Abdi led us back to the table covered with signs, and gave the women our names. Before he finished, one of the women told another, "A large and an extra large." The second woman pointed to Jenny Boe and replied, "No, I think she's a medium." I was pretty embarrassed at literally being sized up. They handed us T-shirts with the Somali flag that said, "Celebrate New Hope for Somalia." Jenny Boe asked if we should put them on right then, and they said that it would be appreciated. So we put T-shirts over our dresses and followed Abdi down the aisle of the auditorium to the third row. Everyone was looking at us. Abdi seated us and left. It is pretty intimidating to be seated in the third row, behind only the elders, when you are clueless. We looked around and noticed that with the exception of the elders and a few others, the section of chairs to the left of the aisle was filled with women and the side to the right was filled with men. Since we only knew men, we were on our own. One of the elders seated in front of us turned around and asked Jenny Boe if she could speak Somali. When she told him that she couldn't he tried teaching her how to ask, "How are you?" When he turned back around she asked me, "Is this going to be in English?" The second startling realization of the night was not that we are idiots, because that is not startling. It was that we were not going to understand a word of the next four hours. 

Soon a women came down the aisle and gave us head scarfs. We took them and looked at each other. Then we turned around to see a woman behind us put hers on Rambo style. Jenny Boe started folding hers into a band. She tied it around her head. I looked at her. I couldn't do it. "I can't," I said weakly. She hissed at me through clenched teeth telling me to put it on. I asked her if I could wrap it around my wrist. She told me that might be disrespectful and that I shouldn't chance it. For the first time in my life I didn't want to rock the boat, so I took a deep breath and let her put it on me. First the dress got covered, then the hair. I checked the mirror on my phone. I might as well have put no effort whatsoever into my appearance. When people started coming around with video cameras in our faces we struggled not to giggle. As Jenny Boe put it, "My first time on TV and I look like this." I wouldn't have been nearly as self-conscious if we blended into the crowd at all, but very few people were wearing the T-shirts and the pale blue head scarfs. Not to mention that Jen and I represented half of the white people in attendance, and one-hundred percent of the white females in attendance.  

Eventually, we moved back about twenty rows. Less pressure that way. We could watch the women ahead of us, and emulate. Two hours in, Jenny Boe confessed that she didn't know how much longer she could hold up. Her hunger pains made it that much more difficult to sit through hours of speakers that we couldn't understand. She also had an hour-and-a-half drive back to Minneapolis, and work at seven the next morning. I understood, but wanted to stay. We decided to leave for a minute to grab something to eat and that I would come back and she would go home.  

When I returned, things seemed more relaxed. People were moving in and out, and there was more music (the music was fantastic). Three different girls asked me where I got my T-shirt. I told them that I got it from the people at the door when I came in. One told me that she couldn't get one, even after she offered to purchase it. I told her that I was sorry. She said it looked good on me. That made me feel even worse. 

I decided to sit at the very back of the auditorium when I got back, since I was alone. A group of girls sat near me. One asked me about my lip ring, and told me that she wanted to get her lip pierced. She asked me if someone asked me to come to the celebration, and I said yes. It got awkward when I realized that she thought that it was a date or something. It wasn't awkward to imagine being on a date with a young Somali guy seated on the other side of the auditorium. I am open to just about anything. It was awkward because Abdi, the friend who invited me, is past middle-aged and married, and I didn't want her to get the wrong idea because I am not open to that. 

I looked for Abdi at the end of the night. He went backstage so I decided to leave. I talked to him yesterday. It was like being debriefed. He asked me if I left early, because he was looking for me. I told him that I left for a bit in the middle to see Jenny Boe off, but that I came back and was there until the end. He told me that I blended into the crowd with my T-shirt and headscarf, and that the reason that he looked for me was that he wanted a picture. I wish that we would have gotten one. I told him that everyone was asking about my T-shirt. He told me that he gave the organizers our names ahead of time, and that we were on their list. My very first Somali party and I was VIP. That explained the great seats. "Oh, Abdi!" I exclaimed, "You hooked us up!" He told me that they wanted me to give a speech, but that he told them that I wasn't ready. I thanked him for that, and laughed as I imagined my ignorant self getting up on that stage in front of this amazing group of people. How ridiculous. 

"What would I have said?" I asked. 

"You just say, 'God loves Somalia. Go Obama.'" He told me that he would invite me to every Somali function from now on. Next time I would be ready to give a speech.

"I don't know Abdi. Maybe after a couple more times," I told him, "I am shy." 

"Everyone is shy, but you are loved," he told me.

Being a Muslim function, there had been no alcohol. There wasn't even food. My best friend ditched me, I didn't get to flirt shamelessly with any guys and I went home alone. But I was VIP, did get a T-shirt, learned some things about Africa and listened to great music. It was definitely the best party that I've attended in months.