It's a surreal experience to see something in real life that you've seen so many time in photos. Your expectations remove you from it somehow as you compare the way you thought you would feel with the way you actually feel.
Fortunately, I decided to stay in Lalibela for four days - long enough for that feeling to wear away and to start to appreciate this Old Testament town, this holy city.
Lalibela - home of the monolithic churches carved out of stone. About 20,000 tourists come here each year, most of them on tour buses.
Because it is so "touristy", people kept telling me I would hate it here. But this has been my favorite stop so far.
Yesterday was a festival in celebration of Mary riding a donkey into Bethlehem as she searched for a place to give birth.
Before the sun rose, the streets filled with people walking downhill to Betyam Miriam - the church dedicated to Mary. The women were dressed head to toe in white - their heads and shoulders wrapped in cotton cloth and white dresses falling to their ankles. They carried handmade candles - foot-long sticks wrapped in waxy string to burn at the church.
Chanting came over a megaphone from the church and bounces off the nearby hills and down the dusty streets.
That afternoon, I walked back down to the churches - sat for a moment with the women, still dressed in white, still sitting from the morning waiting for a blessing from the priest.
The priest brought a cross, which the women kissed.
The most famous of the churches is Betyam Giorgis - dedicated to St. George, dragon slayer.
The church is shaped like a Greek cross, carved three stories down in volcanic rock.
The path to the church is a carved valley that spirals from the top to the bottom.
I was the only person there except for the priest - a stroke of luck. He sat in the doorway reading a small Bible aloud. He watched me for awhile, then finally walked over.
"Where is your book? Where is your guide? Where is your camera?"
When he saw I had none of these things, he showed me the church and then sat with me on the steps.
The language barrier was deep but we both tried hard.
Here's what I learned:
Christianity came to Ethiopia early and from what I can tell, it hasn't changed much since then.
Inside each church is a room called the Holy of Holies, separated by a curtain that hangs from the top of the ceiling to the floor. Only the priest can go inside. Behind the curtain is a small replica of the Ark of the Covenant that the priests bring out once a year.
The priests are considered true holy men - the people's connection to God.
At the Sunday service, people stand for three hours - the older people have prayer canes for this purpose.
The priests hit the drum and read the scripture on Ge'ez, the ancient language of Ethiopia.
*****
In the town - a village that grew from 12,000 to 30,000 in the past few years thanks to tourism - the people have welcoming. It took hours to cross town because I kept getting invited in for coffee. The tradition is to drink three cups of coffee. Any more hospitality and I'll have a heart attack from all the caffeine.
*****
I traveled for a day with a woman who was adopted from Ethiopia as a baby (during the famine of the '80s) by an Australian family. At 24, she came back to meet her biological family and to see Ethiopia.
People approached her everywhere we went and were surprised to realize this Ethiopian woman didn't speak Amharic. They pushed her to learn some words.
They asked, "What is your family name?"
"Murphy," she said. This frustrated them.
I can't count how many times this happened in the short time I was with her. She kept a good sense of humor about it, but I could see the identity struggle in her face. We were traveling together but we were experiencing much different countries.
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