Equally interesting is that its verbs are unchangeable words which are not conjugated; instead, personal pronouns are conjugated to express different tenses or aspects of an action. Whereas grammar is something that only a specialized few can truly appreciate, however, proverbs are fascinating and can be appreciated by a wide audience.

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After you get the ticket you are still not home clear, because you must go through a manned turnstile and may once again have to show proof of residency – it would be far too easy to ask any local to buy your ticket for you, so the guards pay close attention. Once you are seated on the boat, you are a captive audience for all the musical instrument vendors and boutique owners (who all greet one another by name, the island is small and they are regulars on the ferry), who will smile brightly, offer you a seat, ask you all sorts of questions about your visit so far (remember just how easy it is to pick out the tourists here!) and then begin their relentless patter: “Please come and visit my boutique, pour le plaisir des yeux – just for the pleasure of looking.” This is insidious, because if you do stop by just to look, as they have suggested, they will make you feel so guilty that you will invariably end up buying something you did not want or need all the same – this has happened to me on more than one occasion.

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From the Bay Ridge Avenue stop in Brooklyn, a 10-minute walk from my apartment, I would get on the decrepit and smelly R train, where I would usually stand patiently until my stop at Canal Street in Manhattan, a ride of about 35 minutes. I developed all kinds of strategies for saving time, such as switching from the express to the local, choosing my exits to get me as close as possible to my destination, etc. I would have to fiddle in the depths of my bag for my ID before I would be allowed to make the mad dash to the elevator, and there, unlike here, I would sit at a nicely appointed desk with phone, Filofax and binders and carry out the tasks entrusted to me.

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Here, also, I did what I typically do, from slathering on the sunscreen to going for a quick after-school dip in the ocean to unwind (though the temperature of the water has dropped considerably, another indication of Senegal’s little winter).

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Mass did not actually begin until 10, but many of the monks were walking about chatting quietly to one another while others were practicing their music. The brothers wore extremely simple tunics made of coarse white cloth tied with slender brown ropes around their waists, and most wore sandals. There were a few older white monks, generally French or Franco-Canadian, but many were young Senegalese who appeared to be no older than their late twenties, leading me to wonder what it was that made them decide to enter monastic life so early on.

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“Promise me we’re not really meeting at a TREE,” I said in utter disbelief. “It is a hotel or something called the Great Baobab, right?” Sure enough, it was in fact a tree – on est en Afrique - but as always, things did work out as planned; we got to the highway in record time thanks to our guide and turned off at a village called Yene. From there we spotted various hand-lettered signs for Sobobade, our hotel, and found ourselves bouncing down a pitted dirt road guaranteed to set your granny’s hemorrhoids aflame.

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In typical British style, prep time was spent putting caviar decoratively on blintzes and raspberries on beds of whipped cream whilst looking fearfully out of the window to see if the weather would hold or whether we would have to move all the lawn chairs back into the garage. (Ultimately you will be glad to learn that the weather did hold and that we were able to swill champagne on the lawn just as my hostess had envisioned).

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But take it from me: no matter how seasoned a traveler you may be, there is something inherently wonderful in interacting with someone who knows your culture intimately, who can laugh with you at a random reference to an Entenmann’s crumb cake or a Brady Bunch episode, who can enjoy the subtleties of your native tongue or appreciate a play on words.

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It was an incredible high to be speeding to Leopold Sedar Senghor airport two days after graduation (I am delighted to report that we had a 100% pass rate, despite those students who were notorious partisans of least effort, see story http://www.traveling-stories-magazine.com/notes-from-a-conseil-de-classe/#more-610). On my way to catch a flight to Athens via Madrid, all I could think of were the sidewalks – the recycling programs – AC and mosquito-free
sleep - no haggling in stores = bliss.

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