America

Yesterday morning, I found myself (well, let's be honest, it was a bit more purposeful than that) listening to the blasting beats of a spin class, on a treadmill in an air-conditioned gym populated by sweaty, short-shorts wearing Lebanese men, overlooking a palm tree-lined swimming pool and jet skiers on the ocean. Point being, for those of you who were legitimately surprised that my toilet is "Western" and not a hole in the floor, I'm living in the most developed city in West Africa, dammit, traffic lights or no traffic lights.

In other news, as everyone knows, Africans love Obama. They love him enough to put him on their chocolates, along with other ambiguous world leaders and an insignia that looks strangely like that of the University Cottage Club.

"Je voudrais le chocolat avec Obama."

Nod. Smile. Nod. General indications of comprehension, though perhaps I should have known better by the amount of nodding and smiling I've been doing in the last week.

Not only is this balding, Soviet man not Barack Obama, but he also tasted vaguely of Play-doh.